Edges of Gone
The Gone Series, book two
Jessica Gouin
- Caffeinated Veins Publishing -
Edges of Gone, The Gone Series, book two
Copyright © 2017 by Jessica Gouin
Published by Jessica Gouin
Caffeinated Veins Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1542841979
ISBN-10: 1542841976
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similar to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Ashley Michel/Am Creations
Author photo by: Juliana Simons
Editing by: Laura Garland/Wizards in Publishing
For Jacob. Never lose your silliness *hearts*
“Grief is the price we pay for love”
~ The day Queen Elizabeth II lost her best friend
**Full quote originally by Dr. Colin Murray Parkes, Bereavement: Studies of Grief in Adult Life.
ONE
Sloane
I wish it had rained on my wedding day.
A thunderous storm that sent guests scrambling for shelter from the cold winds.
Might be superstitious, but some people believe it’s good luck, symbolizing fertility, new beginnings, unity, and renewal. Some would even say it represents the last tears a bride will shed for the rest of her life. Washing away a once lonely life and starting fresh with the one person you chose, over everyone else, to be your partner.
I wish there had been a torrential downpour on my day. For the clouds floating above us to transform from their perfect cottony-white to a dreary steel gray, chasing the sun away.
I’m no expert on the subject of weddings, but I don’t think the average bride tends to hope for rain on her big day. It would be tragic for the bridezillas of the modern day fairy-tale world.
Life isn’t a fairy tale, though.
One may find herself in a predicament worse than frizzy hairstyles, running mascara, or bad photos.
Such as flames licking flesh.
Or a bullet to the abdomen.
A fire scarred my new husband, Owen, nearly claiming his life.
One single shot stole the life of my best friend, Sawyer.
It did rain that afternoon, except drops of water didn’t fall from the sky, but rather the ashes of what used to be my life.
The devil himself opened the Gates of Hell and unleashed evil into our corner of paradise, a corner we had worked so hard to find. A life that took years to build and minutes to obliterate.
If only there had been a thunderstorm, or even a slight drizzle two weeks ago, perhaps our luck would have been stronger that day. Then again, luck seldom has anything to do with fate. That’s what Sawyer’s life had always been about. Fate.
A predetermined course of events. Every year more dramatic, more despairing, than the last leading to today.
The day of her funeral as I stand in the middle of a nearly vacant cemetery in a black dress. The day the hospital released Owen after being a patient for two weeks.
The day Sawyer’s son, Noah, loses a piece of his childhood, of his innocence at the young age of five, as he buries his mother’s body six feet into the ground.
A gentle touch on my arm wakes me from my daze. “Are you ready, Sloane? Owen should probably go home to rest. It’s been a long day.”
Lachlan joins me by my side, utterly broken. He removes the sunglasses from his face, and the amount of torment lurking in his eyes almost brings me to my knees. I’d beg for the last two weeks to be a nightmare I can wake up from. I still catch myself doing normal things like taking a shower or driving somewhere, and, for the tiniest moment, I forget what happened. The moment ends before it really even begins and the reality pains me into submission.
Sawyer didn’t deserve this ending to her story. She had more life to discover, more love to give. If anyone deserved a future full of promise, she did. Within a few short years, she went from being an addict to a teenaged single mother, to a business partner with a great child and plans to return to school and better herself even further. She wanted to set proper examples for her son. Lachlan, the biological father of Noah, the love of Sawyer’s existence, literally just returned to her after being away for six years. She’d only had a taste of how perfect everything would have been.
If she’d never been murdered.
I sniffle, dabbing the corners of my eyes with a tissue. “I don’t know how to walk away. How can I turn my back, knowing, the second I do, she’ll be lowered into the ground forever? Cold and alone. She’s not supposed to be here, Lach.”
He exhales a long steady breath. “I don’t know how to leave her either. None of us are supposed to be standing here today.”
The wind whispers empty promises through the trees surrounding us. I glance around at the green grass, so vivid and bright it doesn’t seem real. Clusters of flowers distraught widows brought to their loved ones, rows upon rows of headstones reducing lives to a few words etched in granite. None of it seems real.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Owen wandering our way, holding onto Noah’s little hand. Owen should be in a wheelchair still, but he’d been determined to walk to his sister’s gravesite. His feet drag with each step his takes and when he nears us the dark circles under his eyes become apparent. He suffered more than the rest of us, physically, I mean. I guess even emotionally as well.
Both he and Noah wear black suits with white shirts, and gray ties. White birds dot Noah’s tie. They’re the same suits they wore two weeks ago, for a different occasion. When Sawyer purchased her son’s suit, she worried Noah would grow out of it before he got to wear it again. This irony slaps hard across my cheek.
The breeze pushes Owens hair away from his face, and he instantly lowers his head, shaking the strands back into place, hiding the white bandages on his neck and face from everyone.
I toss a single white rose onto the closed casket. “I hate this. I hate every second of this.”
Everything happened so quickly that day. Hours slipped away from me in a blur. One minute, I thanked my grandmother for traveling so far to witness me walk down the aisle, the next, I watched a burning building that held the people who matter most to me. Lachlan emerged through the front door first with Noah cradled in his arms, both coughing and painted with soot. Momentary relief washed through me when he told me Owen and Sawyer were right behind him.
Lachlan went with Noah to the hospital when I promised him it would be okay to leave. We would meet them there. The ambulance barely made it out of the parking lot when the building exploded—Owen and Sawyer still inside.
The explosion injured her, although that wasn’t what killed her.
Someone shot her. Murdered in cold blood with her son as the witness. The unidentified lunatic still hasn’t been brought to justice. My blood runs cold thinking about him lurking around our hometown still, preying on new victims. Or worse, he followed us here. He could be walking past our home every night and I wouldn’t even know because I have no freaking idea who the bastard is. Only Noah knows, but he’s silent. He hasn’t spoken one word, to anyone in days. N
ot even to Lachlan. The key to catching the murderer is locked inside a vault.
Owen’s doctors and specialists remarked on how he healed better than they expected. He has full use of his arm and neck movement with minimal facial scarring. No surgery or grafting required—a miracle really. Owen despises the burn scars on his upper bicep, neck, and face, whereas I’m thankful for them because they mean I still have a husband. Scars mean he’s alive. I think he views the marks as permanent reminders of what we all lost.
Lachlan waits for Owen and Noah to join us then takes his son’s other hand. “We can come back to visit whenever you want, son.” He kneels in front of Noah, meeting his gaze, which mirrors the pain in his boy’s eyes as he fights to hold back emotions. “But when we leave here today, she’ll still be with us. Wherever we go in this whole world, we’ll carry her right here.” Lachlan places his hand over Noah’s heart. “We don’t have to say good-bye to her. This isn’t a good-bye.”
Noah nods and, with one more minute for our friend, mother, sister, and love, the four of us turn to leave the cemetery.
The unanswered question loops in my mind, just as it has since my wedding night… Now what do we do?
TWO
Owen
I was too young to remember if my parents told me I was going to be a big brother. I don’t recall any announcements to family and friends or excitement over planning the coming of another Matthews. Hell, they didn’t even paint the nursery. I know this for a fact because Sawyer’s room remained the same pale yellow until Sloane hung pictures and artwork on the walls.
Sawyer and I weren’t blessed with normal parents, so I’m glad my childhood is mostly a blur.
The only thing I can remember in great detail is the baby crying.
Every night, it lasted for hours. I’d peek through a crack in the opened door to see a tiny baby wailing in the darkness.
A few months went by, and the ear-splitting screams remained relentless. My parents always seemed to be passed out, either from exhaustion or booze and drugs—I couldn’t tell my age, but, in hindsight, I would bet on the latter. The more I learned about Sawyer’s addiction to pain meds in high school, the more I wondered if my mom had continued to use drugs while pregnant, resulting in Sawyer’s addiction. Another Matthew’s trait passed down through generations like an heirloom; addiction.
One night, I woke to use the washroom, learning at a very young age that if I didn’t get up on my own, I’d have smelly, stained sheets I’d have to sleep in for weeks or even months. After I did my business, I passed the baby’s room. She still screamed. It did things to my stomach, twisted it all up and made me feel sick. So, I crept into her room and just stared at her. She thrashed about, small, pink, and helpless. My only thought was I needed to console her, so I climbed into the crib, found a soother wedged between the mattress and the bars, and placed it in her mouth. Then I just held her in my arms.
The crying stopped almost instantly, and she fell asleep. My sister only wanted comfort. She wanted to be cared for and loved. Some things never changed for her.
I slept in her crib for months, and my parents didn’t even notice. Or if they did, they never mentioned anything. That was okay because I liked taking care of my sister. Sawyer always had me in her corner, rooting for her to success.
It was my job right from the beginning to protect her, a role I took very seriously.
I excelled in going to bat for Sawyer. She never had a problem I couldn’t solve, and fuck did she ever have her share of problems through the years. Constantly getting into trouble, but it was no more. I bailed her out of everything.
I couldn’t solve this one for her. When it actually counted, when my protection mattered the most, I let her down.
I survived. She did not.
It’s all my fault.
That’s what I see when I look in this bathroom mirror. It’s the same mirror I’ve looked into thousands of times, but it’s the first time I’ve seen myself since my wedding day. I avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces the entire time while in the hospital. I wanted out of my newfound hell from the moment they rolled my stretcher into the ER, and I made sure to make everyone’s life as difficult as possible so they would release me. However, my plan backfired because the harder I pushed, the harder the nurses and doctors pushed back. A grueling chess match I continued to lose.
Eventually, the pain became too unbearable, and I stopped fighting the pain medication. The temporary sedation created a nice haze to get lost in. Once I realized what was happening, I told myself when I was released from the hospital that would be it for me, no more pain meds. I’ve witnessed what addiction does to people. It runs in my bloodstream. No way would I willingly play that game. I’d be damned if I ended up like my parents.
Now that I’m here in my own home with the bandages off, I closely inspect my burnt skin. I never used to care what I look like. I still don’t. Being disfigured doesn’t matter to me, but having these…marks on me forever makes me cringe. I’m branded with the memories of Sawyer in my arms, her stomach bleeding and her face smudged from the smoke. Then…her body being ripped away from me before I could save her.
We’d been so close to safety. She may have survived if we’d reached the exit before the explosion.
A noise behind me causes me to jump. My focus flickers to the left, and I notice Sloane’s reflection in the mirror. She’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that look on her face. The one screaming she’s about to say something but won’t actually come out and say anything at all. She hasn’t expressed one emotion for two weeks now.
We don’t talk about June eighteenth.
The dream wedding which cost thousands or the nightmare reception that took everything.
The shooter the police still haven’t identified.
The blaze that ripped through the building that was ruled arson.
The honeymoon we never took because I was admitted to the hospital with burns instead of boarding a plane.
The death of Sawyer which left our nephew a motherless child.
We don’t talk about any of these things. We gloss over it because once the floodgate opens, we all know there’s no stopping what comes out. You can’t shove toothpaste back into its tube once you’ve squeezed.
It physically pains me to see the loss and ache that’s taken over her face, so I lower my head.
Sloane walks inside the bathroom to stand beside me. “I got the prescription cream for you from the pharmacy. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll put some on for you.” She gently brushes my hair back to examine my wounds without the bandage on and I flinch. Not from the pain either.
I snatch the bag from her grasp. “I got it. Thanks.”
She sighs, purses her lips, and leaves the room. A shiver to runs down my spine, and the distance between us to grows.
This isn’t us or how we used to be. Sloane has always been the rainbow after every storm in my shitty world. I can’t contain or control the edge I have with her. I know she deserves a husband she can lean on, and I hate myself even more because I don’t know how to be that for her.
I toss the prescription on the counter and leave the bathroom to go after her, finding her in our bedroom. She unzips my duffel bag of clothes and toiletries she brought to the hospital and peeks up when I enter, but I don’t slow down until I have her face in my hands. I bring her mouth to mine before she has a chance to say anything that would stop this from happening. It’s been too fucking long and so much has slipped away in the past two weeks. I need to feel close to her again. I need to feel her, to be inside of her.
There’s been no one else since Sloane, and we started dating when she was still in high school. Everything about her is familiar to me. Every curve, every freckle, every secret—I know them all. As her mouth moves against mine, her arms stay limp by her sides. Her fingers don’t tangle in the hair on the nape of my neck the way that always drove me wild. The body I’ve memorized doesn’t press against m
e, begging for me to satisfy her needs.
I break away and when I look into her eyes, I don’t see the passion that should linger there. She seems scared. Of what, I don’t know. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” She leans in to kiss me again, but I pull back and search her eyes with mine.
“Something’s up. You aren’t even touching me, Sloane.”
She casts her gaze to the floor and lifts one shoulder slightly. “I just don’t want to hurt you. It’s your first day home, and it’s been a really long one. I know you’re probably tired. I just…”
My burned skin tingles, and it becomes crystal fucking clear why she’s acting like this. It’s not that she doesn’t want to touch me or because I’m too fatigued. It’s that she can’t touch me. She can barely bring herself to look at me.
I slowly back away from her toward the door. “I never thought what I looked like would matter so much to you. I’m sorry you find me repulsive now.”
“No, Owen. That’s not what I said. I only meant—”“
“Don’t bother. I know exactly what you meant.”
I return to the bathroom and slam the door shut, locking it. The prescription bag mocks me from my peripheral view, telling me I need to use the cream and make myself look like I used to. Before my life turned to shit two weeks ago.
My limbs tremble from the anger coursing through me, and, before I catch myself, I swipe the counter clear. Everything crashes to the floor, but it does nothing to numb this ache.
“Owen, what the hell are you doing in there? Open the door!”
Ignoring Sloane’s pleas, I grab the shelf over the toilet, sending it crashing to the floor as well. It breaks on impact, scattering junk everywhere. I turn to the mirror over the sink and put my fist through my reflection.
Edges of Gone (The Gone Series Book 2) Page 1