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Emma’s head. She looks up at me, and her eyes are empty.
Holy fuck. I scramble up, a howl lodged in my throat, choking me but unable to come out. I jerk away, and fall.
My back hits the carpet, and my head hits the floor with a thump, the impact jarring my whole body.
Awake at last.
I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, my heart trying to pound its way out of my throat, out of my chest, taking a hammer to my ribs.
Oh God…
I splay a hand on my chest, pressing down, to keep my heart from exploding as I pant for breath. My stomach roils.
My fucking eyes burn. I bring my other hand up and rub at my left wrist, a ritual after every nightmare.
On nights like this, I wish I’d finished the fucking job.
But I should know by now. I do know it: there’s no escape from this hell.
Octavia arrives on time, like always, and I brush by her, trying to ignore her eyes, her mouth, her scent, her voice, the way her dark hair is caught in a high ponytail that swings with her every step, like her hips.
Ignoring her is easier today, with all the ghosts on my mind—and at the same time a thousand times harder.
She’s dressed in faded jeans and a cardigan over a white shirt. The tiny buttons are begging to be undone, the fine lace of her white bra visible when she bends over to ruffle Cole’s hair, asking to be ripped off her skin.
I’m undressing her with my eyes, and I’m so fucked.
Grabbing my jacket and my keys, I tear out of the house like a bat out of hell.
Later, when I arrive at the garage, I can’t even remember if I told my kids goodbye. Certainly didn’t kiss them goodbye. And here I’d thought to try and get close to them, make them less afraid of me.
Fuck.
My phone buzzes as I clock in, and I check just to make sure it’s not Octavia calling to tell me something happened to the brats. But it’s not.
I let the call go to voicemail and check with Evan who points me at a battered Toyota to start my workday. The phone buzzes again.
And again.
Christ.
So, I connect the call I’ve been ignoring for weeks—or months?—and lift the phone to my ear.
“I don’t have time to talk now,” I bark.
There’s a choked chuckle on the other end. “Well, hello to you too, fucker,” Zane says. “Farting rainbows and sunshine, like always.”
“Fuck you, too,” I mumble.
Zane was—is?—Emma’s adopted brother. Is he still her adopted brother if she’s gone?
Haven’t seen him in years. He drove over to St. Louis a few months after Emma… He came to see the kids. And then I never stuck around when he visited, because seeing him reminded me of her.
And I couldn’t stand it.
“What’s up, man? You never answer my calls anymore. Just wanted to check if you’re still breathing and haven’t gone tits up.” This is Zane trying to be sensitive and diplomatic, and somehow
it makes me snort.
