by J. R. Ward
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At ten a.m., Elle stepped out of the kitchen and into her father’s garage. Hitting the go button on the right side’s door, she blinked as the thing opened slowly, brilliant sunshine streaming in and illuminating her father’s car, the lawn mower, the row of trash rollers. The post-blizzard glare was so bright she had to shield her eyes with her arm, but things adjusted quick enough.
Not surprisingly, she totally bypassed the BMW.
On the far wall, there was a whole bunch of sports equipment, most of which was her father’s: Bats, gloves, balls, the volleyball net that was rolled up around itself, in-line skates, hockey bags. As she went over to the sprawl, the square-toed, hard-soled shoes she’d put on made sharp slapping noises. She’d had to put on three pairs of socks to get them to fit, but like she cared?
The cross-country skis were in an organized lineup at the end of the steel shelves, each pair mated together with bands at the top and the bottom, the poles more loosey-goosey and at a tilt.
She picked the Rossignols because the shoes had the same brand on them and the others said Head.
Getting the stuff out into the yard was a two-tripper, the thin, lightweight skis impossible to control along with the poles, assuming she didn’t want to scrape the side of her dad’s car—and she’d already been through enough with that sedan, thank you very much.
When everything was in the front yard, she entered the code on the exterior pad and closed things up. Taking a look left and right, she saw… a fuck ton of untouched snow. Nothing on the street had been plowed yet, not the road, not the sidewalks, not the driveways, although there were a couple of men just getting out their snowblowers and starting to work on their properties.
Like a dad-bell had gotten rung and it was a race.
Overhead, the sky was an impossible blue, so resonant and clear that she couldn’t reconcile it with the storm that had raged through the night. But maybe that was the point. The blizzard had wiped the slate clean, cleared it all.
Would that it had worked its magic in her own life.
Clipping the toes of the shoes into the bindings, she palmed the poles and started off. It was slow going at first, her balance bad, no rhythm to anything. She had only cross-country’d like twice before, but she was on the varsity track team, so at least aerobic capacity wasn’t part of her problem.
Soon enough, she found a stride, and it felt good to breathe in the cold, dry air. She proceeded down her street, and when she got to the end, she was hot, so she took off her wool hat and crammed it into the pocket of her parka.
The main road had been plowed, and she stayed to the shoulder, making really good time on the inch of powder that had sloughed back down the banks created after the city trucks had barged the majority of accumulation out of the way. There were few cars out and about, mostly high-clearance SUVs with the drivers looking smug, as if they felt that their automotive choices were being totally validated.
She knew exactly how far she went. Six point four miles.
She’d run the route so many times. In fact, all of that back-and-forthing had been the reason she’d made varsity cross-country.
Terrie, on the other hand, was a couch potato. The joke in the family had been that Elle and Dad were birds of a feather and Mom and Terrie were loungers without measure.
Not that anyone was making those comparisons anymore, even if Terrie was still playing on her iPad most of the time.
Elle knew she was getting close when the stores and the bus stops began appearing. More traffic congested the road, so she moved up onto the sidewalk—or where one would have been without the snow dump—and then soon enough, she cut across the narrow lawn of a CVS. After that, it was a diagonal on the Rossignols through the unplowed parking lot of a strip mall, and on the far side, the apartment blocks started, the buildings grouped by exterior paint jobs.
Gray and white. Dark brown all over. Cream and white. Dark green and tan.
The names were fancier than the facilities. Greystone Village. Elmsworth Court. Willowwalk Homes.
As she shhhhsht-shhhhsht-shhhhsht’d along, she figured whoever owned the places had chosen the names deliberately. It wasn’t that the units were nasty. But they sure weren’t old Brownsboro Place–worthy.
Her mother’s enclave was second to the last on the street, and Elle skied into the parking lot to find that everything had been plowed—so that all the sedans and minivans parked under the open-area carports were totally blocked in. Not that anybody was making a move to go anywhere. It was a Saturday, after all, and hello, the snow.
Plus who could have gotten any sleep in the whole city with all that wind? It was like Caldwell was gonna get blown off the map of upstate New York.
Her mom’s apartment building was two-story and split in half, the double-decker sporting an open-air stairway to feed the upper quartets. Her mom’s flat was on the second floor over on the left, and Elle didn’t bother to check and see if the Audi station wagon was parked in its spot. It was never not there. And it couldn’t have left this morning, anyhow.
Shucking the skis, she gathered them together, and it was messy work getting up the stairs with the poles, too. Fortunately, her mom’s door was the first one she came to. She knocked.
No answer.
Elle’s heart pounded as she got out the set of keys she had been given. Well, “set” was the wrong word. The keys she had to her father’s house were a set. There was his front door key, the key to her locker at school, the key to her bike lock. For her mom’s apartment, there was only the ring and one single, notched dangler.
Unlocking things, she cracked the door an inch. “Mom?”
When there was no answer, she threw open the door. “Mom!”
That was when she heard the shower running. And then a muffled answer through the bathroom’s closed door.
“Thank God,” Elle whispered. Louder, she said, “I’ll just wait, Mom.”
Leaving the skis outside, she hoped they wouldn’t get stolen as she closed herself in. And then she wasn’t worrying about her equipment for the trip home anymore. The interior of the apartment was so dark, she couldn’t see, and she stayed right where she was for that reason—and others. After an eternity, she realized she hadn’t kicked the snow off her shoes, but before she could step out and stamp on the welcome mat, the bathroom door opened and light spilled into the central room.
“I’ll be right there,” her mom said as she went into her bedroom.
The other door closed, but with the light still streaming out of the loo, Elle’s eyes were able to get to work. The sofa and two armchairs were from the old family house, and they had fit into the living room there. Here, with so much less space, they were crammed in too tight, no room for a coffee table between them, their cushions too big, their backs and arms too tall. At least all the walls were cream so the dark red didn’t exactly clash, but neither did it really fit. The color was way too vivid, the tan carpeting making it look like raspberries on oatmeal.
Everything was neat—which was a relief—nothing out on the tiny three-top table in the galley kitchen, no dishes around the sink, no cereal boxes on top of the fridge or debris on the countertop. As always, Elle told herself that that meant everything was okay. She’d seen Intervention and Hoarders.
Tidy meant it was okay.
Right?
“Not even close,” she mumbled to herself as she rubbed her nose.
The smell was stale and dusty, and that, coupled with all the closed blinds, made her feel like she was in a damp cave.
Figuring she better do something about tracking in snow, she took her cross-country’ing shoes off and set them on the rubber mat just inside the door. Then, in her three pairs of socks, she padded over to the kitchen table and sat down. As she waited, it was hard not to notice how barren the front of the refrigerator was: No school calendar. No pictures of her and Terrie. No coupons, or birthday cards, or notes.
Just like there were no framed glossies
of her and Terrie in their school uniforms on the mantel over the electric fireplace. Nothing hung on the walls, even though their mom had left with a couple of landscapes that were actual oil paintings rather than posters. No plants; then again, the venetian blinds were all cranked down tight, just a glow around the gaps between them and the jambs showing.
So no way to grow anything in here.
As she took a deep breath, she smelled the same shampoo her mom had always used, and had to rub her stinging eyes.
“I didn’t expect you.”
Elle dropped her hands. “Hi.”
As her mom stood in the doorway to her bedroom, she seemed on the surface to be exactly the same person who had always been there in the mornings making breakfast, in the afternoons after school, in the evenings at the dinner table. She still had thick chestnut brown hair, and dark eyes, and a dimple on one side as she smiled. But she was like a house that had been deserted, the lights on with no one home.
There was nothing behind that stare.
When had she left them? Was it when she’d learned about Megan?
She must know, right?
Elle opened her mouth. But instead of giving airtime to her questions—or confessing that she had been told something private about her parents’ marriage—she said, “I called. You know, to tell you I might be coming over.”
“I’m sorry.” Her mom turned on the hall light and walked over to the kitchen. “I’ve been trying to charge it.”
“Not your cell phone.” Well, she’d called that, too. “The home line.”
Not that this was a home.
“Oh.” Her mom turned to the wall-mounted unit, which, along with the thick paint and old appliances, was a testament to the age of the apartment. “That should have worked. Maybe I was in the shower.”
As her mom took the receiver off the wall and put it to her ear, and then tapped the toggle thingy, Elle looked into the bedroom.
No surprise, it was dark as night in there, but the light from the hall fixture penetrated the shadows. The bed was a mess, layered with all kinds of twisted sheets and fallen blankets like someone had dropped a bomb in the middle of the mattress. There were also wrappers on the floor… potato chip bags and Hershey’s candy bars, mostly. And Coke cans lying on their sides. Wadded-up Kleenex. Rolls of paper towels.
“I’m not sure went wrong,” her mom said. “What went wrong, I mean.”
There was a click as the receiver was replaced.
“Would you like me to make you something to eat, Elle?”
“Um…” Elle looked away from the clutter. “Yes. Please.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see what we have.”
Memories of the way things had been before surged, and Elle recalled delicious sandwiches whipped up on the fly, and fancy dinners that took hours to prepare, and homemade bread and handmade ice cream and cookies that were from that gingersnap recipe from two generations back.
“Oh. I was supposed to go grocery shopping today.”
Elle glanced over. The refrigerator had a bottle of ketchup in its door, a mostly empty thing of ranch dressing on its top shelf, and seven bottles of white wine stacked on their sides like cordwood on the bottom.
Her mom shut the fridge and began opening cupboards.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m actually not hungry. I forgot that I already had breakfast.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Her mom came over, pulled out the other chair, and sat down. “So how’s school going?”
“Good.”
“Are you ready for Christmas break?”
Elle fiddled with her parka sleeve. Then decided she was hot and took the Patagonia thing off. “I guess so.”
“I’m looking forward to having you girls with me for a week. We’ll have so much fun. It’ll be a sleepover.”
Elle glanced toward the bedroom. “Ah…”
Her mother’s chair made a squeak on the bare floor as she stood back up and went across the apartment.
“It will be so much fun.” She closed the door. “I can’t wait.”
As their eyes met, Elle nodded. “Sure. Me, too.”
“Unless you want to stay at your dad’s during the nights? Maybe you’d rather sleep in your own beds. You could just come for a couple of visits.”
“Okay. If that’s easier.”
“Really, it’s what you girls want. But we can have fun for a couple of afternoons.”
“Okay.”
Her mom sat down again and smiled. “Perfect. I’m so looking forward to it.”
Elle stared at her hands. As she tried to think of something to say, she realized she had come over here with questions to ask, questions about things that were really none of her business. Yet the divorce, though it had been between two people legally, had affected four lives, hadn’t it.
“I guess I better go back.”
“You’re so grown up now, driving everywhere.”
“Actually, I came on cross-country skis.”
As she pointed over her shoulder to the door—like either one of them had X-ray vision—her mom smiled in a vacant way. “Out for some exercise, then. You know, you should take up running, you were always good at it as a child.”
“I’m on the track team, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me.”
Elle cleared her throat. “Do you—there was a snowstorm last night. Did you notice?”
“Was there?”
“The roads are really backed up. With snow.”
Her mom smiled some more. “Oh. Well, I’m glad you have those skis, then.”
“Yes. I’m glad I have them, too.” Elle stood up and put her parka back on. “Okay. Well. Call me if you need anything?”
Holding her arms up, her mom stayed seated. “Hugs, Bug. Hugs for Bug.”
Swallowing hard, Elle went over. As she leaned down, she realized that her mother had put her turtleneck on backwards, the outline of the tag that was stitched on the underside right in front.
“Bye, Mom,” Elle said roughly.
“Tell Terrie I love her, too.”
“Okay. I will.”
Straightening, Elle went over to the door and shoved her feet back in the square-toed shoes. Then she fumbled with the knob.
“Drive carefully out there,” her mom said from the table, her eyes focused somewhere in the middle ground between them.
“I will, Mom,” Elle murmured as she stepped out and let go of the door.
The metal panel slammed shut. And for a moment, she stood there and looked out at the snow-packed parking lot, the cars all covered with powdered sugar, the gouges from a plow’s effort ruining the soft undulations of what had fallen during the night and been blown into drifts by the wind.
In her pocket, her phone started to vibrate, and when she went to get it, she found that she had put her gloves back on, zipped up her parka, and returned her hat to her head. When had all that happened, she wondered.
Biting off her glove, she got her phone out.
The name on the call was three letters long. “DAD.”
She let it go to voice mail, picked up the poles and skis, and started down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, she dropped the Rossignols and glanced around, blinking at the brilliant light. One by one, she clipped in the tips of her shoes. And then she started off, following the path she had made on the trip in, her breath leaving her mouth and drifting over her shoulder in puffs.
It used to be easy to go home, she thought.
Then again, a lot of things had been easier.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Qhuinn had a spring in his step as he came through the training center’s office. Night had fallen, First Meal was through, and he was off rotation. The storm had passed, the damage to the house had been repaired, and everybody was safe.
He’d also gotten no sleep during the day. For the very best reasons.
He and Blay had spent the daylight hours getting very naked up in their bedroom. It was amazing
how many positions there were, and how many different places you could get it on: In the bed, of course. In the tub. The shower. The walk-in closet—which had been a surprise. Who knew that rug burns could be such a trophy?
He was walking funny from them. And wasn’t that awesome.
Out in the corridor, he went by the weight room, and when he heard music banging, he leaned inside. “You’re a fucking beast, Hollywood.”
Across the floor mats and through the thickets of lifting machines, a shirtless Rhage was in the middle of a set of chin-ups on the bar, and with every up-and-down the brother did, that tattoo of a dragon across his back moved and seethed along with his flexing muscles.
“You know it,” the brother gritted out.
With a wave, Qhuinn kept going. Down past the exam rooms and the OR, he stopped at the last door that was part of the clinic area. Tugging his sweatshirt into proper place over his Adidas training pants, he made sure his hair was not completely crazy.
Although no amount of brushing was going to hide the fact that part of it was the color of Violet Beauregarde.
Not that it mattered to Luchas. Still, old family habits died hard, even when they weren’t necessary anymore.
Knocking with his knuckles, he then pushed his way in. “Luchas, my man, how are—”
Qhuinn paused. No one was in the patient room. But at least the wheelchair was parked in the corner. So the male was using his cane as he’d been told to.
“Good,” Qhuinn murmured. Then louder, “Luchas, you in the loo?”
The door over there was closed, but there was no shower running. No sink, either. Content to wait, Qhuinn sat down in his brother’s reading chair and chilled, taking out his phone. After checking his email, he looked to the bathroom.
“Luchas? You okay in there?”
Getting to his feet, he put his phone away and walked to the door. Leaning into the panel, he listened. “Luchas?”
When he knocked and there was no answer, his throat closed up. “I’m coming in, Luchas—”
As he pushed his way inside, the motion-activated lights came on. No one was there, either: The bathtub was dry. The towels were folded precisely on the rods. The toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving accoutrements were all orderly around the sink. A surge of paranoia made him open the shower stall’s frosted door. Just in case. But there was no blood from a cracked-open head. No body, either.