One of the paramedics knelt beside Sara, put his hand to her back. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
She managed to nod her head. Shock. She must be in shock.
The other paramedic asked, “Can you breathe? Do you need some oxygen?”
She had to clear her throat before she could tell him, “No.” Obviously he did not believe her. He tried to put a mask over her mouth but she pushed him away.
Jeffrey looked worried. “Maybe you should—”
“I’m okay,” she told them all, feeling foolish having so many people fuss over her. She pulled on Jeffrey’s shirt, trying to stand. He practically lifted her off the ground, his arm around her waist. She put her hand over his to keep it there.
She told him, “I want to go back to the room.” He didn’t ask questions. He led her through the crowd, using his hand to push people aside and make a path. They were all staring, and Sara looked down at the ground, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, holding Jeffrey as closely as she could.
“Hold on, Chief.” It was Jake Valentine.
“Not now,” Jeffrey told him.
He took off his ball cap. “If you could just—”
“Not now,” Jeffrey repeated, tightening his grip around Sara’s waist. The lights from the snack machines were flickering as they walked by, the compressors buzzing like a hive. Sara hadn’t closed the door properly when they’d left the room and Jeffrey slowly pushed it open with one hand. She could feel his body tense as he looked around, made sure no one was inside.
He tried not to make a big show of it, but he kept Sara behind him as he checked out the small room that held the toilet and the tub. Once he was certain they were alone, he turned on the faucet and took a rag off the towel rack.
“I want to know why he ran,” Jeffrey said, wetting the cloth, his mind still on the man in the building.
Sara pushed herself up onto the countertop, feet dangling above the floor. Her senses were coming back. She could smell an acidic mix of smoke and sweat coming off Jeffrey’s body. His shirt was wet with perspiration and soot.
He said, “I couldn’t get a good look at him. Smoke was everywhere.”
“Can you breathe okay?” she asked, the doctor part of her brain whirring to life. “Does your chest or throat hurt?”
He shook his head. “Come here.” Carefully, he washed her face with the rag, saying, “There’s a stream that runs behind the building, some kind of shack beside it. The guy tripped down the bank and fell into the water. I thought I’d catch him then, but he just disappeared.” Jeffrey picked something out of Sara’s hair and threw it into the trashcan. “I couldn’t tell if he dropped what he was carrying. Whatever he had, he thought it was worth running into a burning building for.” He rinsed out the rag. She could see that it was spotted with dirt and wondered what her face looked like. He finished, “Then the building blew, and I saw you go down.”
She felt something cool on her cheeks and realized that she was crying.
“Hey, now,” Jeffrey said, wiping her tears. “You’re okay.”
Emotions came rushing in. Sara didn’t give a damn about herself. “I just…you went into that building, and then the next thing I saw…I thought you were…”
He gave her a curious smile, as if she was overreacting. “Come on, babe. I’m fine.”
She touched his face, tried to keep her hands from shaking. Sara knew that Jeffrey was attracted to her toughness, her independence. She couldn’t be that person right now, couldn’t let him think for a moment that she could survive without him. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”
“Come on.” He tried to make a joke of it. “You’d have a line of guys waiting to take my place.”
Sara shook her head, unable to play along. “Don’t say that.”
“Maybe Nick Shelton would finally get his shot. Y’all could get matching necklaces.”
She kissed him, feeling grit on his lips. Sara didn’t care. She opened her mouth to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips, pulling him as close as possible. She wanted to feel every part of his body, to know that he still belonged to her. Something frantic took hold, and she tore the neck of his shirt trying to take it off.
“Hey—” He pulled back, that same curious smile on his face. “We’re okay, all right? We’re fine.”
We, he had said, but that had never been her concern. She could see right through him—that his smile didn’t really reach his eyes, that he was talking too fast, that he was worried about something—too worried to tell her about it. She touched the tips of her fingers to his lips, let them travel down his neck, his chest. When she scratched her fingernails down the front of his jeans, he finally stopped smiling.
“Don’t ever leave me,” she told him, unbuttoning his jeans, opening the fly. It sounded like a threat, but she was speaking out of sheer terror at the thought of her life without him. “Don’t ever leave.”
He was ready even before she wrapped her hand around him. His tongue went deep into her mouth as he kissed her, long, firm strokes that matched her own. Sara kissed back harder, used both hands to tease him until he jerked down her pants and spread her legs apart. She slid to the edge of the counter, putting her full weight onto him as he pushed inside of her. Again he tried to slow her down, but she gripped the counter with one hand and thrust against him, quickening his pace.
“Fuck…” he breathed, slamming her back against the mirror, kissing and biting her neck. She felt his teeth graze her breast, his hands gripping her ass as he pushed harder, deeper. Sara dug her fingernails into his back, knowing how close he was, wanting nothing more than for him to let go.
“You feel so good,” she whispered putting her lips to his ear, letting him feel her breath. “So good…” She kept talking, coaxing him along with the words she knew would push him over the edge.
He gasped, the muscles along his back tensing like wire. Sara squeezed her eyes closed, focusing everything on the warm flowering at her center as his body shook with release. He slowed his pace and this time she let him, relishing each stroke, wishing she could hold him in forever.
He shuddered again as he finished, falling against her, his hands gripping the counter as if he needed help standing. She traced her fingernails lightly up and down his back. His skin was hot and sticky but still she wanted to feel every part of it. Sara kissed his shoulder, his neck, his face.
“Jesus,” he panted. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…” He shook his head. “Jesus.”
Sara put her mouth to his, gave him a soft kiss. She could count on one hand the number of times Jeffrey had let himself finish before she did. She could also honestly say she had never felt closer to him in her life.
He was smiling again, that half-smile that could infuriate her and make her love him at the same time. “I bet you Nick couldn’t do that.”
She leaned her head back against the mirror, still not ready to make a game of this.
“You know what they say about short guys overcompensating.”
She looked at him, saw that he needed her to play along. “Give me a little credit,” she relented. “I think I can do better than Nick.”
He smoothed back her hair. “Do you know that I have loved you pretty much since the first time I laid eyes on you?”
She laughed. “You had a hot date lined up the very same night.”
“I did not.”
She poked him in the ribs. “You had to call her to tell her you’d be late.”
He brushed his lips across hers. “I love you, Sara.”
She felt her throat tighten. She gave him her usual answer, her joking answer that had driven him crazy the first year they were together because she would never say the words back to him. “I know.”
“You know what else?” he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You are a dirty, dirty girl.” Sara felt herself blush crimson and he laughed out loud. “That, too, but I meant literally. Loo
k in the mirror.”
She turned and checked her reflection. He’d managed to wipe off most of the dirt from her face but she still looked as if she’d been hit by a truck.
He said, “I have to be honest. I don’t like what you’ve done with your hair.”
She turned back around. “You’re not exactly the prize pig at the fair.”
“Then why don’t we finish this in the shower?” He glanced down, ran his hands up her thighs. “Or did you want to give me a chance to redeem myself right now?”
“You think you remember how?”
They both jumped as a loud banging shook the door.
Sara slid off the counter, pulling up her sweatpants and closing her shirt in one swift motion. Her heart was pounding like she was eighteen years old again, caught in the back of a Buick with a boy instead of an old married woman who had every right to be in a cheap motel with her husband.
There was more pounding on the door, almost like a hammer. Light streamed in at the top where the flimsy plywood bent from the impact. The plate glass window overlooking the parking lot made an ominous creaking sound.
Sara buttoned her shirt as Jeffrey tucked himself back into his jeans. “If that’s Jake Valentine,” he began, but didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The window shattered, glass flying into the room, curtains billowing as a large object smashed onto the plastic table, then fell to the floor.
Jeffrey had dropped to his knees, his arms covering his head. “What the—”
Wheels screeched on asphalt outside.
Sara’s mouth opened in surprise. The object was a man. Someone had just thrown a man through their window.
Instinctively, she ran toward him but Jeffrey caught her hand, yanking her to the ground.
“Go into the bathroom,” he ordered, reaching under the mattress and pulling out his gun. “Now.”
Sara ran in a crouch as Jeffrey moved toward the door. He put his hand on the knob, tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
He pressed his back to the door, then the wall, making his way to the window. Quickly, he looked out the window, scanning the parking lot, then kneeling back down under the ledge. He did this twice, and Sara held her breath each time, waiting for his head to be blown off.
Jeffrey glanced back at Sara. “Stay here,” he told her, then jumped through the broken window.
Sara held her breath, ears straining for the sound of gunshot. She crawled on her knees toward the man, trying to see if he was alive. Glass was everywhere, and she picked around it, trying not to cut herself. She kept her head down as she pressed her fingers to his neck, but wasn’t sure if what she felt was a pulse or her own shaking hands.
“Sara.”
She screamed, ducking down at the same moment that she realized it was only Jeffrey.
“Whoever it was is gone.” He used the butt of his gun to knock away some glass before climbing back through the window. “Is he dead?”
She finally looked at the man. He was on his left side facing the window. The white pearl handle of an expensive-looking folding knife stuck out of his back. A large shard of glass was fixed in his neck but there was only a trickle of blood, not the expected spurt generated from a beating heart. Still, she pressed her fingers to his carotid just to make sure.
She told Jeffrey, “Nothing.”
He seemed almost relieved. “The door’s been nailed shut.”
Sara sat back on her knees, said a silent prayer of thanks that it was just a man thrown through the window and not a flaming ball of fire.
Jeffrey tilted the man’s head, looked at his face. “I think it’s the guy from the bar.”
“It has to be,” she told him. The man had obviously recently been in a fire. His eyes were open but the lashes were singed off. His close-cropped hair was covered in soot. His shirt was burned away in large patches, the flesh underneath showing first-and second-degree burns.
Jeffrey started to tear open the man’s shirtsleeve.
“Don’t,” Sara told him, thinking there might be evidence on the shirt, but she saw Jeffrey’s reason soon enough.
Tattooed onto the dead man’s arm was a large red swastika.
LENA
CHAPTER 12
LENA SAT AT HANK’S KITCHEN TABLE, her back against the wall, waiting for him to come home. The clock over the stove ticked loudly, and Lena had to force herself not to match her breathing to the noise. The Mercedes was in the driveway, so he must have come home at some point, but he was nowhere to be found now. The house was empty, the shed and beat-up old pickup in the backyard were both vacant. She’d driven by the bar, called the hospital, even talked to some old coot at the sheriff’s office who gave her the standard line about waiting twenty-four hours, but Hank had pretty much disappeared. His cell phone was on the kitchen table, the battery dead. The answering machine showed no messages. The blue metal box, his drug kit, was gone. There was no way Hank would go anywhere without his kit. He must have taken it with him, which meant he’d left the house of his own accord—but that didn’t tell her where he had gone.
Lena didn’t even know what she would do if and when he turned up. What would she say if he walked through the door right now? What could she possibly ask him? Four hours had passed since she’d talked to Charlotte at the school, but the passage of time had done nothing to give Lena any clarity.
Hank had not been driving the car.
Angela Adams had blinded her own daughter, then—what? Driven away? Left Hank to deal with the fallout, to shoulder the blame?
The one thing Lena had sworn she’d never forgive him for and the bastard hadn’t even done it. All that anger she’d held against him for most of her life was still boiling up inside her, only now she had nowhere to direct it. Should she be mad at her mother, a woman she couldn’t even remember meeting? What was so bad about Angela Adams that Hank would let people assume he blinded his own niece rather than let the girls know that she was alive? What had she done to all of them?
The fluorescent light over the kitchen sink bathed the room in a blue cast as the sun started to go down. Hank’s AA pamphlets were still scattered on the table, strewn across the floor, stacked hundreds deep on the gas stove. The clock kept ticking, marking away the minutes, then another hour.
After the accident, Sibyl hadn’t been able to remember running into the driveway, or even the fact that she’d been playing ball with Lena in the first place. At the time, the doctor said this was fairly normal with severe head trauma, that sometimes the memories never came back. The sisters had never really talked about it afterward. Maybe they had as children, but as time passed, Sibyl’s blindness and the cause of it had just become an accepted thing between them. Talking about the accident would have been like talking about the sun rising every morning: a foregone conclusion.
Meanwhile, Lena had blamed Hank and Hank sure as hell hadn’t done anything to disabuse her of the notion. Whenever she threw it in his face, he’d just tighten his jaw, stare somewhere over her shoulder, and wait for her to finish.
Charlotte Warren had to know more about this than she was letting on; she was three years older than Lena and Sibyl. Her memory was better, her shock less traumatic. Still, all the woman had revealed were the bare facts: the car had hit Sibyl, Hank had come running, and Angela had bolted, not stopping to see if Sibyl was okay, not bothering to explain what had happened. The police had arrived within minutes, then the ambulance. Charlotte’s mother had taken her daughter home and told her to forget what had happened, that no good would come from talking about it.
According to Charlotte, she had taken her mother’s words to heart. Even as her relationship with Sibyl developed into something more serious, Charlotte had assumed that there were some things that were just too awful, too painful, to talk about.
Had it been that simple, though? Had Charlotte and Sibyl really never talked about that day? Lena supposed it was feasible that if Sibyl wouldn’t discuss the subject with her own sister, she wouldn’t bring it up
with Charlotte Warren, either. Sibyl had bristled at the thought of having anyone’s pity. She had devoted her life to being as self-sufficient as a seeing person. She’d never given in to her disability or used it for personal gain. Maybe she hadn’t talked about the accident because she hadn’t wanted anyone to feel sorry for her.
So many secrets, so many people protecting Angela Adams, and no one willing to explain why.
Lena reached back over her head to the phone on the wall. The receiver was sticky in her hand, the buttons stuck with grime. She dialed Nan Thomas’s number, thinking she’d ask Sibyl’s lover exactly what her sister had known about that horrible day. Her heart was pounding by the time Nan’s phone started to ring. Lena waited, counting off the rings until voice mail picked up.
She hung up, not leaving a message.
What if Sibyl had known it was their mother? No. She would have said something to Lena. There was no way she could have gone all those years without telling Lena that their mother had been alive years after Hank had told them she’d died, that they had been lied to.
Unless Sibyl was trying to protect Lena, too.
“Shit,” Lena cursed, rubbing her eyes. She was tired, and sitting in Hank’s house was somehow worse than being in her crappy motel room. It was certainly dirtier.
She stood up and walked toward the back door. Lena put her hand on the knob but didn’t turn it. Instead, she dropped her hand and walked back toward the hall. She stopped in front of the bathroom, then turned back around and went into the kitchen. The chair’s legs scraped across the wood floor but she was hardly worried about the finish.
Many years ago, Hank had run out of room to put all his shit. He’d gotten precut strips of plywood from the hardware store and made Lena hand them up through the attic opening one by one so he could nail them in place. Of course he’d had the wisdom to tackle this project in the middle of August, the hottest month of the year. When he’d come down out of the attic, the last piece of wood nailed in place, he’d passed out in the hallway from heatstroke.
The next day, he was back up in the attic, stacking boxes, moving stuff around. Lena was ten, maybe twelve at the time. Just a few years after Angela Adams had blinded Sibyl. What had Hank put up there? What papers had been hidden above her head all this time? He left so much shit lying around that the extra stuff in the attic hadn’t even occurred to her until now.
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