by Katy Regnery
He checks his phone and nods at me, one of his thousand sad looks stealing over his face, soft in the ambient light from his phone. His eyes seize mine.
“Stay strong,” he says. “I love you. I’m here.”
I blink at him because my eyes are burning. No one. No one except Gus has ever told me that they loved me, and I don’t know what to say back. But it scares me because it’s the most precious gift I’ve ever been given, which means that someone’s going to take it away.
“What if he finds ou—?”
He lurches forward, covers my mouth, and shakes his head. “Don’t say it. He can’t. Not ever, Teagan. He’d kill us.”
I nod because he’s right.
“I’ll come back when I can.”
“Stay strong,” I whisper. “I love you too. I’m here.”
He kisses me, examining my face carefully, fiercely. “We will find a way out.”
And then he was gone.
And I am alone again, but my body is aching from missing his touch, and I wonder if I’m a good enough actress to act like nothing happened when he sits down across from me at dinner on Wednesday night.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Don’t let me be a stupid bitch who gets herself killed.
Who gets Anders killed.
Please let me have this one, tiny piece of happiness.
Teagan
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ashley
I am lying on my bed, my eyes so swollen from crying, I can barely see the words.
Father Joseph is dead, and my mother was not only in love with my stepbrother, but it appears that she engaged in a full-blown affair with him that started years ago.
. . . and this gives me a possible motive for her sudden and suspicious death.
My chest tightens, and I lay my hand over my heart.
I knew that Mosier was a bad man. But to kill my mother? To kill Father Joseph? A woman—his wife—and a priest? He is worse than I ever imagined, and it makes my blood run cold. I draw my knees to my chest and hold them, crunching my body into a fetal position and trying to get warm even though it’s a mild evening.
Why my response to Gus’s tragic news was to come up here and read my mother’s journal is a question I can’t answer. Maybe to find comfort. Maybe to wallow in more misery.
It’s been an hour since the Uber came to the house to take Gus home, and since then, Julian’s been out in the barn. I’ve been curled up in bed, reading Tig’s diary and wondering how my life ended up here.
“Father Joseph,” I say, more tears sliding down my cheeks to dampen my pillow. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, s-so s-sorry if I b-brought d-death to your d-door.”
“You didn’t,” says Julian’s voice from the doorway of my room.
I gasp in surprise, so relieved to see him, and reach out my arms to him without thinking. He crosses the room and sits down on my bed, across from me, concern and sorrow etched into his handsome features.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, holding my eyes with his as he gently cradles my face in his hands.
My shoulders shake with sobs, and I lower my head. He releases my face, and I hear him lie down, depressing the mattress with his weight. A second later, he pulls me to his chest as he sits with his back against the headboard. I cry against his chest, wrapping my arms around him as he hugs me close to him.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, baby.”
He says it over and over again as he holds me, rubbing my back and occasionally dropping kisses to the top of my head.
“This all started long before you, sweet girl,” he whispers. “Listen to me: it’s not your fault.”
“B-but if I had j-just . . . j-j-just . . .”
“Just what? Allowed yourself to be married off to a monster?” An edge has crept into the soothing timbre of his voice. “Let him buy you? Own you? Breed you?” I hear his disgust, and it resonates with me because I feel it too. “No, baby. That’s not your life. That’s someone else’s version of your life. You never agreed to that.”
“D-do you think he k-killed F-Father J-J—”
“I don’t know,” he says, taking a deep breath that I can feel under my cheek. “The timing doesn’t look good, though.”
“He was only t-talking t-to Mosier for m-me, Julian!” I lean up, looking into his eyes. “It was m-my fault!”
“NO!” he bellows. “It wasn’t!” He cups my face, his eyes fierce as they stare deeply into mine. “It wasn’t your fault. Not even a little bit. Tell me you get that. Tell me you understand that.”
I scan his eyes, back and forth, seeing the truth in them, and desperately wanting to trust it.
“Tell me, Ashley, because guilt over something like this is too heavy to bear. It’s too heavy to carry.”
“B-but if it’s m-mine . . .,” I sob, reaching up to cover his hands with mine.
“It’s not,” he says, his own eyes filling with tears. “It’s not, baby. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s . . . n-not my f-fault,” I murmur.
“It’s not your fault,” he repeats. “Tell me again.”
I nod at him, sniffling. “It’s not my f-fault.”
“That’s right.”
Julian puts his hands under my arms and drags me back to him. I lie half on his chest with my hip pressed against his side, where something hard bulges into my pelvic bone. I lean away and see the outline of a gun tucked into his waistband.
He lifts his shirt and takes it out, showing it to me. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
I stare at the black weapon, which almost looks like a child’s toy. I am not a stranger to guns—Mosier’s men carried them. But I’ve never seen one this close-up.
“What kind is it?”
“A Beretta,” he says, tucking it under the unused pillow next to his other hip. “Just to be safe.”
“I don’t like guns,” I say. I lay my cheek on his chest again, yawning as my heavy eyes close. “But I’m glad you have it.”
“Sleep, doudou,” he says softly, threading his fingers in my hair and sliding them down my back in long, slow strokes. “Just sleep. We’ll talk more later.”
“Thank you,” I sigh, trying for deep breaths, but still finding it hard to get a good one. “Thank you, Julian.”
“I’m here,” he says, his strong heart beating under my ear like a lullaby. “I’m here.”
And the last thing I think before I drift off to sleep is:
Stay strong. I love you. I’m here.
***
Julian
She’s asleep in a few minutes, her breathing even and deep, and I’m glad because I can’t really get my head around what she’s gone through in the past hour. She’s lost someone she really loved and who, I believe, loved her. And from what I can gather, the list of people who have Ashley’s best interests at heart is getting pretty fucking short.
Gus. Jock. Me.
That’s it.
Well, I think, stilling my hand on her hair, maybe this guy Simmons will be part of Team Ashley too. God, I hope so. She needs all the help she can get at this point.
And we need a plan. A good plan. A plan that will keep her safe, not just for now, but forever. Which means I need to bring my A game tomorrow.
Do I think Răumann killed the priest? I whitewashed my answer for her because she’s frightened enough. But yes, I do. A hundred and fifty percent, I do.
I don’t know if he went there with a syringe and the intent to kill, or if he ended up scaring the shit out of the old guy, but I’m fairly certain that Father Joseph was a goner the moment Răumann stepped into his office. Răumann’s plan doesn’t work if someone objects to the marriage. If the priest couldn’t be useful—by telling Răumann where she was hiding—and was categorically opposed to the match, he was better off dead.
How Răumann did it? I don’t know. And frankly I don’t care.
All I know is that this bastard will do whatever it takes to get
Ashley back, which means I need to be prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
She stirs in her sleep, snuggling closer to me, and my heart swells with something I’ve felt before, but only in small doses. It’s like comparing the first time you jerk yourself off with how it feels to sink into a willing woman for the first time. One packs a punch, sure, but the other leaves you breathless and changed forever.
I’ve felt protective before—over Noelle, over girlfriends in high school, even over Magdalena—but this is different. It’s deeper, and it’s growing in ways I can’t explain. When I think of keeping Ashley’s life safe, there’s a part of me that wants to be included in that life, in that forever. There is a part of me that doesn’t want to envision a future that can’t or doesn’t include her. Not just because protecting a young woman like her is the right and noble thing to do, but because I’m getting attached to her. And not knowing her—not being allowed or able to see what might happen between us, given time and space and freedom—makes me unspeakably sad.
And that’s when I realize it:
I’m falling for her. Hard.
Which is not convenient.
She’s several years younger than I am, almost completely alone in the world, and being hunted by a madman. She doesn’t need the added emotional complication of me pining after her, does she? Not to mention, I’ve only known her for a handful of days.
But despite these logical reasons for keeping my distance, I can’t help how I feel. I care about her. And even though I’ve heard that feelings can deepen quickly under stressful conditions, that doesn’t make mine any less real.
I hold her closer and rest my lips on her head, wondering how much time we have and how all of this will end, and hoping that falling for someone all over again won’t cost me as much as it did last time.
***
Ashley
When I wake up, my room is dark, and I can tell, from the deep and even way his chest rises and falls under my cheek, that Julian is asleep.
I’ve never slept beside a man, and I allow myself to marvel in the wonderfulness of it for a moment, keeping my dark thoughts at bay until they won’t be held back any longer and they crash around me.
My mother died suspiciously, and I’m starting to wonder if Mosier killed her.
Father Joseph is also dead, and it seems likely that Mosier killed him too.
He’s scorching a path to my door, burning down anyone who would stand in his way of having me. I should feel terrified, but profound sorrow overtakes my fear. My breath catches as my mind plays a montage of memories about my beloved Father Joseph.
I remember the first day I arrived at the Blessed Virgin Academy—how warmly he welcomed me and how, over time, he became a cherished friend and stand-in grandfather. I remember him blessing meals and wearing his Mets cap at softball games. I can hear his voice of absolution in my head, forgiving my transgressions. I think about his face when he drove me to the train station in Poughkeepsie and said good-bye to me. He died keeping me safe, and I will be forever grateful.
“Thank you, Father,” I whisper, “for everything.”
Julian sighs in his sleep and mumbles, “You okay?”
“Mm-hm.” I nod against his chest, feeling a little shy. I lean up to go to the bathroom, but he reaches for my wrist, grasping it hard.
“Where are you going?” he demands, his eyes wide open in the darkness, shiny in the moonlight filtering through my window.
“Just to . . . pee.”
He relaxes his grip. “Of course. Sorry.”
I blink at him, a little surprised that he grabbed me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just . . . sorry,” he says, letting go of me to reach up and rub his eyes. “Vivid dreams.”
“Bad?”
He nods. “Not great.”
I pee and wash my hands, then splash some cold water on my face because my eyes and cheeks are swollen from so many tears.
When I return, Julian is lying on his back, holding his phone over his head, the glow lighting up his face.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking the news,” he says. “I found Father Joseph’s obituary on the school website. Sounds like he was a great man.”
“I can’t go to his funeral,” I say, a sad realization. I would have liked to honor his memory by attending the service.
“When all of this is over,” says Julian, “I’ll drive you to the cemetery so you can pay your respects.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, sitting with my back to him.
Julian clears his throat, sitting up behind me. “Do you want me to go? Give you some space, maybe?”
“No!”
“No?”
“Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’ll be just downstairs,” he says.
“Can you stay, Julian?” I whisper. “Just for tonight?”
He gives me a half smile and nods, placing his phone facedown on the bedside table. His fingers slide to Tig’s journal and rest on Marilyn’s smile for a moment. “Your diary?”
“No,” I say, picking it up. “My mother’s. I’m getting to know her.”
Julian adjusts the pillow behind him, then sits back, beckoning me to join him. I plump another pillow and put it beside his, leaning back beside him.
“You didn’t know her?” he asks.
It’s nice, sitting side by side like this, though part of me misses the intimacy of half lying on him, with my cheek resting on his chest, over his heart.
I shrug. “She was a lot of different people. I don’t think I knew her very well at all.”
“I didn’t know my mother very well,” Julian says with a sigh. “But my dad was amazing.”
I’m warmed by the tone of his voice, full of love and admiration. “Was he?”
“Yeah. He was a good man, you know? He’d listen to these old French records—this music from the sixties called yé-yé.”
“Yé-yé?”
“Mm-hm. It was sort of this mix between English rock and, I don’t know, maybe . . . bossa nova? Soft, but still with a light rock beat. Mostly women singers. Started in France and swept through Europe. There was this one singer, Françoise Hardy. She had this voice like butter.” He chuckles softly. “My father used to say, ‘Elle est si belle qu’elle me brise le coeur.’”
“What does that mean?”
He looks down at me. “She is so beautiful, she breaks my heart.”
I know he’s translating his father’s words, but I also sense that he’s speaking to me. The expression in his eyes is so tender, so intense, I can’t bear it, and I look away. I put Tig’s diary back on the bedside table and lean my head on Julian’s shoulder. I like listening to him. And it feels safer than looking directly into his eyes.
“Tell me m-more,” I say through a yawn.
“Hmm. She sang this song called ‘Dans Le Monde Entier’—‘All Over the World.’ And this song . . . it was beautiful. Sad and beautiful. My dad played it all the time after my mom took off.”
“Do you have it?” I ask. “On your phone?”
He reaches over me for his phone, swiping at the screen a couple of times, and suddenly the darkness of the room is filled with the low, soft, mellow voice of a woman singing in French. And Julian’s right. It’s so beautiful, I just want to stay here forever, leaning my head on his shoulder, hidden from the world, in a beautiful farmhouse, in the middle of the nowhere, with a sixty-year-old love song playing just for us.
“What’s she saying?” I murmur.
“She’s apart from someone she loves, and she wonders if he’s forgetting about her. It’s breaking her heart.”
“Did your mother break your father’s heart?”
“I don’t know,” he says, pressing his lips to my head and kissing my hair. “Maybe.” He sighs. “It’s sad.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the song or his parents. Or maybe, it occurs to me, he’s talking about himself too.
<
br /> “Have you ever loved someone like that?” I ask.
It’s an incredibly personal question, but there’s something about being here with Julian that makes me feel like there aren’t any rules. We say what we need to. We ask what we want to. I know he will answer me honestly.
“No,” he says. “I haven’t. You?”
“No,” I whisper, feeling unexpectedly pleased by his answer. “Not yet.”
The song ends, and Julian swipes the screen before reaching over me again to place it on top of Tig’s journal.
“How about we get some sleep?” he says.
My breath catches because I’ve never spent the night alone with a man. “Uh . . . okay.”
“Or I can go now?” he asks, his voice tentative.
I am shy about spending the night with him, but I know—with everything I am—that I don’t want him to leave. I want him to stay with me, and a peace overtakes me as I realize that nothing will happen between us if I don’t want it to.
Therein lies the problem.
I want things from him that I shouldn’t want, that I could regret, that might hurt me later, years from now, when he is part of my past and I wish we’d met under circumstances that could have allowed him to be a part of my future. But I’m not a fool. There is no man on earth who’d want the baggage I carry. I get that. I know it’s true.
He starts to get up, but I place my hand on his chest and push him back.
“No.”
Even though I am younger and far less experienced than he, his eyes look helpless in the moonlight as he gazes at me. “What do you want, Ashley?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“Take this off,” I whisper.
My hands bunch the fabric of his T-shirt, and I slide the cotton up his chest, over the ripples of his muscles, the heel of my hand brushing against the warm skin and wiry hairs that trail up the middle of his chest.
He stares hard at me before reaching behind his neck and taking the shirt off.
My eyes slide down. To his lips. To his throat. To his chest. I lean forward and press my lips against his skin, humming softly with pleasure at the contact. His hands land on my hips, and he lifts me onto his lap so that I’m straddling his waist. As I dust his chest with kisses, he threads his hands through my hair. Under my lips, his heart races, his pulse beating against a million sense receptors and sending the message to my brain that this man, this beating heart, are under my control. At least for now.
