The Lifetime of A Second

by Jennifer Millikin

  The Lifetime of A Second

  The Time Series Book Three

  Jennifer Millikin

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Millikin

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  JNM, LLC

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9967845-9-7

  www.jennifermillikinwrites.com

  Contents

  1. Brynn

  2. Connor

  3. Brynn

  4. Connor

  5. Brynn

  6. Connor

  7. Brynn

  8. Connor

  9. Brynn

  10. Connor

  11. Brynn

  12. Connor

  13. Brynn

  14. Connor

  15. Brynn

  16. Connor

  17. Brynn

  18. Connor

  19. Brynn

  20. Connor

  21. Brynn

  22. Brynn

  23. Connor

  24. Brynn

  25. Connor

  26. Brynn

  27. Connor

  28. Walt

  29. Brynn

  30. Brynn

  Epilogue

  Also by Jennifer Millikin

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Brynn

  I blinked, and they disappeared.

  The Saguaros, I mean.

  The tall, multi-limbed cactus only grow in the Sonoran Desert. I only grew in the Sonoran Desert, too, until it became clear Phoenix could no longer be my home. All I had to do was climb into a car and point it north. Such a simple ending following a catastrophic journey.

  Me and the Saguaros. We’ve disappeared.

  The vehicle I’m in does a terrible job absorbing the black tar road. The road noise rushes in, whirling around us. It doesn’t even matter. The air is already thick with awkward silence. What does a little road noise hurt?

  Through a wide-open swath of nothingness we drive on, and the car climbs higher. A small sigh escapes my lips at the first pine tree. In less than a mile we lose the tall, scrubby bushes and there are only pine trees, some clustering together and others spaced far apart. I feel somber at the sight of some that are barren and blackened by previous fire. It seems unfair they’re left standing, bearing the marks of how they were ravaged for all to see.

  At least my marks hide on the inside.

  My shoulder bumps the hard plastic door as the driver changes lanes and speeds up to pass a semi-truck. He sends the massive truck a couple beeps from his horn as we go by, grumbling under his breath about the left lane versus the right.

  I should’ve known someone who spells his name Geoff would be a bad driver. The moment I saw his name I wanted to call him Gee-off but resisted the urge. Leaning forward, I open my mouth and say the first words spoken to one another in two and a half hours. “It should only be twenty more minutes.” Looking down, I check the map on my phone again.

  I look up, catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and immediately avert my eyes.

  “I’ve never been asked to drive this far before,” he says, his tone curious.

  He’s fishing for information, but he’s going to come up empty. The phrase ‘Life or death’ used to be said by my dad when I complained and he wanted me to see how inconsequential my complaint was. But this is not like that.

  This is actually a matter of life or death.

  And to make this all work, I have to trust a stranger who drives too fast and wants to know why he’s taking me to a small town in the woods.

  If he recognizes me, I’m screwed.

  I pull the ball cap lower onto my forehead. Without thinking I reach for my hair, held back in a ponytail. My fingers keep reaching, curling against the cloth interior of the seat instead of my hair. I’ve done that so many times since I chopped off my long, blonde strands two days ago. I wonder when that will end? The hair is gone.

  Another sacrifice. Or, perhaps, a penance. If giving up my hair could atone for what I’ve done, I’d be bald in a heartbeat. Nothing can change what happened, the judicial system decided I wasn’t guilty, but in my heart?

  Guilty.

  Guilty.

  Guilty.

  We’re almost there. “Number forty-seven,” I tell the driver. He crawls down the street at the same time I’m filled with an overwhelming urge to arrive. So now you go slow?

  My nails dig into my palms as I will myself to calm down. To distract me, I study the homes we pass. They are small, squat, and each one has a chimney. The front yards are tidy; some of them have flowers rising from terra-cotta pots. I lean in, focusing on the house on the corner. The tip of my nose pokes the window. The house is nondescript, no flowers or bushes in sight, and the door is black. Shiny, midnight black.

  That door screams its message loud and clear—Stay away. I want that door. Too bad my rental agreement won’t allow me to paint. Or install an alarm system.

  “Here you are,” Geoff says, slowing to a stop.

  I undo my seatbelt and hop out. By the time he makes his way to the rear of the car, I’ve pulled out my two bags and placed them on the ground. This is the first time I’ve seen him standing. He didn’t get out when he arrived to pick me up from the gas station. Geoff’s left leg is missing, and in its place is a metal rod. Now I feel like an ass for disliking his name.

  “Accident when I was a kid,” he explains, pointing down. He shrugs. “Sometimes I forget it even happened.”

  I nod because I don’t know what to say, and I still feel awful. I was a terrible companion for that long car ride, but that’s the thing about disappearing. It comes with stipulations. Starting with: Don’t be memorable. I can’t tell a funny story, or have a meaningful conversation. I can’t be a vibrant color in someone’s memory. No magenta, or teal. I am beige. Endless, insignificant beige.

  I used to be lemon yellow. Happy, outgoing, ebullient.

  One second of time turned me into a neutral shade, and it will be my color forever. I’ve come to accept that. It’s one of the reasons I decided to run. Well, that and the other thing. The thing that will always have me looking over my shoulder.

  “Good luck, Ms.—”

  “Brynn,” I say quickly, not wanting Geoff to say my last name again, in case one more passage of it through his lips prompts it to stay in his mind longer than necessary.

  Already I regret not using a fake name. My middle name seemed like enough of a deviation, but I’m not so sure now. Last week this was all just an idea in my head. I received his most recent hate mail, and after I placed it alongside his other letters, thought I should skip town. From that one tiny thought came big choices. I began searching for places to rent in northern Arizona, and when I found a place ready for immediate move-in, I snapped it up. Ginger, the owner of the eleven hundred square foot cabin, was chasing her dream of backpacking through Europe, and would be gone for six months.

  Perfect, I told her. What I didn’t tell her was that I’ll be long gone by the time she comes home. Three months of wages is all I need. Just enough to pad what my parents will give me when their season is finished. I arranged a property manager for my place, packed my bags, gathered all my important documents, and Elizabeth Brynn Montgomery dropped the Elizabeth. I did not pass Go, I did not collect two hundred dollars.

  I ordered a car and had it pick me up two blocks from my condo. Now that car is driving away, and I’m here in Brighton—a town dwarfed by sprawling, sunny Phoenix—standing on the sidewalk, and staring at the small home in front of m
e. The yard is neat, the grass a deep green and trimmed. Three stairs connect the front walkway to the porch, and each step is buffered by a small pot of geraniums. On either side of the front door hang two rustic lights that resemble lanterns.

  “Here we go,” I mutter, and bump bump bump my rolling suitcase along the cracks in the short driveway. Ginger said the house key would be under a pot of flowers. I lift one after the other, and on my fourth try I find one gold key on a silver key ring.

  The inside of the home looks much like the outside. Tidy, modest, and sparsely decorated. Ginger must have a thing for apples. The curtains are blue and white gingham with red apples lining the bottom and top. A large, framed picture of apples hangs on the wall in the living room. Fake apples are piled in a basket on top of the fridge.

  It takes only a few minutes to walk through the place. In the hallway I find a locked closet and assume that’s where Ginger has stored her personal items. There are no photographs in the place, no books, or anything that tells me even a morsel about Ginger as a person. They all must be in that closet, and it strikes me as sad that these things can mean enough to take up space in our homes but can so easily be locked away.

  Is that the way it is for everything? Are things only as important as we make them?

  The thought depresses me, but the feeling isn’t new.

  I won’t take those pills the therapist gave me. At the request of my parents, I went to see someone. She kept calling what happened the accident, but I argued it wasn’t an accident. The therapist said she understood that, but for my sake, they would call it an accident because, from my standpoint, it was one.

  I rub my eyes, an attempt at banishing the thoughts. Thinking them won’t help anything. What’s done is done. It can never be undone.

  Instead, I search the place. Open every cabinet, sift through every drawer, until I’m certain I know every inch. After that, I dump my suitcase on the bed and put everything in its proper place. The master bedroom is large, Ginger said, because she’d knocked out the wall between the two bedrooms.

  “When you’re single, one large is better than two small,” she’d explained, then asked me if I was single.

  “Yes,” I answered her quickly. “And I plan to keep it that way.”

  Besides, nobody will want me now.

  Not after what I’ve done.

  I don’t remember falling asleep. Or what woke me up.

  Rolling over, I place a hand over my eyes and take a deep breath. I know what I’ll see when I open my eyes, but I’m not ready to see it. The unfamiliar walls, the furniture that isn’t mine.

  Tap tap tap tap tap.

  I sit up, my heart banging in my chest. Instinctively, I know it’s not him. He wouldn’t knock. Standing, I glance in the mirror above the dresser and swipe my fingers under my eyes. The mascara streaks don’t budge. Another knock drifts to me, this one soft and out of cadence. Turning away from my reflection, I hurry to the door and peer through the peephole.

  A woman.

  My lips twist, thoughts rushing through my head. Meeting people is unavoidable, but so soon? I planned to hide out as long as possible, living off the protein bars I brought with me, until I felt ready to venture out. Grocery shopping and finding a job have to happen soon, but I wanted a couple days to hole up and absorb what I’ve left behind.

  I gulp in a breath of air and open the door.

  The young woman smiles and lifts a hand, waving. “Hi. I’m Cassidy Anders. I live next door.” Her thumb points to my left. “This is Brooklyn,” she adds, looking down.

  A child. I hadn’t noticed a child. She stands only three feet tall, her head barely reaching her mother’s mid-thigh. Gripping the door handle, I try not to slam the door closed. I want to be away from these people. My therapist taught me what to do in these situations, when panic grips me, and I feel like my world has tilted off its axis. Breathe in one, two, three, four and out one, two, three, four.

  “Are you okay?” Cassidy asks, eyes squinting with concern.

  “Yes,” I bark, wincing at the harshness in my voice.

  Brooklyn hides behind her mother’s leg, and shame fills me. Like the depressed feeling from earlier, shame is not new to me either.

  “Yeah, okay. Well, I, uh…” Cassidy holds out a silver tin with a clear plastic lid.

  I don’t want what she’s offering, but my hands reach for it anyway—a reflexive response. Looking down at what is in my hands, I assess it, then glance back up to the woman. She is young, very young, maybe my age. Smile lines frame her eyes, lines that I don’t have. A swipe of flour dusts her forearm.

  “You made me a pie?” The astonishment in my voice is embarrassing. Baking a pie is not a new concept, but someone being kind to me? That hasn’t happened in a while.

  Innocent until proven guilty are words we use to remind us not to judge too quickly. But let’s be honest. It’s really guilty until proven innocent, and even then, the guilt leaves behind traces. Like smudges of ash following a fire, or particulates floating in the atmosphere after an explosion. The slate is never fully wiped clean.

  “You’re our new neighbor, right?” Cassidy offers a friendly smile, but I can’t seem to reciprocate.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And your name is?” She cocks her head to the side, her eyes tentative. Her smile falters. Maybe she has that sixth sense mothers develop. My own mother claimed to have one.

  “Brynn,” I answer finally, balancing the pie in the crook of my left arm and offering her my right hand.

  She seems relieved by this customary display of normalcy. We had a rocky start, but perhaps I’ve passed her test after all.

  “Mommy, can I go play now?” Brooklyn’s little voice floats up from her hiding spot behind Cassidy. Her head is stuck out and she looks up at her mother, eyes big and wide, waiting.

  “Sure, sweetie, but not for too long. Taylor will be here soon.”

  Brooklyn yells with excitement and jumps down each stair, landing on them with two feet and a solid thud. When she hits the grass, she bolts for her own front yard.

  Cassidy turns back to me. “She loves her babysitter. I, on the other hand, do not like needing a babysitter.”

  “Oh,” I say. I could make conversation. Ask Cassidy why she needs the babysitter. Ask her about Brooklyn. How old is she? Is she in school? What’s her favorite color? Hell, I could even ask Cassidy what filling is in the flipping pie.

  But, no.

  I’m not in Brighton to make friends.

  I’m here to blend in, make money, and run.

  2

  Connor

  My biggest worry in life is that I’m washed up before I ever made something of myself.

  It has been months since I’ve sold a painting.

  It has also been months since I’ve painted anything new. I haven’t been inspired, for one, and I’ve been busy. Too busy to pursue my passion. The blank canvas in my living room taunts me every day. I leave it there, leaning on its wooden easel, for a reason. I need something to remind me I can’t give up on my dream, even while I’m keeping someone else’s alive.

  It’s a lot to ask of a person. Keeping enough faith for one dream is difficult. Two? Tall order.

  It’s early in the morning. The birds have only just begun to sing. Back when all I did was paint, I’d stay up all night—that’s usually when inspiration struck. Now I’m in bed by ten, alarm set for six.

  My dad was diagnosed last year. It started with some tremors. He didn’t tell anyone about those, but my mom noticed. She called me crying, and said it was hard for my dad to turn a screwdriver. I wrote it off as age-related arthritis. I think he did, too, because that’s what we wanted it to be.

  Then he fell from the ladder while he was on a job. He’d only been on the second step, thank God. He was supposed to be changing a lightbulb in a ceiling fan for Old Lady Linton, and lost his balance. He got off easy with a bruised hip, but it was only the beginning. Eventually came the diagnosis of Parkinson�
�s Disease. After that, we had to tell him he couldn’t work. Hands down, I’d take a double root canal over having to do that again. Telling my dad he could no longer run his business was the spoken equivalent of delivering a punch to his gut.

  The only person who could run Vale Handyman Services? Me. The artist. Who knew next to nothing about fixing things, despite having grown up around tools. I’d never shown an interest in the business, and Dad didn’t push me. To get up to speed, I read books. Home Repair for Dummies and things like that. The first few homes I visited, I sent pictures of the repair to my dad. He’d study the photos, then call me and walk me through it.

  I still have to call him from time to time, but mostly I’m good on my own. I expanded the business to include interior painting. Might as well do painting of some kind. I feel better with a brush in my hand, even if I’m not creating art.

  Every Monday morning I hop into my truck and head to my parents’ house. This Monday morning is no different. My mom prints out my schedule for the week and I look it over, adding the tools I think I’ll need from Dad’s workshop if they’re not already on my truck.

  She sends me off with a thermos of coffee. Dad nods, then thanks me. I hate when he does that. I don’t want him to thank me. I don’t want him to have something for which to thank me. I want my dad back. The way he was before the neurons in his brain started wreaking havoc. I didn’t know how much I liked watching him walk up the driveway with his toolbox until it became an image I’d never see again.