by Ann Aguirre
Walking three miles won’t kill me. Other people might.
Between my sore ankle and the fact that I skipped lunch to study in the library, I’m soon light-headed. I can remember my mom lecturing me about bad life choices and ending up dead in a ditch, but I never would’ve imagined her cautions could be so accurate. Somehow I take a few more steps, but the stars above are blurry, streaking into bands of light. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as my knees buckle. I kneel for a minute or two, but an inner core of steel won’t let me quit.
Maybe it’s the same reason I held on during the accident when Morgan let go.
Assuming that dream is true. And I’m not crazy.
Right now my mental state doesn’t matter. I just have to get home. I’ve gone fifty yards when it occurs to me that I’m dead set on getting back to the Frost estate, which says something about my degree of acceptance. For me, home isn’t the Burnham house any longer; I’m not wearing Morgan like a dress that doesn’t fit.
Whoever, whatever I was before, I’m Morgan Frost now.
Mentally I repeat the words like a mantra—I am Morgan Frost—and for some reason it gives me strength, permitting me to pick up the pace. Even the boost of adrenaline doesn’t accomplish miracles, however. There are still two miles to go. But as I round the bend, the glimmering lights of a farmhouse shine through the darkness. I have no idea who lives here, and I doubt Morgan did either. Her family didn’t exactly make friends when they bought three failing farms and turned that land into a posh private estate. Still, even if the homeowners recognize me, they would have to be heartless to refuse to let me use the phone.
I angle toward the gravel drive as the roar of a car engine gains on me from behind. Terror sends me sprinting toward those squares of light and I don’t look back; I don’t stop either, not even when I hear the brakes, tires squealing on pavement. This is it. There’s no fight left if Creepy Jack takes me for the second time.
Never in my life have I felt this helpless, not even when I lay in a field dying.
37
“Morgan, wait!”
Even if it’s a trick, I’m willing to believe. Stumbling, I slow and spin to see Clay illuminated by the headlights of the beater that replaced his Corvair. He jogs toward me and before I can say anything, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the car. Instinctively, my arms go around his neck. His body is solid and steady, heartbeat better than a lullaby. With gentle hands he deposits me in the passenger seat and then vaults the hood of the car in a move that leaves me dazed with grateful appreciation.
Creepy Jack wasn’t the only one who knew, I realize then. I told Clay I’d be there in half an hour. When I didn’t show, maybe he came looking.
Though he didn’t exactly save me, I’m so touched that it feels like my throat’s clogged up with words and tears. Wordless, he hands me a bottle of water and I sip from it, conscious that I’m filthy. He doesn’t speak even after we’re on the road, heading back toward town. At this point his place feels like sanctuary because Creepy Jack won’t dare approach me where there are witnesses who can testify to his crimes. I have no proof he’s the reason I look this way, but I want so bad to call the cops as soon as we arrive at Clay’s house and tell them everything. Maybe I can’t prove he basically carjacked me and made me run for my life, but I still have the pictures Oscar took. Those are enough to mess up Patterson’s life permanently.
And yours, a small, frightened voice whispers. My sigh comes out as a little moan.
“You’re not asking.” I’m not surprised how hoarse I sound.
“It’s obvious something serious went down.” His tone is calm, but his hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, like it’s all he can do not to lose his shit.
But I appreciate his composure. It allows me to wrap up mine like a tattered ball gown I’ve been wearing for days in the forest. I can almost tug at the satin edges, threading myself together with will and grit; I’m an oyster with secrets layered beneath the pink of my flesh. Maybe if I hold them long enough I can produce a pearl for Clay to admire. Or maybe the constant scrape of it will leave me bleeding and raw.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I was worried when you said you weren’t okay … and when you didn’t show up, I nearly lost my mind.” Still conversational, but his concern reaches me like a hug, untangling the knots of anxiety from the constant terror of the last few hours.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Did you do it on purpose?” he asks.
“What? No. Of course not.” I’m genuinely startled by the question.
“Then there’s no need to apologize. Just point me at the asshole that hurt you and I’ll break him in two.”
That’s not a threat, I realize. It’s a guarantee. My resolve to share everything falters. If I tell him all about Creepy Jack, he’ll end up in jail. Patterson has power around here, money, influence, access to expensive lawyers. While I desperately need someone on my side, I don’t want Clay immolated on the pyre of my screwed-up life. It doesn’t help that these problems started before I took over as Morgan Frost. No matter what, I’m the one stuck dealing with the situation as it stands.
“Can it wait until we get to your place? I’ll clarify as much as I can,” I say finally.
“That explanation better include a name.” He doesn’t look away from the road, each turn bringing us closer to the moment of truth. “I protect what’s mine. Before now, it hasn’t been much, but I’m twice an asshole if I let anyone treat you like this. I don’t care what it costs me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter.
Clay ignores that, or maybe it was too soft for him to catch. He touches my knee lightly, comfort, reassurance, or both. “Sorry, forget that. I always come on too strong when I’m scared. Right now I need to patch you up, not figure out who to kneecap.”
The mental image of Clay ambushing Creepy Jack with a bat is satisfying. I enjoy that mental image for a while. Then I say, “I’m not badly hurt. You can relax.”
“Easy for you to say. They just did a special report tonight on a college girl two counties over who went missing on her way home from church.”
Only the good die young, pops into my head but I swallow the macabre joke. Dark humor doesn’t help and it will only reveal my ragged nerves. “Really? Damn. I’m not sure what that has to do with me, though.”
“You fit the general profile,” he says.
For a few seconds I can’t parse that. “Huh?”
“Dark hair, blue eyes, sixteen to twenty-two, between five seven and five nine. The girl who vanished isn’t the first, apparently. There have been two more in the last six months. The anchors were talking about a possible taskforce or something.”
“So that’s why you were so panicked,” I whisper.
Questions burn a hole in my mind, two sides of the same awful coin—am I in danger of being taken because I look like them … or is someone snatching them because they look like me?
38
By some unexpected blessing, Nathan isn’t home when we slip in through the back door. The kitchen lights are on, though, and the dishes still on the table tell me that Clay left in a hurry. Quickly he deposits the plate and glass in the sink, then he gets his first good look at me in full light. He curses so colorfully that, despite the situation, I make mental notes.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Light-headed, I collapse into the nearest chair, waiting for him to return. Eventually I put my head on the table and rouse only when a warm hand settles on my shoulder. I jolt upright; Clay steadies me, but he doesn’t let go. Blearily I note that he’s got a basin of warm water, a pile of hand towels, plus the kit he mentioned before. Somehow, the fact that he doesn’t speak before he starts washing my wounds makes the moment more intimate. The silence builds with his eyes on mine, and it feels incredibly important that he’s willing to take care of me before I answer any of his questions, of which there must be, li
ke, a hundred.
Even the water stings; I brace as he cleanses, rinses, and goes again. He sucks in a sharp breath when he reaches my back. “Your shirt has to come off.”
“I bet you say that to all the injured girls.”
A half smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “That makes me sound like a predator.”
In answer I shrug out of my torn tee. It’s not a huge movement, but I’m so tired and hungry that it makes me dizzy. He frowns at whatever he sees in my expression, yet he still tilts me forward so he can clean the scratches on my back. The window behind me is open, and between my lack of clothes and low blood sugar, I’m freezing. First the goose pimples pop out, then I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. It might also be reaction settling in, who knows?
“Are you almost d-done?”
“Are you scared?” he asks.
Quickly I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m just—”
“It’s okay.” His voice is so gentle, I could crawl into it like an afghan somebody’s kindly grandma knitted.
Clay works fast, taping gauze over all the sore spots like he’s done this before. If he’s raised his brother half as much as I suspect, then he probably is an old pro at this. The rumor mill didn’t make their mother sound particularly protective or maternal, even before she left for good. So I can imagine that he’s the one who blew on Nathan’s skinned knees and applied Bactine and Band-Aids as requested. Right now, his warm breath over a long scrape on my forearm is making me quiver in an entirely different way.
Finally, he finishes with the treatment and gets a shirt for me to put on. Like Clay, the hoodie smells of fresh air, sunshine, and simple detergent. Shrugging into it is like snuggling into his arms. But he’s not paying attention to my goofy smile; instead he’s boiling water on the stove, probably for a hot drink. As I watch, he makes black tea liberally laced with honey.
“I don’t care how you feel about sugar right now,” he tells me, setting the mug in front of me with an authoritative thunk.
I smile. “It’s fine. Even I’m willing to admit I could use the glucose.”
“You probably need to eat, too. But all I have is bean soup.”
“Sounds good.”
Clay stares as if I’ve grown a second head. “It’s made with chicken bouillon and smoked ham hocks.”
“I’m making a few dietary changes. Some things I have no choice to avoid. Allergies,” I add with a shrug. “But other things I could eat, I’ve just chosen not to.”
“Then I’ll get you a bowl.”
The soup is still warm, waiting in a covered pot on the back of the stove. I’m awed that Clay knows how to cook; it’s not something I’ve ever had to worry about—in either life. As Liv, my mom only asked me to chop stuff for her, and more because she wanted the company than needed my help. And since I’ve been Morgan, Mrs. Rhodes is always on hand to fulfill my every whim. I feel really young compared to Clay, even if he’s only a few years older, and that makes it even more difficult to say what I need to.
“This is delicious,” I say.
It’s a little saltier than I’m used to, but it has an excellent flavor, just a hint of heat. While he cleans up the kitchen, I devour the whole serving along with the tea. I feel better fast; even my wounds don’t hurt as much as they did, and the throb of prior injuries dulls to a bearable ache. The clink of him depositing the soup pot in the fridge rouses me from a near food stupor.
“Come on, you.” He wraps an arm around me, tugging me out of the chair.
I don’t ask as Clay leads me through Nathan’s bedroom into his own and shuts the door behind us. Then he locks both doors, the one from Nathan’s room and the one that leads to the living room. Though I’m not exactly nervous—I don’t think Clay will do anything tonight of all nights—I’m also locked in with him.
I distract myself by looking at the posters on his walls, abstract art instead of bikini girls. The space is sparsely furnished: full bed on a simple frame, brown-and-gold patterned sheets, a battered desk that has been painted multiple times so several assorted colors peep through, and a rickety side table with a rather industrial lamp on it. There are some books and magazines but no family pictures, no mementos of high school, like the awards that bedeck Nathan’s walls.
But one shelf catches my eye. The items must be priceless to Clay, though I’m not sure what two of them mean. He’s got a pair of laminated ticket stubs on the right, a broken watch on the left, and in the center, there’s a framed certificate. Despite the ornate font I can read the top two words from here: GENERAL EQUIVALENCY.
“You already got your GED?”
His careless shrug says this is no big deal. “I took the test last year over at the technical college in Macon.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, well. It’s unlikely I’ll be offered an apprenticeship without it. I’m working on my portfolio now and I need to take a few art classes before I’ll become an appealing prospect.”
“Can I see it?”
“What?”
“Your portfolio.”
“Are you seriously asking to see my etchings?” But he’s smiling as he opens the lower desk drawer and pulls out a black folder. “There’s nowhere to sit but the bed. Is that okay?”
In answer I crawl across carefully and prop myself against the wall with my legs stretched sideways across the mattress. Clay settles beside me and I don’t even notice when he wraps an arm around my shoulders, settling me against him, because I’m too absorbed in his pen-and-ink designs. Most are simple, geometric, and his eye for patterns is exquisite and precise. He’s also got a few images that seamlessly blend different mythologies, like a Celtic love chain entangled with an ouroboros. I imagine how lovely this would be tattooed around someone’s biceps and glance up to find his face really close.
“You’re super talented,” I tell him.
“Thanks. But you’ve stalled long enough. I feel like I’ve been patient, now it’s time for you to start talking.”
He’s right. But …
“What about Nathan?”
“He’s out with Braden, so he’ll sleep wherever he passes out. Pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.” His tone says he’d like to track his brother down and beat some sense into him but Nathan is intractable. “Even if he shows up, he’ll sneak in the back and collapse in his room.”
“Okay then.”
Apparently, Clay can read my doubts because he kisses me softly. “Maybe this isn’t the time to say it, but … no matter what you tell me, it won’t change how I feel. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve fallen for you so hard and fast that it feels like there’s no bottom.”
39
Clay’s confession is so like him—low-key but also completely fearless. There’s no way I can offer less. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but one part of my resolve hasn’t changed. While I can’t reveal Creepy Jack’s identity, I’m unloading the rest.
I start with dying in a field and waking up in the hospital … as Morgan. There’s also some rambling about Morgan’s secrets, the scary older-man lover, and how I’m so completely unequipped to deal with any of it. The whole recitation doesn’t take as long as I expected, a little less than ten minutes. Clay’s hand stills on my shoulder, and I’m afraid to look at him.
“This older guy, he’s the one who hurt you tonight?” Trust Clay to focus on that. He’s put a pin in the rest.
“Yeah. Well, I acquired the scrapes and scratches running away from him. But he definitely jumped in my car and scared me out of it. He stole it afterward, and—shit. He might have my phone, too.” That’s a problem I just registered, and now I’m freaking out. If he cracks my password, there’s no limit to the damage he can do.
Clay reaches for his, currently charging on the side table and dials. I clench my teeth, half hoping Creepy Jack will answer. A few seconds later, I hear the voice mail message, so that proves nothing. I might be delusional, a girl who imagines monsters and hurts herself running
from them. Or damn, there’s even a syndrome about people who wound themselves for attention.
The silence grows until I can’t stand it. I finally muster my courage and peer up at him, but he’s staring blankly at the portfolio page. It’s too much. He doesn’t believe me.
“This is a lot to take in,” he says quietly. “You have to admit, it sounds—”
“Crazy. I know. That’s why I haven’t said anything before.”
“Why tell me?”
“You noticed a difference on your own, didn’t you? That’s part of it. But … I can’t be with you unless you know everything. It’s too big a lie for me to live with.”
Clay cups my cheek in his hand and searches my gaze, though what he’s looking for I have no idea, maybe some inner conviction or a febrile gleam in my eyes. I hold the look steadily, but my heart beats so hard it almost hurts. I’m dying for someone to believe me; this isn’t a mental disorder, a grief-induced denial, or any other explicable psychiatric phenomenon.
“I know you believe what you’re saying,” he starts, but I can’t deal with his tone.
It’s the way you talk to a toddler who’s about to jam a fork in the light socket. In reaction I scoot away and lean against the wall where the headboard would be, putting two feet between us. He doesn’t follow.
Great. I’m no longer the girl he wants to make out with. Now he thinks I desperately need mental help. At this point he might not believe me about Creepy Jack either if I told him that the guy’s a respected local politician with a wife and two kids. Though I predicted this outcome weeks ago, the disappointment still stings.
Quietly I rack my brain for something that might convince him, but before Liv’s death—how weird to think of myself in third person—I didn’t have that much to do with Clay. To me he was just Nathan’s slightly scary older brother, who I didn’t know at all, and I disapproved of him on principle, based on secondhand bullshit. Now I’m ashamed of how I misjudged him without understanding anything.
