Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  “So?” My voice is small and I curl my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

  “So you did that. And you survived it. Came out on the other side. You should be proud of yourself.” Her voice is firm, as if she’s trying to parlay her strength onto me. “Are you?”

  “Proud of myself?” I scoff. “No. What do I have to be proud of? All I did was survive.”

  “You escaped. You identified a serial rapist and murderer, and thanks to you he was caught.”

  “It wasn’t all me. I had help.” I think of him. Again. He crosses my mind more often than not lately. My guardian angel. I reach for the charm on my bracelet, running my thumb over it. “I had nothing to do with my escape.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “I was twelve. Completely helpless. His son was the one who saved me. He took me to the police station.” He didn’t want to stay. Will had planned on dumping me off before going back. Back to what, I wasn’t sure.

  Nothing good.

  “You had the strength to testify,” Dr. Harris reminds me. “You spoke out in court and helped convict the man who kidnapped and raped you.”

  Raped. I hate that word. It makes me feel like damaged goods—maybe because I am damaged goods. Who’d want me? I can hardly look a man in the eye, let alone talk to one. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Him. What he did to me. How he raped me. How I’m ruined for any other man,” I spit out. It always circles back to this, to him, and what he did to me. They want all the gruesome details. A list of exactly what he did to me, where he touched me, how many times he . . .

  I close my eyes and let it wash over me. What he did. What he said. The look in his eyes. The tiny bits of kindness he doled out to convince me he wasn’t so bad.

  He was the devil.

  “Do you believe yourself ruined?” Dr. Harris asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “It’s why I sometimes wish I would’ve died. It would be so much easier, you know? I’d be gone. I wouldn’t have to deal with all of this.”

  “Are you saying you feel suicidal?”

  Always the same question, always afraid I’m going to harm myself. “Not at all.”

  “Do you truly regret doing the interview?”

  Opening my eyes, I stare at her. “No. It had to be done. I’m assuming this is part of the process.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Dr. Harris says, her voice soft, her expression kind. That tiny glimpse of kindness reassures me and I sit up straight, my thumb still streaking across the silver guardian angel charm. “Talking about what happened after so many years is going to bring up a lot of difficult emotions. You’ve been taken back to when it happened and you’re having to deal with those feelings all over again.”

  And I didn’t deal with them properly the first time around, not really. I had to pretend everything was okay, even though it wasn’t. “I should be stronger,” I say. “It shouldn’t affect me like this.”

  “We all deal with trauma differently,” she starts, but I cut her off.

  “I want to be stronger.”

  “You’ll get there.” She smiles, this tight, close-lipped smile that is full of lies. “Someday.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re ready.”

  “But I’m ready now.”

  “Are you?”

  Silence again. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not ready.

  Maybe I’ll never be ready.

  I am a man obsessed.

  I sit in my car up the street from Katherine Watts’s home, slunk low in the driver’s seat, so low I’m eye level with the steering wheel as I watch her house. There’s no movement, no car parked in the driveway, nothing happening whatsoever, and I’m antsy. I want to get closer, but not too close. She won’t recognize me if she’s there, if she happens upon me. I don’t want to scare her and I’m sure she’s jumpy. She could think I’m a reporter, trying to dig up some info.

  It’s the perfect cover.

  Hell, I shouldn’t be here. I promised myself I wouldn’t go to her house, that I wouldn’t try and catch a glimpse of her.

  But here I am, lurking. Waiting. I just want to make sure she’s all right. That she’s safe. After the interview aired, I’m sure she’s had to deal with an overwhelming amount of media attention. It can’t be easy. Does she have a solid support system? Friends? Family? From watching her over and over again in that interview, I have the distinct feeling she’s lonely. Alone.

  I can relate. And I hate that. Does she have that constant ache in the pit of her stomach? Does he haunt her at the darkest moments of the night, when she’s alone and vulnerable in her bed, memories wrapped up in a nightmare visiting her every chance they get?

  I hope to hell not.

  Restlessness makes my entire body feel like it’s one big twitching muscle and I give up trying to keep myself restrained in the car. It’s too small, too contained, and I feel like I’m sitting in a pressure cooker. Like I’ll explode and blast out of it at any given moment.

  Patience has never been my strong suit.

  So I climb out of the car and slowly start to walk along the sidewalk toward her house. My steps are measured, hands in the front pockets of my jeans, expression neutral, stance casual. I’m wearing a black pullover sweatshirt, sunglasses covering my eyes though the sun is weak. It’s quiet. Considering it’s just after eleven in the morning, I can assume most everyone is at work. With the exception of the older woman sitting on the front porch of the house that’s right next to Katherine Watts’s.

  Her neighbor.

  Shit.

  I do my best not to look in her direction, keeping my head averted, though I’m dying to look at Katie’s house. I want to check out every detail possible so I can memorize it. Maybe discover a clue, a little glimpse into what makes Katie tick. I want to figure her out.

  Desperately.

  “Do you need any help, young man?”

  Stopping, I turn to find the old lady perched on the edge of the porch swing, watching me with hawklike eyes, looking ready to pounce. I can sense a kindred spirit—she trusts no one, just like me. I bet she’s the lone member of the neighborhood watch on this street. “Hi.” I wave at her.

  Her expression doesn’t waver. Not mean, but not overtly friendly, either. “Are you looking for someone?”

  I point at Katie’s house. “I think I lived there when I was a kid.”

  Her penciled-in eyebrows lift. “You think?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” I flash her a friendly smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Uh-huh. You don’t look that old.”

  “Old enough to have some fuzzy memories.” I keep my smile planted firmly in place, but she’s having none of it.

  She keeps studying me, assessing me. Probably thinks I’m up to no good.

  That would be correct.

  “In the mood to reminisce?” she asks. “Is that why you’re here? Don’t tell me you’re a reporter.”

  I ignore the reporter remark. It might be the perfect cover, but I have a feeling this woman would drive me away in an instant if she suspected I was here snooping around. “Feeling melancholy.” That’s not too much of a lie. “Missing my mom.” It’s easier to pretend I miss her versus dear old dad.

  “Aw, did you lose her?” Her expression doesn’t change much, so I don’t know if she’s sincerely sympathetic or not.

  I nod, not sure if I’m lying or not. She never came forward, not even when all the shit hit the fan and Dad’s name and mug shot were broadcast all over the news. What woman wouldn’t reach out and try to contact her only child? I ended up in a foster home until I ran away when I was seventeen, not that my foster parents cared. They only wanted to collect the monthly checks.

  Life was hell when I was with my father, and the hell continued on a lesser scale after I was pulled out of his house. I needed a hero. Someone to come rescue me, and I banked on my mother to be th
e one to do it. The reunion had played over and over again in my head during those years, but it never happened.

  She was either a heartless bitch or dead. I prefer to think she’s dead.

  It’s easier that way.

  “That’s a shame.” The old woman’s expression never, ever wavers. I’m impressed. “I don’t remember any family with a young boy living in that house, son.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost twenty years.”

  Well, hell. She’d know. “Yeah? Well . . . thanks for the info.”

  “Maybe you have the wrong house,” she suggests. “It could be on a different street close by. They all look pretty similar around here.”

  “Maybe. You might be right.” I finally allow myself to stare longingly at the house—Katie’s house. It’s small, white with pale blue trim and matching shutters flanking the windows, the front door painted a rich, glossy red, which surprises me. Such a bold color, but maybe she likes bright colors. Pots of colorful flowers dot the front porch and a wooden swing hangs from the roof, similar to the one my interrogator is currently sitting on.

  If I could, I’d walk into Katie’s yard and look through the windows to see how she lives. Her tastes, her furniture, the photos she might have on the walls. But not a one of those windows is bare. Curtains or blinds cover every single one that I can see and besides, I’d look like a damn criminal—a peeping Tom trying to catch a glimpse of a vulnerable woman all alone inside.

  No way will I allow myself to share any traits with my father. I hate myself enough already. Any and all comparisons to him would fucking wreck me.

  “Who lives here now?” I ask nonchalantly, ignoring the way my heart speeds up. I want just one word about Katie—Katherine. One little fact, a morsel of information I can take back with me to savor later.

  Tell me she’s safe. Tell me she’s happy. Tell me she has friends and a cat and she has a good job and she’s seeing someone who might be special. Tell me she’s close to her family and she smiles a lot and she’s not really lonely. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me all of that. I need to hear it. I need to make sure she’s okay.

  That’s all I want. To know she’s safe.

  “Never you mind that,” the woman says, like she’s scolding me. I take a step back, surprised at the blast of heat that shines from her eyes. Protective. I like that. It reassures me, knowing Katie has someone on her side living so close to her. Not that this frail-looking woman could prevent anything from happening, but . . . she could dial 911. Ward off weirdos who lurked around Katie’s house. Like me. “She’s a private person.”

  And that’s all she says. All she’ll give me.

  We stare at each other for a moment and I look away first, letting her win. Wondering if she’ll tell Katie that an unfamiliar man came around today. Do I matter that much?

  Probably not.

  “Thanks for your help,” I tell the old woman as I start back toward my car. My disappointment is palpable and I try my best to push it away. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, what I think I might get out of this. Closure? This will never be closed, what happened to me, what happened to Katie. We share something no one else understands. I wish I could talk to her but I can’t. I don’t want to open up an old wound and make it bleed.

  I’ll have to be satisfied with the little bits and pieces of Katie that I slowly put together on my own.

  For now, that’s enough.

  Lying on a thin mattress for days while chained to a wall left me weak. I hadn’t eaten much and I hadn’t had much to drink, either. So when Will handed me a bottle of water after cutting the chain off my ankle, I gulped practically the entire thing down in one swallow.

  “Take it easy,” he warned me, his low, even voice full of concern. I glanced up, saw his furrowed brow and frowning face, my lips still wrapped around the opening of the bottle. “You don’t want to puke it all back up.”

  He was right. I slowed down, taking his advice, my gaze never leaving him as he reached into a backpack he’d brought and pulled out what looked like a folded T-shirt. He held it out to me.

  “For you.”

  I stared at the shirt gripped in his hands. It was navy blue with white lettering, but I couldn’t make out what it said. “What is it?” I asked, not willing to fully trust him. What if he had ulterior motives? Maybe he was being kind so he could take advantage of me. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know why he would want to help me. I didn’t understand any of this.

  “A shirt. So you can change out of the one you’re wearing.” He gestured toward me. “I figured you’d want to wear clean clothes, though I don’t have any shorts or anything for you. I’m too big and you’re uh, too small.”

  He wasn’t that big, but he was taller than me. I took the shirt from him and shook it out to discover it was a high school football shirt. The name emblazoned across the front, an eagle mascot thrusting his chest out, his expression menacing. “Do you go to this school?” I asked him.

  Will ignored my question and glanced around, his eyes narrowed. “You need to hurry. There’s not much daylight left.”

  “I can’t change in front of you,” I whispered and he moved away from me without a word, his back to me as he bent over the backpack he held in his hands. As he rummaged through it, I watched him for a while to make sure he wasn’t going to turn around.

  “Hurry, Katie,” he urged and I tore my dirty, ripped shirt off, letting it fall to the floor before I tugged his T-shirt over my head. It was too big, the sleeves hitting me at my elbows, the hem about mid-thigh, swallowing up the stained and grungy shorts I wore. I stood on shaky legs, nearly stumbling to the ground because my knees felt like they would give out.

  He turned and rushed toward me to grip my elbow, and I jerked out of his touch. “I’m fine,” I muttered, my skin burning where his fingers brushed against my skin. It wasn’t a bad burn. More like this tingling electricity that felt like a shock to my system.

  I didn’t understand it.

  “I thought you were going to fall,” he murmured, his head bent as he looked at me, black strands of hair tumbling across his forehead. Yet again I thought the color completely unnatural and I studied him, really studied him, trying to figure him out.

  He wore a black T-shirt. Plain. Faded black skinny jeans, and the most scuffed-up black Vans I’d ever seen covered his feet. His left ear was pierced with a thin silver hoop, and so was the right side of his lip. He was all black, from head to toe, one long, lean line, with hair hanging in his eyes and a defiant expression on his face. He reminded me of the emo kids I went to school with, though he wasn’t pale like they usually were. And he had muscles. His arms weren’t bulging but his biceps were defined. He looked strong.

  Almost intimidating.

  “We need to leave,” he said firmly, his gaze meeting mine. He sounded like a man, what with that deep voice, but from the look on his face, the nervousness in his gaze, I could see he was really just a kid.

  Just like me.

  I paused, unsure if I should go with him, and he saw it. Must’ve seen the reluctance in my gaze and when our gazes clashed, I confessed, “I’m scared.”

  His expression faltered for the smallest moment. I don’t think he knew exactly what to do with me. “You can’t be scared, Katie. You have to be brave. You have to come with me.”

  I wanted to. I really did. “What if he finds us? What will he do?”

  The determination that firmed his jaw made him look more manlike. Not so much a kid any longer. “He won’t do anything to you. I won’t let him.”

  “You promise?” I asked for too much but I needed to hear the words. Needed the reassurance.

  His gaze was solemn. “I promise.”

  I wanted to believe him. I needed someone to believe in to get me out of here. So I was putting all my faith in him. I had to.

  There was no other choice.

  Without hesitation he turned and headed toward the shed door. I followed after
him, trying my best to keep up, the mostly empty water bottle still clutched in my hand. He took my other hand to help me down the rickety wooden steps, his long fingers clutched around mine, and I winced when the rough edges of the wood scraped the soles of my tender feet.

  “You need shoes,” he murmured, reaching for his magical backpack. He pulled out a pair of bright orange Old Navy flip-flops, the cheap ones you can get for under five dollars. “I found these.” I wondered who they might have belonged to.

  It didn’t matter, though. Now they belonged to me.

  I slipped them on and though they were a little big, they’d work just fine. He smiled at me. This lopsided, closed-mouth curve of lips that was there and gone, all in a fleeting moment. Then with a flick of his head, he indicated without a word that he wanted me to follow him. I did. I fell into step behind him as we made our escape from the backyard, passing the lone carousel horse propped in the corner of the fence.

  “Is that your horse?” I asked him, wanting to know if he lived there. How he played a role in this moment, this situation.

  He paused, his head turning toward the horse, a faraway look crossing his face. “Yeah. I found it in a dumpster not far from the park.”

  The park. The amusement park. It was close. Closer than I thought.

  “They usually sell them. Auction them off. People like to buy them. It’s like buying a memory, a piece of happiness from their childhood,” he continued, and I studied him. Wondered if this horse represented a piece of happiness from his childhood. Though he was still a child, too. Older than me, but definitely not an adult yet.

  “But this one, they threw away like it didn’t matter. It was broken. Faded and chipped, an ugly brown color that probably didn’t look so good with the other brightly painted horses and animals on the carousel. Have you been on that merry-go-round?” His gaze met mine and I nodded. “It’s bright and loud, with the bells and the buzzer and music. This guy didn’t fit in.”

  I had this weird feeling he wasn’t talking about the horse anymore. He was talking about himself.

  “We need to go,” he said, sounding irritated. He gave one last, longing glance toward the horse and then we left. He led me to the gate and opened it, indicating I should walk through it first, and I did, my chest tight, my gaze sharp. A tiny piece of me was afraid this could be a trap. He might be leading me to my doom.