In Place of Never

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “Anything you remember could help. I need to know what happened. Please.” My voice cracked on the final word.

  “I think she was with a handful of locals at the carnival. They came to see the family. We had a party. A big bonfire with lots of food and wine. If this is the girl I’m thinking of, I saw her a few times that week.”

  “Was she drunk?” My parents had never said anything about Faith having alcohol in her system.

  Rose shook her head. “No. If she’s the girl I remember, she was vibrant, gorgeous, and happy.”

  The cup slipped from my hand. Cross righted it on the ground and left it at my feet.

  Tears stung my eyes. “She was happy?”

  Rose nodded. Her gray eyes flicked from my face to Anton’s. “Unless I’m thinking of someone else, yes. She was bubbly and witty and kind of a nut.”

  I laughed. One tear rolled over my cheek and I caught it with my sleeve. “She was a nut. What else?”

  Rose shrugged. Crimson nails accented her henna-wrapped hands. “That’s all. Except I’m very sorry she’s gone.”

  Cross set his cup aside and stood. “I should get you home.”

  Faith’s photo reached Anton, the final member of our circle. He looked intently at the photo and then at Cross. “You two just got here. Nadya and Nicolae went for the guitars. You should play for Mercy.”

  “Not tonight.” Cross pressed a palm between my shoulder blades and I stood. He was done playing host to my inquisition.

  Anton handed me Faith’s photo. His gaze lingered on her face.

  “Do you remember her?”

  He released the photo into my grip. “It’s been a long time.”

  Cross nudged me through the campsite, herding me onto the road, away from his family. I’d crossed a line, I guessed. Still, I’d learned more about the weekend Faith died. She’d been drinking and laughing with friends. I wasn’t a licensed therapist, but that didn’t sound like a weekend ending in suicide. Drinking was a component I hadn’t expected, though it wasn’t out of character. Faith had lived bigger and louder than this little town could accept. People watched her everywhere we went. Faith had been a force of nature. She’d felt things deeply. She was an artist. Her drawings were powerful. Explosive. Sometimes, when she drew, she wouldn’t talk for hours. I’d worried about her leaving for college that summer. How she’d change. Who she’d confide in. What would happen to me without her? I’d promised to visit every weekend as soon as I turned sixteen. At fourteen, I’d wrongly assumed I’d have a car by then, but that was in another life.

  A thousand maybes fired through my head. Maybe her drowning was an accident. Maybe the gossips were wrong and the coroner was right. Maybe she’d bobbed off her waist-length hair as a statement of independence instead of a cry for help. Maybe the drinking was for fun, not because she was hurting. I forced emotion aside. I couldn’t fall apart before I got home. There were too many maybes. Enough to drown me too.

  I dragged fingers through the ragged black of my hair. If Faith had been out having fun the way Rose described, why weren’t there any witnesses?

  Cross watched me as we walked. His gaze warmed my cheeks. “You okay?”

  Wind beat my hoodie, throwing the hood against my head. “My dad knew she was drinking.”

  “Probably.”

  I kicked a patch of stones into the road. “He’s the town preacher. Why didn’t he use that as a life lesson? Alcohol kills.”

  Cross barked a short humorless laugh. “Raised by the preacher.”

  I sighed. “Now what? My dad’s a pastor. What does that say about me?”

  He slowed his steps and cut across the field beside my house, avoiding the streetlight. “You know what goes hand in hand with religion? Guilt. Shame. Defeat.”

  I bristled. “You mean hope, faith, and joy.”

  “Not always. Not when you lose your sister.” He turned to me and stared. Without warning, he wrapped two long fingers around my wrist. He pushed the sleeve up with his free hand. “You did this because you blame yourself for something. Now I know what.”

  I jerked my arm free and yanked my sleeve down. “Stop it. I’m not some puzzle you can solve.”

  He widened his stance. “You cut yourself to get relief from the pain of something too big to handle in any other way. I know plenty about that. About pain.”

  I stormed past him. “You don’t know anything about me. Don’t touch me again.”

  “I know you don’t eat when you’re hungry because it helps you refocus the pain, especially after you stopped cutting. Saying ‘no’ gives you a small measure of control when you want to punish yourself.”

  I kept moving. “How do you know I stopped?”

  “The scars are old. Healed. Hey, you know it’s not your fault your sister died, right?”

  “Shut up.” I slogged through the rain-soaked grass. My arm stung from his touch. No one touched my scars. Every individual mark was a match on my skin. My chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. People always asked about the scars. No one dared touch. They were grotesque external reflections of my obvious internal condition.

  “You didn’t kill your sister.” His footfalls pounded through soggy grass behind me. “You’re still hurting over something that can’t be changed. Will you stop running away, please?”

  I spun on him, fists clenched. “What do you care? No one asked you to care. So knock it off and go back to your life. Leave me alone. Forget we met.”

  Cross stepped into my path. He gripped the hem of his sweatshirt and peeled it over his head, dragging a white T-shirt along with it. He hooked the fabric behind his head without pulling his arms free. His elbows pointed skyward for two long beats. A dozen random lines marked his chest and stomach. His skin was taut over a lean-muscled frame.

  I pulled my gaze away and cleared my throat. “What happened to you?”

  He replaced his shirt. “I used to pick fights I couldn’t win for the ass beating. I wanted to feel something. Is that why you don’t eat? To feel something?”

  My mouth snapped shut.

  Cross frowned. His heavy hooded eyes drew level to mine. “Everyone’s got a sad story, Mercy. I don’t want to change you or save you, or whatever you think. I told you, I’m not good with people. Words aren’t my thing, but I like being around you and we’re staying here for a month. We don’t usually stay anywhere this long. We could be friends. I think you might be like me.”

  Images of his scarred, shirtless torso cluttered my mind. I rubbed my eyes. He was too close. His cologne was everywhere. Feelings ambushed me on every level. I stepped back. “In what way do you think I’m like you? Do you mean broken?”

  Cross took a matching step back, palms up. “I didn’t mean to get so close.” He scrunched his eyebrows. “I’m not broken, not yet. Neither are you. We’re just a little dinged up. Slightly damaged.”

  I pulled in a deep breath for bravery, unzipped my hoodie, and freed my arms. Why not? My mind scrambled to rationalize the sudden desire to reveal my secrets. In a few minutes, I’d climb through my bedroom window and never see him again. It would be nice for one living person to know my story. Plus, he wasn’t in any position to judge me or spread gossip about me. Moonlight filtered through swaying branches, showcasing my favorite worn-out concert shirt and half my scars. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he took in the ugly marks on my skin.

  “I made the first cut a few weeks after we lost her. She drowned in the river and washed ashore the next morning. I thought I’d die with her.” I swiped renegade tears with the pads of both thumbs. “My parents called her death an accident, but I couldn’t believe she’d be so careless. Of course, now I know she was drinking. Later, kids at school said she probably killed herself, but I couldn’t believe she’d do that. I wanted to join her but couldn’t. I was consumed by this…unbearable pain. I needed a distraction to dull the heartache. Cutting worked. You have no idea how much.”

  I replaced
my sleeves and tugged the zipper on my hoodie to my chin.

  Cross gave one stiff nod. “I’ve never been that close to anyone. I’m sorry you lost her. I can’t guess what that was like.”

  And I couldn’t explain it because there weren’t enough awful words in any language to make him understand. “I covered for her that night.” My voice croaked. “I covered so she could sneak out. While she was drowning, I was lying to my parents about the shower I’d left running. I told them Faith was taking a shower.” I huffed a weary breath and shook my hands out hard at the wrists. “I lied because she asked me to. If I’d told them the truth, they might’ve saved her.”

  Cross extended a palm. He opened and closed his fingers. I set my wrist in his hand and swallowed bile. I might as well have been naked before him. Nudity would’ve left more hidden. His fingers probed the sensitive skin of my wrist beneath my sweatshirt. “How long did you do this to yourself?”

  “A few months before anyone noticed. Then almost a year longer. My whole family lost it when Faith died. Mom hardly left her bed. Dad stayed at church all the time praying. Then…” I pulled in a long breath. “Mom followed Faith three months later. I guess she couldn’t live without her.”

  Cross pulled my wrist around his waist and patted my back. His frame was rigid but reassuring. It had taken three years and a complete stranger to get what I’d needed. Someone who didn’t judge.

  He waited for me to move away, letting me decide how long our contact lasted. Parts of me wanted to latch on. I hadn’t been hugged in three years.

  A deep tenor rumbled in his chest. “None of these things are your fault. Your mom made her decision and it had nothing to do with you. Suicide is selfish and desperate.”

  My fists landed against his chest. “I needed her.”

  “And she couldn’t deal. That was her choice. You couldn’t have changed it. You were the kid. She was the mom.” He pulled back and examined my arms in the moonlight, pushing the fabric higher this time. Rough fingers traced the lines. “You cut for months before anyone noticed?” His voice grew coarse and uneven.

  “My family was a bit preoccupied. We lost a child and a mom in three months. Dad, Pru, and I were all alone. I was only fourteen. Pru was twelve.”

  “So, your dad grieved for months before he noticed you weighed less than a middle schooler and cut yourself?”

  Exhaustion weighted my limbs. “He did the best he could. My physics teacher saw the scars during lab, and I spent a year with a state-appointed counselor. Most of the marks are barely noticeable.” I pulled the cuffs of my hoodie over my hands, hiding my arms fingertip-deep in the material.

  “How many?”

  “Scars? I don’t know. Dozens. Only a few are bad. I quit a long time ago, okay? It’s over and you can forget you know.”

  Cross scrubbed a giant palm over his face. “Dozens?” He swore and turned in a circle, probably looking for an escape route.

  “Just go.” I brushed past him. “I can get home from here. Thank you for letting me ask your family about my sister.” I spun and walked backward a few paces. “Now that I know she was with friends, I’ll check with some of them and see if they can give me more information.”

  Cross pressed his palms to his hips. “I can help.”

  “No. It’s fine. You’ve done enough.” He’d seen too much. Heard too much. Fight or flight bubbled inside me. My every fiber begged to run.

  He moved forward and I froze. Moonlight streamed over his sharp, angular features. His jaw ticked. “I want to help. We’re here for four weeks. I’m supposed to play at Red’s Friday night and hopefully the next two weekends. The Lovells have a couple performances scheduled in the area and a big show during River Festival at the end of the month. It’d be nice to have a friend here since we’re staying so long. I can help you pull some threads while we’re here. I have a good idea where to start.”

  My mind stuttered to a stop. He was singing at Red’s on Friday. I wanted to hear that. Maybe I could sneak out one more time.

  If Dad caught me with someone from the Lovell show, he’d be furious. I didn’t want to let him down the way Faith and Mom had. Faith’s death might have been an accident, but she’d snuck out that night and never returned. He deserved more from me than obstinacy and betrayal.

  I angled my head. “What do you mean? What thread?”

  “I want to talk with Rose again. She and Anton might think of something significant that can help you.”

  What if there was more to know? What if Rose opened up to Cross when he got back? Curiosity popped and snapped in my mind. Possibilities unfolded. Maybe I could really know what happened to Faith. Spending the month outside investigating with Cross instead of at home locked inside my head sounded good. “Okay. You can help.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.” I walked through wet leaves, measuring my steps to last as long as possible on the too-short walk home. “What are you performing at Red’s and why don’t you know if you’ll be there for the next two weeks?”

  Cross worked his jaw. “I’m a songwriter. There’s a national competition that travels to small town honky-tonks, looking for undiscovered talent. Songwriters get a chance to have their lyrics heard.”

  My eyes stretched wide. “This is big.”

  “Yeah. I can’t screw it up.”

  “You get to come back each week if your song wins? What happens at the end of the three weeks?”

  His chest expanded before a gust of breath rushed out. “If I make it through all three weeks, I’ll get an invitation to perform in Memphis for a panel of record execs, maybe artists. No promises though, not even then, but it’s a chance I’ll never get again.”

  “Wow.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I stopped short. “Hey, can you sing? If you can’t, does that hurt your chances at moving through the rounds?”

  “Depends on how good the song is.”

  I wasn’t sure which question he’d answered.

  My restless mind circled selfishly around the information I’d shared. What would he think of me tomorrow? His scars were battle wounds, survival marks. Mine were cuts of desperation and weakness. He and I weren’t alike. He’d realize that soon. Anton said Cross saw everything.

  We moved in silence across overgrown grass. At my tree, I gripped the base and set my shoe on the first hunk of wood. “Thanks again.”

  Cross nodded.

  My shoe slipped.

  He smiled for the first time all night. “Here.” He clenched my waist in his oversize mitts and lifted.

  My feet floundered along the tree trunk seeking purchase. “I didn’t want the punch.”

  “You didn’t need the coffee.”

  I glared down on him.

  He frowned. “You need rest. Get some sleep.”

  I caught the lower branch and swung myself up, retracing my earlier steps to the attic window. My phone buzzed.

  “I’ll talk to Anton and Rose tonight.”

  I toppled through the window with the grace of a hippo. My phone buzzed again.

  “Talk to your little sister. I bet she’d like to be included.”

  I turned onto my knees and peered through the glass at the dark lawn below. No one was there. The whole night could’ve been a dream.

  Except I had texts to prove my sanity and a clear memory of Cross’s reclusive smile.

  Chapter 5

  Purpose

  I dozed off and on, tormented by dreams and worry. The purple twinkle lights I’d bought two Halloweens ago and hung from my rafters gave a comforting hue to life. As daybreak arrived, a flurry of questions circled in my mind. The world was different. After Pru’s stunt with Jason and the Lovells’ reemergence, anything was possible. I should’ve hidden under the covers until college, but at six-fifteen I headed downstairs for coffee, eager for the day. The tiny sapling of hope Rose had supplied at the campfire grew by the second. What if the grieving fourteen-year-
old me had been right to question Faith’s death when no one else had? What if today I learned something significant about the night she died? What if she wasn’t alone? What if her death wasn’t an accident? What if it wasn’t suicide?

  Everything could change today.

  I cracked eggs into a red ceramic bowl and added milk. Piles of chopped veggies waited on the counter. Nervous energy accomplished many things before seven AM. I wiggled the silverware drawer open and dug for the whisk. The stubborn old drawer needed to be oiled or rebuilt or kicked. No whisk. Pru made breakfast one time all year and put everything away in the wrong places. I pressed the drawer shut and hunted through the kitchen for the whisk. Nothing was where Mom had kept it.

  Pru dragged into the kitchen and dropped onto a chair at the table. She sat, forehead down, moaning about the injustice of her life.

  I slid a cup of coffee in her direction. “Shut up.”

  She rolled her eyes up at me, resting her chin where her forehead had lain. “What’s your problem?”

  “Where’s the whisk?”

  She pointed.

  Gah. Stuck in the utensil holder with spatulas and bowl scrapers. Jeez. “Thanks.” I beat the eggs with some seasonings and veggies, then poured them in the pan. “Hungry?”

  Pru slapped the table. “What. The. Hell.”

  I clutched a spatula to my chest and spun on my heels, ready to defend my sister.

  She glared. Her hair and makeup looked photo shoot ready, despite the cranky expression on her tanned face.

  My shoulders slumped. “What happened?”

  “You. What’s going on with you? Why are you happy?”

  I angled my body away, pushing eggs around the pan. “Nothing’s going on.” Was I happy? I didn’t want to crawl back into bed yet.

  Pru jerked to a stand and walked to the door. “Whatever. Don’t tell me. I’m going to my room.” She ran headlong into Dad.

  He braced his palms on either side of the kitchen doorway and looked over her head at me. “Good. You’re cooking. Make as much as we’ve got. Company’s on the way.” The scowl on his face aged him a decade.