by R. J. Lewis
I wasn’t okay. I’d spent the last five minutes going over Annika’s story, listening to Dorothy’s description of what Conor was like, and then I was out of the club and running up and down the streets, peering into cars and searching for him.
I had just missed him by the sound of it. His trail was still warm, and I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to get a hold of him.
I was standing by the club, shrouded in the dark, frozen to the core, the phone to my ear, tears falling from my eyes. Panicked, I said, “Jem, did you know?”
Jem’s silence was answer enough.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I scolded him, running a shaky hand through my hair.
“He came around not even an hour ago, Charlotte,” he explained in a soothing voice. “He wanted to see you. He was shaking really hard because he saw the house, and he was scared something happened to you and Penny.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come straight over.”
“He wasn’t going to stick around, sweetheart. He was all kinds of wrong.”
What did that mean, he was all kinds of wrong?
“You should have sent him to my house,” I told him, roughly. “You sent him to the club, and he left before I could see him –”
“Charlotte,” Jem admonished, “he didn’t seem right. I would have kept him in the bar, but he was adamant he was going. He looked like he was bleeding to see you.”
And I was bleeding to see him, too. Eight years in the dark, and he came to me at the worst time.
He found me in the worst place.
He was out.
Goddammit, he was really out.
“Did you let the club know he was coming?” I asked, sniffing.
“No,” he answered. “I thought he’d be waiting out front for you.”
“They let him in, Jem.”
Jem muttered a curse. “I didn’t know.”
“So, how did they know he was coming?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
I shut my eyes tightly. Locke had given them his consent. “Locke knew he was coming.”
“That’s Locke for you, Char.”
Locke, who wouldn’t answer my never-ending stream of phone calls, but had picked up the fucking phone to let Conor through the door.
“I waited for him, Jem,” I breathed out raggedly, rubbing at my bruised heart through my chest. “Eight years and I missed him by minutes.”
“He’ll come back, Charlotte.”
Why did he leave in the first place?
I got off the phone a few minutes later and stood in the cold. I felt cool raindrops running down my shirt, down my spine, chilling me. I didn’t budge despite the desperate need for warmth. I stared up and down the street, fighting hard to notice anything out of the ordinary. But it was empty, not a soul lurked by. Still, I couldn’t find it in me to leave. I walked up and down the sidewalks, peering in alleyways, in cars, anywhere he might be in.
But the trail was getting cooler by the second.
He was gone.
He wasn’t at the house. Every part of me hoped, even anticipated, he would be waiting out front for me when I arrived. My heart couldn’t handle the heaviness.
I paid the babysitter before she left, then I spent the night looking out the windows, searching for him. I paced all through the hours and watched the minute hand crawl at a snail’s pace through the night.
How was it possible that this was worse than waiting all those years? Knowing he was out, every minute without him here with me felt like a brutal eternity.
Billy had to torment me, appearing only when I was at my worst. He didn’t say a word, though. He sat in the corner, watching me pace, a forlorn expression on his face. He was sad for me. I wished he’d just leave me to stew in my pain.
By one in the morning, I received a text message.
Coming.
A minute later a car pulled into my driveway, and I knew it would be business as usual. Locke came through the door, looking impeccable in his grey suit and pale blue tie. Without a greeting, without words, he followed me into my dimly lit study room where I opened the binder and threw the envelope – I threw it like it was made of fire – from tonight’s client across the desk where he stood. With both hands in his pockets, he stared down at it and made no move to take it.
“You’re distressed,” he said finally, looking up to meet my shaken gaze.
This guy was unbelievable. “You know why I’m distressed, Locke.”
He nodded.
“Did you know he was getting out early?”
“Prisons always make last-minute decisions –”
“Did. You. Know?”
He nodded again. “I knew.”
My mouth fell open. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Something about his gaze unsettled me. He didn’t answer. Nothing unusual there. Locke only parted with information when he wanted to. I had to take what I could get.
“You let him in the club?” I pressed.
“I allowed it.”
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“He’s around.”
“That’s it?” I spat, bewildered. “He’s around?”
His head tilted ever so slightly to the side and his voice lowered. “Watch your tone with me, Charlotte.”
The ends of my fingers shook at the look he was giving me. It was a warning. He didn’t like when he was repeated, or questioned, or pretty much anything these days.
I kept my tone in check, quietly saying, “You don’t know what it’s like, Locke, because you’re so arrogant in everything you do. You don’t have the slightest clue what it’s like not knowing. Eight years I’ve been kept in the dark where you’ve put me. Eight years I had to stand by knowing you knew how he was doing and giving nothing away. Then he shows up out of the blue months before his release date, and he flees before I even get to see him. I’m rightfully losing my mind, don’t you think?”
He listened intently until I finished, and that was the thing with Locke, he always listened to what I had to say, giving me his complete and undivided attention. It made him look so goddamn human.
Sometimes I wanted to believe he was.
“I gave you my word he was okay,” he firmly explained. “No harm was done to him. I would have been notified.”
“Jem said he was all wrong.”
He bared his teeth, hissing, “Jem? Jem’s a drama queen.”
“He has no reason to be dramatic. He knows Conor more than you.”
With that, Locke offered no response. I knew he couldn’t disagree with that. Jem and Conor had been thick as thieves. I never understood where Max fit into that dynamic. For years Locke had hardly interacted with Jem, and Jem didn’t so much as try to reach out to him. They kept to themselves, their only common interest seeming to be me: Jem with his support and friendship, and Locke with the opportunity he’d gifted to me and, ultimately, imprisoned me in.
On the outside, I could see what a person might think. They’d think,
Locke, the villain in this tale. The antagonist in her life. Nothing like Billy, but nothing good, either.
They would be sort of correct.
But sort of not, too.
Swiping the envelope from the desk, Locke slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Give Conor time to come to you on his own. Understand that leaving prison can be equally as traumatic as entering it. He’ll recover from whatever prompted him to leave.”
“Can you find him?”
He looked smug. “What makes you think I don’t already know where he is?”
I pressed my lips together tight. I wasn’t going to plead because he wouldn’t answer me anyway, and I had pride left not to beg.
Locke liked the begging.
“Did you take your cut?” he then questioned, already turning for the door.
“Yes,” I answered, hollowly.
Hearing the vacant response, he turned his head to look at me. His br
ows came together as he studied my expression. “Come here,” he demanded softly, gesturing with his chin to approach him.
I was shaking so bad, I had to kick my heels off before I trembled over. I stopped in front of him, staring at his chest. His cologne shrouded me and, as a result, eased me. His hand came up under my chin and angled my face up, so I had no choice but to stare into his thunderous brown eyes.
“You’re pretty when you’re pained. It’s not a sight I often see,” he murmured, voice low and soft. “What are you so scared of, Charlotte?”
A tear fell from my eye. “That he’s gone.”
Instead of brushing the tear away, he watched it fall in a line down my face. “He’s been gone eight years, and who was there for you every step of the way?”
I looked at all his hard edges; the only soft feature on Locke were his soft lips, pressed firmly shut, waiting for my response. “You,” I whispered reluctantly before shutting my eyes tight. Shame burned my cheeks.
“Relax, Charlotte,” he crooned. “Your admission doesn’t reveal anything you don’t want anyone to know.”
“Sometimes I hate you, Locke,” I said through clenched teeth.
I could hear the smirk in his voice. “I don’t think you do.” His hand dropped; the physical contact severed. “But what is it that you think you hate?”
“Sometimes you make me think there’s a hint of normalcy in you.”
“Then?”
I frowned. “Then you need me, and I realize you’re capable of very evil things.”
When he didn’t respond, I prodded firmly, “Nothing to say to that, Locke?”
“I won’t deny it because it’s true, so there’s nothing to say, Charlotte.”
I blinked a couple times, allowing the surprise of his admission to pass. He watched my expression closely. So closely, I wound up looking away from him because these stretches of silence never bothered him.
But they bothered me.
“Be patient,” he then said. “Thames will come to you when he’s ready.”
I stiffened a nod, my eyes finding a spot on the floor, and they stayed there as he walked out.
I heard his car engine roar to life, and seconds later he was gone.
I sat in Penny’s bed, stroking her hair as she slept peacefully. Staring into nothing, I tried to quiet my brain. There was too much energy in my body, bustling to do something. Feeling helpless, I couldn’t resist the tears falling.
I was breaking down for the first time in so, so long.
Billy sat by my side, staring tenderly at me, saying nothing still. It’d been a long time since I’d last seen him. I was convinced my brain had finally healed from the trauma. Guess I was wrong.
“Why are you back?” I whispered, staring at his pale face.
He remained mute; his eyes sad as he regarded me.
My vision blurred. I shook my head at him. “You weren’t always so cruel.”
He shook his head too, agreeing.
“Who made you come that day?”
No answer.
I felt like the answer was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. This obsession had died around the time Jem had come around frequently to help me. He told me no one had sent Billy, and I had no choice but to let it go.
I blinked and Billy was gone again.
Locke had me in therapy when he found out I was seeing the ghost of my dead stepbrother. He didn’t even judge me when I’d broken it to him. He just looked at me and moved on to other things. I thought he didn’t give a shit, until he told me the following day he had scheduled a therapy appointment for me and to “get the fuck out of the office for the morning”.
It hadn’t taken me long to open up to Madison, my therapist. I didn’t tell her the details of the day Conor beat Billy to death because it wasn’t important.
I just wanted to stop seeing Billy.
First, she had to make sure I wasn’t crazy. When she was satisfied I was not, she gave me pills. Said that Billy’s appearance was brought on by intense emotion. Also said I had PTSD and needed to confront my feelings because I was hiding from them.
Confront my feelings? What the hell did that even mean?
I didn’t want to confront shit.
I just wanted the fucking guy to leave me alone.
“But he’s an extension of you,” she said. “Billy isn’t really there.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Did she really think I believed I was seeing the phantom of Billy? I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes in that session.
Besides being unhelpful about Billy, she taught me to cope through my anxiety. I learned the breathing exercises, wrote in my journal, occupied my head with positive thinking, blah blah blah. I did it all in a desperate attempt to be normal again.
I had learned to get used to seeing the asshole when I was depressed or angry. I even enjoyed some of the random banter he’d spew. He said some funny shit. But it’d been a while because I’d been at peace with my life lately. I’d felt stable and content.
Ugh. I ran a hand down my face, feeling exhausted to the bone.
I needed pills. Or Jem. Or maybe I could rouse Penny awake and hold her until she fell back asleep.
I left her instead and went to my room. I shut the door of the bathroom and stripped my clothes off. The red button up blouse I wore tore in my hurry, and I threw it aimlessly on the floor, uncaring that it was my favourite goddamn top. I turned the shower head on and stood under the hot spray, watching the lines of water cascade down my body; tiny rivers all the way to my toes and down the drain. I cupped my stomach the way he had as he stood facing me, smiling as he revered my changing body.
“You’re beautiful, Charlotte,” he said, tenderly. “You sacrificed your body for this, and I can’t thank you enough for the gift you’re about to give us.”
Red marks lined my belly. Marks he’d kissed as my belly grew, stretching me painfully. Now they were silvery white, almost impossible to see. I ran my fingers over them, trying to remember his touch.
Eight years was a long time to be gone.
I couldn’t feel him anymore.
THE HOLE
Conor found Jem hiding behind the decrepit looking slide. It was honestly the worst hiding place in the world. Conor found him in under a minute, and the idiot didn’t even try to hold still.
“You suck,” he said, shaking his head.
Jem glared at Conor. “I was in a hurry!”
“I counted to a hundred.”
“You counted fast.”
“You’re making excuses.”
Jem didn’t answer as he trailed behind Conor.
Conor found Dominic next, hidden under a pile of leaves. Instead of being annoyed like Jem was, Dominic shot a toothless grin his way. “Man, I worked so hard, Conor.”
“You guys didn’t even try,” Conor seethed.
“You think it’s so easy, you try burying your body in a pile of leaves!”
“I’d do it in twenty seconds.”
Dominic looked insulted. “Why are you hating on me? Jem took the stupid slide.”
“Yeah, and that was stupider.”
“Hey,” argued Jem, “I was under pressure.”
“You only ran under there in the last ten seconds,” Dominic accused. “He was zigzagging all over the place! It made no sense why he picked the stupid slide!”
“I said I was under pressure!”
“You’re always asking us to play this game, and you even gave Max a hard time about hiding under the slide!”
“Shut up, Dom.”
“Make me.”
“Guys,” Conor sharply snapped. “Stop fighting.”
That was all they did, Jem and Dominic. They fought like cats and dogs and it was exhausting listening to it all the freaking time.
Glancing around, Conor scanned their surroundings. “Look how big this yard is,” he said. “It’s so easy to find a place to hide.”
“You better not find Max so fas
t,” Dominic said as he slowly stood up, dusting the leaves off his pants, “or we’ll never play this stupid game ever again.”
“Now you know Max doesn’t hide all that well,” Conor said.
“Yeah, and you’ll find him and he’ll whine like always.”
“Don’t know why we always involve him,” Jem muttered under his breath. “Dom’s right. All he does is whine.”
“He doesn’t mean to whine,” Conor retorted, defending Max. “He just talks without thinking.”
Jem smirked, though his face was paler than usual. “He should stop thinking then.”
Dom shrugged. “I caught the teacher talking to him, asking him if he needed help with work. Said she wondered if he was like audist or something like that.”
“Autistic,” Conor corrected, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, that.”
“What is that?” Jem asked.
Before Dominic could explain, Conor cut in. “Who cares?”
Conor didn’t want to admit to them he didn’t like talking about Max. It made his chest feel funny. Truth was, he invited Max into their circle all those months ago because he felt bad for him. Being the smallest in class, he got picked on ruthlessly. It also didn’t help he wore the same kind of clothes, sometimes smelled funny, and that his mom had a bad reputation. Conor knew town gossip – he’d heard his mom talk endlessly about the goings on to her friends. His mom did that a lot – talked about people – and he didn’t really like it because she could be really mean. She’d said Max’s mom was the “town whore”, and Conor knew what a whore was (another thing he’d learned just from eavesdropping).
So, he sort of pitied Max and brought him into his fold because it made him sleep a little better knowing he wasn’t getting picked on. Max tried to do a lot to please Conor. He was probably afraid of being outcast again. Maybe one day Max would fatten up or grow taller. Maybe he’d finally learn to stand up for himself. In the meantime, Conor would let him hang around them and hopefully Jem and Dom would eventually leave him be.
Steering the conversation away from Max, Conor said, “Miss Hadfield talks a lot, but she’s looking real good in those skirts lately.”