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Refusing to give her the full and devastating truth about her mom, I leave it at the summary to protect Blue.
Anger swells in me to think about what was done to Emma Hart. A lot of it was similar to the shit done to Ezra and me.
Stop crying…
I know how to make you crawl…
So much blood on my hands and legs…
I’m thankful when Blue’s voice drives the whispers away.
“Hey,” she yells at my back. “You’re not supposed to be in there.”
Too late.
While her living room is a damn rainbow of colors, her bedroom is full white. The bedspread, the curtains. All the furniture. It’s like she’s created a cloud in this space where she can rest and float away.
My feet stop in place, and I glance at her from over my shoulder.
“Somehow this works for you. A dark angel at work and a light one at home.”
“Pfft. I’m no angel. I just needed a space that was clean. No trash. No dirty gas station bathrooms. No stains on the ceilings and walls like the shitty motels I’ve stayed in. It took me two years to create this space, but I’m sure you already know that.”
I do.
I know the exact date she signed the contract to move in.
Amélie
How is that possible? None of what Damon told me is making sense.
While I’m not surprised to hear my mom was violated in that way, the timeline doesn’t explain how Kane and I have the same father.
The again, she was always running … as if someone who hurt her might find her again.
“Please get out of my bedroom. I don’t want you here. You’ve given me the info, and you can get proof to me that Brinley is okay later tonight. Get out of my place.”
Damon stares across the room at me curiously, his fingers resting on top of a small glass trinket box.
Ignoring what I said, he studies the box, then turns and notices the others spread across my bureau, on a small table, and on the shelf built into my headboard.
“Why so many boxes?”
What he doesn’t know is that there are a dozen more stacked on the shelf in my closet.
The truth is, I adore trinket boxes. I have a particular spot for all my things. Everything is in its place and easy to find, unlike the garbage bags we lived out of my entire childhood. I could never find anything when I needed it back then.
Damon’s curiosity overtakes him. He opens the box to peer in.
He lifts a cheap necklace with one finger, letting it dangle as he admires the fake stones.
“Plastic,” he murmurs, more to himself than me.
Dropping that, he picks up a ring that’s nothing more than a silver-plated band with a small obsidian stone. It wasn’t worth much when I bought it. But it’s mine. I earned it. I can’t recall how long I’ve owned the ring, but again, it’s mine. I won’t lose it while running from place to place.
The ring slips off the tip of his finger into the box. His amber gaze slides to me.
“Do you own anything that’s real?”
