All the Broken Pieces: (Broken Series Book 3)

by Anna Paige

  “So, she was left behind when you graduated early and went to college?”

  “Yeah.” My voice cracked, betraying the emotion swelling in my chest. “I went home at holidays, saw her as much as possible, but I could hear it in her voice when we talked, see it in the way her smile never touched her eyes even when we were together. She was miserable in that town without me. We had always been there for each other, been apart from the crowd because we were different. Without me there, she withdrew into herself. I hated it, hated myself for leaving, hated her parents for holding her back. Hell, I even hated my own parents for insisting that I take the scholarship I was offered, knowing I would have to leave her behind.”

  Her thumb brushed mine as I got my shit together, tried to tamp down the feeling in my chest.

  “She committed suicide my junior year in college. I was nineteen. She was a month from turning eighteen.”

  Lauren’s gasp was barely audible, her hand tensing in mine. “Oh, Brant…”

  “It was Christmas Day. I was home on winter break and I’d been trying to see her for nearly a week, but her parents were being dicks, trying to keep us apart because they’d suddenly decided I was the reason she was so withdrawn. They said I was a college guy now, which meant I was probably partying and drinking, sleeping around on her… anything they could think of as an excuse to break us up. It took seven whole days of pleading before they would agree to at least let me bring her Christmas gift over. See, I planned to convince her to come stay with me as soon as she turned eighteen; she already had enough credits to graduate so she didn’t need to go back to school. I figured she could crash in my dorm room until we could get a place. I had it all worked out in my head, was so excited to finally be allowed to talk to her so we could plan our future…”

  The slow movement of Lauren’s thumb across my skin was the only motion. I didn’t even think my heart was beating as I said, “I found her. She was in the bathtub. I could hear the water trickling into the tub, that’s how I knew she was in there. It was red, the water… her wrists were cut. The hot water had been left on but it had long run out. The overflow drain kept her blood from spilling onto the floor. God, she was so pale, so cold,” I whispered. “I didn’t save her. I left her there and they sucked the life out of her until she gave up and ended it. All she wanted was for them to love her, accept her, try to fucking understand her even a little bit, but they never did. I knew they would ruin her and they did. But I’m the one who failed. I’m the one who could have helped her and didn’t. She was brilliant and beautiful and so much better than those bastards, and she died because of me.”

  Lauren moved to lie next to me, a small hiss escaping her as she moved. Her free hand went to my chest, rubbing the spot over my heart. “You can’t blame yourself for that, Brant. What happened was not your fault.”

  I just lay there in the darkness and fought to get the images out of my head.

  “You couldn’t have known that was going to happen.” Lauren tried again. “And you were kind and loving to her while she was here. You should be proud of that. You were the bright spot in her life.”

  “Yeah, and my love was so important that she just left it behind.” I was surprised at the anger in my voice. I’d never gotten angry at Zoey, in life or in death. Ever. But suddenly I was so angry I couldn’t breathe. “She chose to die instead of reaching out to me, instead of trusting that I would love her enough to make it better.”

  “You can’t look at it that way,” Lauren pleaded, bringing her hand up to cup my jaw. I knew she was trying to see my face and once again I was grateful for the darkness. “What she did… that doesn’t mean your love wasn’t enough or that she didn’t love you enough.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I forced a swallow. “It’s been a long day and we’re both tired. Let’s just go to sleep okay?”

  Silence.

  “Lauren?”

  “Is she the reason you’re helping me? Are you trying to save me because you couldn’t save her?” She sounded wounded, wary.

  “No.” I answered immediately. “You and I were friends before I knew about what you’d gone through with Isaac. I liked you, I befriended you, and yes, now that I care about you, I will keep you safe. But it had nothing to do with Zoey.”

  “But you’ve been helping me from the start. From the day Teach died, you’ve been there.”

  “Yes. Because of you not because of her. I was drawn to you from the beginning. I wanted to know you, to spend time with you, to laugh with you and joke with you and be your friend. I wanted all of those things—I still want all of those things because I care about you,not because I’m trying to assuage a guilty conscience over her.”

  “But you loved her. You still love her. I can hear it in your voice when you say her name. How can she not be a factor?”

  “Because she’s gone. She’s my past and you’re…” My future.

  “I’m what?”

  Don’t.

  Don’t tell her now.

  Not like this.

  “You’re my best friend.”

  It was hard to ignore her sigh of relief.

  And it was even harder to pretend it didn’t hurt.

  She snuggled in closer as I steeled myself against the surge of disappointment, trying desperately not to let it get to me. I knew it would take time with her, knew she had walls still in place. I couldn’t expect to circumvent a lifetime’s worth of hurt in a few short months.

  Baby steps.

  Her breath skittered across my bare chest as she exhaled on a long sigh. “You know, I think I understand you better now. I think I understand Zoey a little, too, as one outsider to another.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded against her silky hair. “I suppose you do. It’s hard spending a lifetime feeling like you’re on the outside looking in.”

  “I probably handled the otherness better when I was invisible, you know? When people looked right through me or walked past without so much as a glance in my direction. Obscurity was my happy place. If you’re never seen, you can never be targeted.” She trailed her fingers over my abdomen, idly swirling up and down my ribcage as she spoke. “I didn’t mind being invisible. What I minded was being actively treated like an outcast.”

  “Actively how?” My brow furrowed as I spoke, not liking one bit how her voice sounded.

  “It’s hard to describe, really. It was the way other girls reacted to me, like I gave off a vibe or scent that labeled me as broken, victimized, less-than.” She sat up suddenly, propping on her elbow and searching out my face in the near-black room. “Have you ever watched those nature shows on TV? You know, the ones that show how a herd of animals will cast out members they see as weak, leave them to the circling predators? Well, that’s how I felt. It was like other people knew just by looking at me that I was the weak, damaged member of the herd so they cast me out. The few friends I had over the years were from the various foster homes or group homes I lived in, kids like me who had been cast aside to be devoured. We’d get close and then one of us would get transferred to a new home or they would age out of the system, leaving me behind and all alone.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that, so I put my arm around her and pulled her back down to lie on my chest, rubbing her back lightly as she settled in beside me.

  “One of my foster sisters used to say being abused was like being stung by a wasp. It left a scent on you and other wasps used it as a way to seek you out, a trigger to make them sting. Sometimes the wasps were just assholes bent on making you feel inferior but other times they were abusers themselves, drawn to you by some invisible marker that told them you were vulnerable. She was taken out of a home like mine. And then she was raped by her foster father a year later. I guess he figured she hadn’t been the one to tell on her original abuser so he was safe to do whatever he wanted with her. A kid that can be intimidated into silence is a predator’s dream.” She cleared her throat thickly, wrapping her arm a little tighter around my mi
dsection. “She ended up doing what Zoey did. I didn’t even find out about it until months later. Apparently case workers try to keep that stuff hush-hush, but a girl I knew from one of the group homes ended up in the foster home I was in, and she told me.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, any of it, and I’m so sorry you lost your friend.”

  She sniffed and burrowed her head into my neck. “I’m sorry you lost the girl you loved.”

  I held her close and spoke no more, thinking instead of how I refused to lose her too.

  •••

  Over the next few days, Lauren and I explored the house. Nights were spent watching movies in the enormous theater room—complete with concession stand and plush seating that put even the nicest theater I’d ever seen to shame. At Lauren’s request, we spent Halloween watching a Nightmare on Elm Street marathon and laughing our asses off that the films had ever scared us when we were younger. We also consumed an obscene amount of candy that Kade had thoughtfully had delivered for the occasion.

  Most days, we either read or watched television— never both at once in deference to Teach’s way of thinking —or shot pool and played air hockey in the game room where she invariably kicked my ass.

  I may have let her have the edge a few times but that wasn’t relevant.

  The only thing that mattered was the look of joy on her face each time she declared victory, several times accompanied by an adorable little dance meant to taunt—that usually aroused me instead.

  Not that I wasn’t in a state of perpetual arousal anyway, but the shimmy of her hips during her victory dance was a sight to behold.

  By the end of the first week, all traces of redness were gone from Lauren’s skin, which meant it was okay to hold her again.

  And hold her I did.

  We shared Kade’s room, and his bed, every night. Nothing sexual went on between us, just lots of quiet talking in the dark and waking up to the feel of her lying across my chest. Most nights she did the talking, telling stories about Teach, the things they did together and her favorite memories.

  She didn’t talk of Isaac, not once. Anytime Spencer called me with an update—which generally amounted to a whole lot of nothing—she would suddenly find a reason to leave the room. I didn’t push, didn’t tell her what she already knew.

  The man was a fucking ghost.

  No work history—drug dealers don’t generally report their earnings to Uncle Sam.

  No credit cards or bank accounts to flag and follow.

  No current address.

  No sign of the car he’d been in.

  He was just gone.

  But I knew that gone didn’t mean gone. He was out there, poised like a snake, waiting for Lauren to come out of hiding.

  And she knew it, too.

  So, no, I didn’t push. Not when I’d seen her smile more in the last week than I had in the entire time I’d known her. It had been fleeting, tentative the first few times but she’d eventually relaxed enough to let me see what I’d been waiting for. That beaming, playful, amazing smile that she flashed only for me.

  The more I saw it, the deeper I fell.

  We were finishing up another movie night, a comedy this time, getting ready to turn in when Lauren stopped in the long upstairs hallway and pursed her lips, looking around. “You know what this place needs?”

  I glanced around and gave her a serious look. “Dancing cages? Because that’s probably the only thing on earth it doesn’t already have.”

  She chuckled, slapping my shoulder lightly. “No, silly. Pictures. Personal mementos. And no, the framed platinum records do not count.” She gestured to the walls lining the hallway. “There aren’t even pictures of Kade with the band or just him and Kane. It’s a gorgeous house but it doesn’t have that homey feel that Teach’s had.”

  I nodded, considering. “So, you want me to have him add some green shag carpet and wood paneling?” My laughter trickled out despite my best efforts. She laughed too but pinched my bicep in retaliation. “Ow…” I held up a hand in surrender, rubbing my bicep with the other, though she didn’t actually hurt me. “Okay, okay. I was joking. And I agree the place could use more personal touches.” I glanced at the ceiling, wiggling my brows as I recalled Kane’s reference to the stash in the attic. “We could dig out the porn collection. That personal enough?”

  She groaned in frustration, looking at me from beneath her lashes with narrowed eyes. “You’re impossible.” She harrumphed and spun on one heel, slipping into the bedroom and calling out, “And just for that, I’m going to use all the hot water so you have to take a cold shower tonight.”

  “I could always do the ecological thing and hop in with you. Water conservation is everyone’s responsibility, you know.” I raised my voice so she could hear as she slammed the door.

  “Not today, porn boy.”

  Our banter had become my favorite way to pass time. Sometimes I even won a round of the ongoing verbal sparring match. Usually, I just ended up saying something awkward and basically handing her the victory. I was fine with that too, though. She liked thinking she embarrassed me, found it hilarious that someone who spent the majority of his time on construction sites blushed so easily.

  It was a curse.

  Giving a little thought to what she’d said about the house needing personal touches, I looked around the bedroom and realized that she still hadn’t unpacked the framed picture of Teach. Deciding to do something helpful, I stepped into the expansive closet and located the messenger bag to retrieve it. It would look nice on the table beside the bed or maybe on one of the bookcases in the media room. I’d let her decide.

  I unclipped the buckles and threw back the flap, spreading the inner compartment open to find the frame, making a soft aha sound when I spotted it. It would have been hard not to, there were only two things in the bag that I could see. The frame and a worn file folder.

  I grabbed the corner of the frame and lifted it out as carefully as I could, but the hanging tab on the back snagged the edge of the folder and I ended up with both. I disentangled the frame and was checking to see if it damaged the folder when the name on it caught my attention.

  Lauren Marie Caldwell, intake – age 11.

  There were several color-coded stickers near the name along with a larger one across the front of the folder that forbade its removal, declaring it confidential under penalty of law.

  I wanted to tuck it back into the bag and forget I’d seen it, because I knew damn well what it was.

  And I knew reading it was an invasion of her privacy.

  More than that, I knew that whatever was inside haunted her, chained her enough that she still carried it around with her like a fucking leg-iron.

  “Go ahead.”

  Lauren’s voice startled the shit out of me and I lost my balance, crouched there in the closet one minute, painfully landing on my knees the next.

  The frame and folder still in my hands.

  I turned to her, my face on fire at the idea of what she must have thought seeing me there with that folder. “I didn’t… I mean… I was getting Teach’s picture… trying to help make it homey for you.” I sputtered so much I sounded like I was having a goddamn seizure. “I didn’t read… didn’t open anything… I’m sorry.”

  She nodded slowly. “I know, Brant.” She stepped into the closet and grabbed her forgotten robe off of one of the hangers. “It’s okay. I believe you. And I don’t care if you want to read it—though you may want to skip the pictures.” Her gaze landed on it and she tensed. “Yeah, definitely skip those, but I don’t care what else you see. If you haven’t been scared off by the shit you already know, I doubt the contents of that folder are going to send you running for the hills.” She leaned down and kissed my forehead, walking out of the room and leaving me staring after her in a daze.

  I eyed the folder warily, thumbing the cover but not letting it fall open just yet.

  Something told me that it wasn’t a gift I’d been given but h
er trust in me most certainly was.

  Setting the photo frame aside, I sat cross-legged on the closet floor and cracked open the pages of Lauren’s story.

  The file had once belonged to her psychiatrist, state appointed and specializing in child abuse cases. The first segment was an overview of Lauren’s case, how she came into the state’s custody, her background, the criminal charges filed against her abuser. All of it was there, in addition to an envelope that held photographic documentation from her treatment at the hospital.

  I skipped the photos, as she suggested. I didn’t think I would ever recover from a thing like that, anyway, and instead looked to the attached paperwork. I sat there reading in soul-crushing detail how the hospital had tended her numerous, horrific injuries and how they ended up taking her tiny, eleven-year-old uterus. I learned how the department of child welfare kicked her around from one foster home to another, with several group homes in between, while denying Teach’s petition for custody.

  Toward the end of the file, the counselor made note that Lauren—who was sixteen by that time—was filing to become an emancipated minor but could be denied because of her refusal to participate in her therapy appointments. There was an underlined note that said Lauren was offered a ‘deal’ but no specifics were outlined.

  It was the last entry from the counselor.

  The next several pages were stapled together and handwritten.