Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  A lump formed in Amy’s throat. She’d heard…Becca had abused Zach. The bruises, the welts: his running away made sense now.

  I should have seen the signs. I should have done something.

  Their steps were hurried as they passed through the lobby toward the doors. Amy’s knees almost buckled as her guilt racked her. Scott swore and held her up, pulling her to him. “Come on, baby. Just a little bit farther.”

  Amy clung to Scott as if he were a life raft. Her legs felt like jelly, and she shook all over.

  When they were almost to the car, a well-dressed elderly man intercepted them. “Excuse me, but are you Miss Amy Miles?”

  Scott immediately stepped in front of her. “Sorry, but if you’re a reporter—”

  “I’m not, young man,” he said with a knowing smile. “I’m Becca’s lawyer. It appears a letter was found in Becca’s apartment, labeled for Amy. Becca had a living will. She told us where to find the letter and whom to give it to.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a long scroll secured with a red ribbon. “Do with it as you wish. But please take it so she doesn’t come back to haunt me for not following her last will. You do not mess with the dead’s wishes, the law be damned.”

  Amy stared at the letter. With a trembling hand, she reached for it.

  “Amy—” Scott started, but she already had it.

  “Thank you,” she rasped, standing straighter and clutching the letter in her hand.

  The man nodded. “If you have any questions”—he handed them a business card—“this is my contact information.” He started to turn and then paused. “Just between us,” he said quietly, “the police don’t know about this letter. If anyone asks, say it was left under your windshield wiper, because that’s what I was about to do.”

  Amy stilled and softly smiled. She nodded, unable to speak.

  He tipped his fedora to them and hobbled off to a BMW down the street.

  “Interesting,” Scott murmured, still frowning. “Superstitious geezer.”

  Amy and Scott silently walked and got in Scott’s car. They sat there for a few seconds.

  Amy didn’t need to ask to know what Scott was waiting for. Holding her breath, she delicately slid the ribbon from the scroll and unfurled the letter.

  The handwritten note was dated about six months ago.

  Dearest Amy,

  I’m sick. Not cancer sick, though it feels like it sometimes. I’m talking out-of-my-mind crazy.

  No, seriously. I need help. I’m trying to get help, but I can’t trust myself sometimes. And God, I’m so scared to tell you.

  What will you think of me? Will you hate me? Will you abandon me too?

  I think I’m getting worse. I’ve started losing time. Mom did. Now she’s in a mental health facility.

  That’s right. I never told you that, because I lied and said my mother was dead. My father really is in prison, but my mother is alive. I’m so sorry for all the lies, Amy. I’m sorry for hiding the truth. Know I only did it to protect you.

  I never meant for this to happen. I’ve kind of accepted it, you know? I mean, I knew there was a chance I could inherit my mother’s disease. It runs in her family.

  But I’m scared. I’m so damned scared, and I don’t know where to go anymore.

  So I’m writing this letter to clear my head, and in case something happens to me. Because crazy people do crazy shit, right?

  I don’t want to hurt you. If I ever do, know that it was never my intention.

  You’ve been like a sister to me. You’re one of the kindest people I know.

  I met you, once. A long time ago. We were both kids sent to the same summer camp. I was weird and awkward, but you befriended me anyway. I thought, “What a nice girl. I wish she could be my friend.”

  Years later, when we met again in college, you were. I looked totally different, so you wouldn’t recognize me. But I remembered you.

  For your smile. Your kind heart. Your passion to help people.

  I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you paint. You were so lost in it. I’d never seen anyone pour that much love into anything in my life.

  You looked out for me when no one else would. I pretended to be a popular girl in college, because I thought that’s who I had to be to get attention. But around you, I could be myself. You saw me for me, and I’ll never forget that.

  I hope wherever you are now, things are better. You spend so much time being sad and thinking every single bad thing that happens is your fault. But it’s not. Sometimes, shit just happens. And that’s okay. There’s nothing you can do about it.

  So stop beating yourself up. If you get this, I know I’ll already be dead. And you’ll probably find a way to blame yourself for it, too.

  So stop. Love yourself, Amy. Go live your life to the fullest, and know I’ll always be watching over you.

  Love Forever,

  Becca

  Tears darkened the paper around the signature. They flowed in torrents down Amy’s cheeks, unstoppable as she read the letter again.

  A huge weight lifted off her.

  Becca didn’t blame her—she was blaming herself. Had blamed herself for Michael’s death, too. And Nathan’s, in a strange way.

  She had to let go of the guilt and move on. Dr. Lamb was right. None of this was anyone’s fault.

  It was the disease’s.

  Scott set a hand on her shoulder, giving her a look that said, “Are you okay?”

  Amy smiled and wiped at her face, nodding. “Yeah,” she said at last. “I’m fine now.”

  Two years later

  THE BOOKSTORE WAS crowded. Like, wall-to-wall crowded. The fifty seats the staff had managed to squeeze onto the floor were filled within thirty seconds of them opening their doors. Three minutes after that, all the floor space near the podium had been occupied, as had every inch of wall space.

  It still blew her mind how far she’d come. Four years ago, Amy Miles was convinced she’d never set foot in front of a crowd again. Now, she couldn’t seem to stay out of the spotlight. And she hoped she wouldn’t. She had a message that needed to be heard.

  And, apparently, there were scores of hurting, broken people who needed to hear it, too.

  The first time she spoke in front of a crowd on her press tour after her memoir/self-help book was published, her voice warbled. Her palms sweated, her skin turned clammy, and she felt as if puke was trying to climb up her throat.

  Seeing the hope, the desperation, and the heartache in the eyes of the hundreds of people she’d spoken to gave her courage. They believed in her. Some later told her at the book signing that they’d driven hundreds of miles to hear her speak. That kind of unwavering devotion and encouragement was staggering.

  She couldn’t let them down. And she hadn’t, if her fan mail and chart-topping success were any indication.

  “What happened to me is not a unique story,” she read, starting the last paragraph of the opening chapter. “Every year, thousands of people fall victim to senseless violence. My goal is not to seek pity, but rather to spread the message that you’re not alone. I wish I had known that. It might have saved me a world of tremendous grief, as I hope to do for you.” She closed the book with a warm smile. “Thank you.”

  The crowd applauded. Some people had tears in their eyes. So far at every stop on her press tour, she’d made no fewer than a dozen people cry. The staff had started to keep boxes of tissue out because of this.

  A question-and-answer session followed, along with a book signing. She still couldn’t believe this was her life. That she was actually helping people. She’d been allowed to do her own cover art, and she’d brought along several paintings to sell, as well as prints and other merchandise. People told her: “They were moved by her.” “She inspired them.” “She gave them strength.” On and on the praise went. With every kind word, her backbone grew that much stronger. Her soul and heart mended. She’d even started a support group for assault victims back in Los Angeles, a
nd she donated twenty-five percent of her royalties to charities supporting her cause.

  She’d always thought art was her purpose in life, but now she knew she had a far greater calling—to help people, to give them courage when they couldn’t find any, to be the beacon in a sea of darkness.

  Though the bookstore closed at nine p.m., Amy stayed to shake the hand of and talk to every single person who showed up. It was nearly ten thirty before she and a very tired and somewhat irritable closer left the building. The taxi she’d asked to pick her up wasn’t outside, but that was fine.

  Because her closest confidant, her best friend, stood in front of a used black 2009 Jetta. She’d used some of her book advance money to purchase it for a steal from a local dealer back in California.

  Scott smiled at her as she ran to him. “Whoa! Easy there. Wouldn’t want to squish Emma.”

  “Sorry.” Amy blushed. She ran her palm over the bump along her lower belly, where their child rested. Amy couldn’t wait to meet her. She’d always wanted a family to call her own, and now she had one. Life sometimes seemed too good to be true.

  “Don’t be, gorgeous.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re perfect.”

  “When did you get in?” she asked as he opened the car door for her. Her second trimester was drawing to a close. Sometimes, she felt bigger than a whale, even though she knew the pregnancy journey was far from over. She buckled in as Scott walked to the other side and got in.

  “Little over an hour ago,” he answered. “I found your cab driver sitting here when I pulled in. Being the gentleman that I am, I, of course, happily sent him on his way.” He grinned and wriggled his eyebrows.

  Amy laughed. “Well, you’re better than the cab ride. I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got back.”

  “Eh, I thought I’d surprise you.” He winked. “Plus, I missed you.”

  “Aw.”

  “Aw,” he added in his goofy voice. They took off, driving through the quiet streets of the sleepy seaside town of Hope, North Carolina.

  It was beautiful here. Amy would love to move to North Carolina. She’d always loved the South. The idea had been mentioned to Scott more than once, and he was keen on it. There were a lot of painful memories for him, too, in Los Angeles. Besides, she could write and paint from anywhere, and he was working on getting transferred to the Charlotte branch of his employer. Plus, it would only be about a four-hour drive to Myrtle Beach, which she positively loved.

  They talked about the signing as they got on the interstate. “I’m getting better at it—public speaking, that is.” Amy leaned her head back and closed her eyes with a satisfied smile.

  “Oh yeah? No more feeling like you’re going to hurl all over anyone?”

  She playfully shoved him. “No. I mean, I still get a little nervous right before I go on. Somehow, waiting to speak is way worse than the actual act itself.”

  “So I’ve heard from a lot of people in showbiz.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “You seem happier.”

  “I am happy.” She clasped his hand. “Because I have you.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. She frowned. Why was his hand sweaty?

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said quickly. His voice rose slightly in pitch and came out breathy. “Why?”

  “Well, it’s just that your hands are clammy. And your forehead has a bit of sweat.”

  “Eh, it’s hot in here.” He turned on the AC. “Aren’t you hot?”

  She winced, shivering. “No, for once. I’m actually freezing.”

  “Oh shit. Sorry.” He turned the AC down again. “Sorry, babe.”

  “It’s okay.” She quirked a brow. “Everything all right?”

  He took a deep breath and stared out at the road. “I hope so.”

  Hope so? “Did something happen?” she pressed after a beat of silence.

  “No, no. Everything’s fine.” He smiled brightly, the smile that had lit up her life and brightened her days since she first met him. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

  Aha. “About?”

  He gulped. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise, okay?”

  It had been a half hour since they’d left the bookstore. Not many cars shared the interstate at this time of night. Scott exited onto a country road. Nothing but farms and green pastures spread out on either side of them. “Where are we going?” Amy looked around. “My hotel’s not for a few more exits.”

  “We’re not going to the hotel.”

  She blinked. “We’re not?”

  “Nope.” He grinned. “We’re going home.”

  Home?

  He put his blinker on, despite there not being any other cars for miles, and turned on to a little gravel driveway. It took her a moment to recognize the place they’d visited about a month before, when they’d used a bit of his quarterly bonus to go on a Southern vacation.

  The little Victorian farmhouse was quaint but roomy. At about two thousand square feet, it was a cute two-story, with white vinyl siding and sky-blue trim. A charming white picket fence outlined the property, about ten acres’ worth of farmland.

  It was a lot of land, with a lot of money attached to it, which Amy was initially against looking at. However, Scott convinced her otherwise when she learned she’d earned out her advance and then some, so she’d be receiving a hefty royalty check. Plus, Scott had just gotten a promotion. Having quickly advanced in his new company, and being completely free of debt and all criminal charges, he had managed to save a nice little sum himself.

  Scott pulled in front of the house and parked, killing the engine. “Ta-da,” he said, getting out.

  Amy followed suit. “What do you mean? What are we doing here?” Her eyes landed on the SOLD sign posted in front of the house. She quickly put two and two together. Her eyes widened, shooting to Scott. “You didn’t.”

  “What do you feel about spending the rest of our lives, or most of them, anyway, in this ‘dream home,’ as you called it?” He walked over to her, love in his eyes as he gazed down at her.

  Amy’s mouth dropped as she gasped. “You mean this is ours?”

  “I just closed earlier this week.”

  Amy looked from the house—her house—to her amazing boyfriend. She’d say, “Hell yes!” if it weren’t for one thing. “What about your job?”

  “They were actually looking to grow their Charlotte office. I interviewed and found out I got the job last month. I start at the end of the month.”

  “When our lease runs out on the apartment,” she breathed. They’d since graduated from the shitty little apartments they met in. Though it was a far cry from the ritziest places in town, the modest one-bedroom apartment they shared now was definitely a step up. They’d opted to keep it cheap and stay in an affordable neighborhood, in order to save up money to buy a house.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she laughed. “Oh my God, Scott.” She hugged him. “This is wonderful.”

  “There’s only one thing that would make it better.” He cupped her cheek and stared into her eyes with intense emotion. His voice turned quiet, raw. “Amy, I wasn’t living before I found you. I thought I was damned, and you stumbled into my life, like an angel come to lead the way. You stood by me when a lot of women would have run. I owe you everything.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he knelt and held out a small black box.

  Amy’s heart stopped as he opened it, revealing a sparkling ring. A pretty little round diamond was set in a silver band that looked as if it had been carved with vines. It was beautiful and simple, the type of vintage jewelry Amy so admired.

  “Julia Amy Gray, mother of my child, keeper of my heart, will you marry me?”

  She cried, smiling and laughing through her tears. “Yes. Oh, Scott, yes.”

  He swept her up in a hug, kissing her fiercely and twirling her around. At last, he set her down and placed the delicate band around her ring finger.

  Amy stared at it, unable to believe what had just happened. Aft
er going through the heartbreak of losing Michael the night before their wedding, she thought she’d never want to see another ring on that finger again.

  But now she couldn’t take her eyes off it, because it made her so happy. So intensely, stupidly happy.

  She thought her heart would burst from joy as they shared another passionate kiss.

  “Do you want to see our house, Future Mrs. Meyers?” Scott asked.

  Her lips stretched into another silly grin. “I indeed would, Mr. Meyers.”

  He ducked his head, and his lips brushed her ear. “Someday soon, I’m going to pick you up and carry you, my blushing bride, over the threshold and into our new lives.”

  “I can’t wait,” she whispered back. And she couldn’t.

  Hand in hand, they walked toward their future.

  Even though the shadows were thick around them in the quiet, dark countryside, she never once looked over her shoulder—because her eyes were only on Scott.

  THE END

  CALL FOR RATINGS AND REVIEWS

  Thank you for reading my book! If you have a moment, I’d really appreciate an honest rating and review. They help authors stand out in a busy marketplace, plus they give browsing readers the nitty-gritty on books they’re shopping. Everyone wins when you rate and review, so please do! Your opinion counts!

  NEW RELEASE NEWSLETTER

  Want to be notified when I have a new release?

  Then sign up for my new release newsletter!

  It’s free and I promise not to spam you.

  Visit www.lolataylorbooks.com for more information, or click here to sign up!

  OTHER BOOKS BY LOLA TAYLOR

  The Her Dark Desires Trilogy

  Carnal

  Sinful

  Soulful (coming soon)

  Blood Moon Rising

  Fever

  Protector

  Betrayal

  Captured

  Sacrifice

  Ritual (coming soon – final book!)

  Blood Moon Rising companion novels

  Lust

  Forever (coming soon!)

  Standalone novels

  Shatter