Fractured Things (Folkestone Sins Book 2)

by Samantha Lovelock

  The face I see in the mirror above the bathroom sink is far more tired than an eighteen-year-old should be. Even beyond the exhaustion, the weight of the secret I’m carrying is starting to show, and I have to look away before I get lost in it. Large enough to fit a Mini Cooper, my shower truly is a thing of beauty, with a rain shower head mounted to the ceiling and four different wall-mounted heads. Cranking the water on full and hot, I step in and let it sluice over me. The pounding heat of the water helps relax some of the tension out of my shoulders but does nothing to wash away the remorse gnawing at me. Regardless, I stand under the spray until my skin is lobster red, and when I feel myself starting to nod off, I know it’s time to get out.

  Wouldn’t that be a fucked-up headline? ‘Halliday heir dies in freak shower drowning accident’. Good old Eunice would have a coronary from sheer embarrassment over that one.

  Making only a half-assed effort to dry off, I pull on a clean pair of pajama pants and collapse into bed. So what if it’s not even eight o’clock and my ninety-two-year-old neighbor wouldn’t consider going to bed this early? Guilt is chewing little holes in my soul, and sleep is my only escape right now.

  Slitting my eyes against the morning sunlight beaming across my face, I roll onto my stomach with an annoyed groan. Forgetting to close my blinds when I go to bed happens all the time, but for some reason, it's far more irritating than usual this morning. Maybe it’s because I feel so shitty—like I have a nasty hangover without getting to enjoy the fun drinking part beforehand.

  Is there such a thing as an emotional hangover? If there is, I’m in big trouble.

  One hand reaches out and gropes blindly around on the nightstand for my phone, while my face stays buried firmly in my pillow. I manage to catch a thin, rounded corner between my fingers before the stupid thing slips sideways and tumbles to the floor. Groaning louder this time and adding in a few choice expletives, I force myself up onto my elbows and stretch one arm off the side of the bed to scoop up the offending device.

  Through sleep-squinted eyes, I manage to see well enough to open the Spotify app on my phone and scroll to my ‘Get Out of Bed, Asshole’ playlist. Hitting shuffle, ’21 Devils’ by Super Cruel fills the room.

  About half-way through the song, my restlessness wins out over the throbbing headache trying to blind me, and I force myself to get out of bed. Swapping my pajama pants for a pair of black basketball shorts and shoving my AirPods in, I switch over the Bluetooth output on my phone and jog downstairs.

  A quick stop in the kitchen yields an ice-cold bottle of water, and I continue down to the gym my father had built. Even though it’s probably the last place I want to be right now, given I feel like complete and utter ass, maybe a workout will help get my head straight.

  Yeah, right. Telling the damn truth is about the only thing that’ll do that, and the odds of fucking everything up make that a scary option.

  For the next hour, I take my guilt, anxiety, and frustration out on my body, pushing myself harder and harder until I’m sweating buckets, and my muscles are screaming in protest. Pushing back the dark hair that’s fallen into my eyes and is sticking to my forehead, I pop the AirPods out and shut off my music. Twisting the top off the water bottle I brought downstairs with me, I guzzle three-quarters of the still-cold liquid in one go.

  With every twitch and burn in my biceps and triceps and every ache in my core, I tell myself that this is what had to happen, and it's for the greater good. I did what was asked of me, and there’s no way I could have known what would happen. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I’ll actually start to believe it, even though I know she never will.

  The sweat running in rivulets down my spine is starting to give me the chills, so I flick off the lights and trot up the short flight of stairs to the main floor. Just as I reach the top, Stella turns the corner and smacks right into me.

  My surprise at seeing her in my house is put on hold as her strong yet delicate fingers seem to have a mind of their own and lightly trace over my shirtless chest. Reveling in both her touch and the desire that lights in her eyes, I let her continue for a few more seconds before breaking the spell.

  “Star?” Watching her get all stuttery and awkward while spitting out a terrible pun is entertaining as all hell. Because I’m me and knowing full well it turns her on, I let the tip of my tongue glide slowly over my bottom lip. I can feel the teasing grin sliding over my mouth. “Did you come to thank me for the ride back to California?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see your dad.” Like an unexpected punch to the nuts, her words shock me out of my playful mood. Not wanting to let her see how rattled I am, when she makes a smart-ass comment and starts to walk away, I take a step forward and smack her ass.

  “Let me know when you’re done with your meeting and I’ll give you a tour of my bedroom,” I whisper next to her ear before she steps away.

  “We’ll see, Halliday. I might have other plans.” As she walks through the door Hendrick has opened for her, I can’t help but laugh. Halfway back to my room though, the doubt and worry start to seep back in and I wonder why she’s meeting with my dad and whose idea it was.

  He wouldn’t tell her, would he?

  Time to decide, dickhead. Tell the truth and risk losing everything or keep the secret and wait until it blows up in your face.

  Shit.

  I am so fucked.

  Chapter Nine

  Waking up on Sunday morning was a dream. No swaybacked mattress with the dip in the middle and the coils that would poke me in the ass cheek or the side of my thigh. No wail and bleat of police sirens as the local sheriff or one of his deputies responded to the nine millionth ‘drunk fucker doing something stupid’ call in my neighborhood.

  And no nightmares.

  Last night, after confessing my crime of spitting in Hali Torsten’s face, I sat and waited patiently for a scolding from my aunt that never came. I’ll give her props for managing to keep a straight face for a full seventeen seconds–I know it was seventeen because I counted–but as soon as she opened her mouth, she was done. Instead of whatever words she intended to say, all that came out was laughter. Pure, appreciative, and utterly inappropriate laughter. Thus began the cycle of hilarity—I started laughing at her laughing. She laughed harder at my laughing. And so on and so forth until both of us had tears streaming down our faces, I was snorting every fifth breath, and she was gripping her side with both hands because she managed to strain a muscle.

  When it finally settled down to a random chuckle here and a goofy grin there, all she told me was to try not to let it happen again. I’m reasonably sure she only said that much because, as the adult in the conversation, high-fiving me for my delinquent behavior would likely be frowned upon.

  We spent the rest of the evening munching on our finger food dinner and followed it up with big bowls of rocky road ice cream. Cecily never pushed too much or poked too hard, letting me tell her at my own pace why I had to leave that night, what happened while I was gone, and how I felt about things now.

  The excellent food and even better conversation must have had some sort of soothing effect on my scratched and dented psyche because I slept dreamlessly from the time I fell into bed until two minutes ago. Six blissful, uninterrupted hours of sawing logs. Coupled with the almost five hours of sleep on the plane, I feel positively well-rested. Deciding to take advantage of it, I unwrap myself from the warm cocoon of soft cotton sheets and fluffy duvet. Taking my backpack from beside the bed with me, I pad across my room to the giant walk-in closet where my duffel bags are waiting to be unpacked.

  Unzipping the backpack first, I pull out the pieces of my old life I couldn’t bring myself to leave behind—my small pile of novels, three dog-eared books that belonged to my mother, and two stuffed animals I’ve had since I was small. Stacking the books against the wall outside the closet, I set the little stuffed turtle with the enormous eyes and the cream-colored floppy dog in the wingback. Looking around, I make a mental note to as
k Cecily if we can buy some shelving.

  Eyeing the over-sized duffel bags on the floor pensively, I sigh and drop to my knees to dig into them, sorting the clothes inside into clean and dirty piles until both bags are empty. Heaving a sigh of relief, I grab a pair of plaid leggings and a tunic length, soft, black knit sweater from the clean pile and head to my bathroom for a luxurious hot shower.

  What a difference actual water pressure makes. Here’s to never having to worry about somebody flushing the toilet two doors down and turning the shower into a scalding deluge or an icy trickle ever again.

  By the time I’m dressed and ready, perched on a barstool at the kitchen island eating toast and drinking orange juice, it’s coming up on eleven o’clock, and I’ve realized a small flaw in my plan—transportation.

  Do they even have buses in this foofy little town?

  Sunday has already texted me seven times. Each one is progressively more annoyed at me for not telling her what I’m doing this afternoon. She’d probably be more than happy to give me a ride if I asked, but something in me is holding the request back. Maybe I don’t want to become more of a burden on her than I already am, or perhaps this is something I need to do on my own, something I need to belong to just me. The eighth text dings as my aunt walks into the kitchen, and I can’t help but give a chirp of laughter when I look down and see nothing but an extreme close up of my zany friend’s eyeball as she gives me her best side-eye.

  “Morning, Stella. Did you sleep alright?” Cecily asks cheerily.

  “You have no idea. Whoever designed that bed deserves all the raises ever. I swear, I’ve never slept on anything that comfortable in my entire life.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you got a good night’s sleep. You could probably use a few more of those.” She leans against the far counter, arms crossed as she waits for her spacey coffee contraption to spit out its magic brew. “If there’s anything you’d like to change, just say the word. I know it’s probably not to your taste. It’s your room now; I want it to feel like home.”

  “Actually, I love it. The only things missing are maybe some shelves and a desk?” Tucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I chew on it for a few seconds, a little uncomfortable asking for anything.

  “Of course! We can take care of that easy peasy,” she waves her hand between us, dismissing my discomfort. “So. What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Well, I kind of have a lunch thing at noon and only realized this morning that I have no way to get there.” I shrug, feeling like a bit of a tool. “Is it okay if I ask Spry for a ride?

  “Sure, he’ll take you wherever you need to go. Since you’re staying though, we really should look at getting you a car.” She pauses mid-sip of her coffee and scrunches her face questioningly. “Do you know how to drive?”

  “Sure do,” I answer, the memory of taking my driver’s test making me chuckle. “There was a snowstorm the day I had to do my road test, and I was the last one they let go. Sally’s boyfriend Mike let me use his beat-up old Toyota that had nearly bald tires. The tester was white-knuckling the oh-shit handle the entire time.” My face breaks into a wide grin. “He passed me without finishing the test largely because I think he wanted out of the damn car so he could change his underwear. The best part though? Sally and Mike were waiting for me afterward with a big thermos of hot chocolate, and Mike drove us to an empty lot near where he worked. He spent the rest of the afternoon teaching me how to do donuts in the snow.”

  “That sounds like it was a good day,” Cecily comments softly.

  “It really was.” My heart files the memory back in the ‘happy’ pile. “So, my license is valid and everything, but I guess I’ll need a California one with my new last name now?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. We can go to the DMV this week and get it switched. I think it's just a matter of paying a fee and a written test. The name change paperwork I’ll have my lawyer take care of.” She pauses thoughtfully, a sly smile creeping over her lips. “Wait a minute. Rewind. You have a lunch thing today? What sort of lunch thing are we talking about?” When she winks suggestively at me, I turn multiple shades of red before answering.

  “It’s just a thing that happens to be taking place at lunchtime. Nothing crazy.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure,” she laughs, “that’s what they all say. Is Poe on the menu?” My horrified expression makes her laugh even harder, and she has to set her coffee down before she spills it everywhere. “Relax, Stella. I’m not so old that I don’t remember young lust, but I am old enough that I get to tease you about it. Pretty sure it’s written in the aunt/niece contract somewhere.” I toss my wadded up napkin at her with a grin, even though my cheeks are still burning, and she catches it easily.

  “Apparently, being a smartass is genetic,” I quip.

  “Absolutely! Only I’ve had quite a few more years to practice than you have, so be warned.” She winks playfully. “Since you do have a license, let me refill my coffee, and we can take a quick trip out to the garage before you head off to your lunch thing.” Her snicker makes me groan. “There might be something out there that tickles your inner Andretti.” Cecily may be my aunt, but sometimes she seems more like an older sister. At thirty-four, she’s definitely a responsible adult, but she still remembers what it was like to be a teenager, which was comforting to me somehow.

  Following her outside to the large detached building, the delicious scent of her fresh espresso wrapping around us, I’m suddenly hit with the surrealness of the moment. Three months ago, I was a waitress in a diner, bumming rides when I needed to or taking the bus, and now here I am, about to go car shopping in my aunt’s garage.

  Rich people are weird. I mean, I’m not complaining, but rich people definitely have a unique perspective on life and their own way of doing things.

  Opening the side door of the outbuilding, Cecily flicks a switch on the wall, and banks of recessed lighting in the high ceiling illuminate the vehicles parked inside.

  My mouth falls open in awe as I take in the beauty of the gleaming machines in front of me. The late-model, cherry red Corvette Stingray. The snow-white Porsche Cayenne S. The sleek pewter Bentley Continental GT. Once I manage to stop drooling, I notice the last vehicle in the garage is under a beige car cover at the far end, and something about its shape intrigues me.

  “What’s under the cover?” I ask curiously.

  “That’s the one I thought you might like. One of my more undesirable boyfriends, at least by your grandparents’ lofty standards, was the son of a mechanic from a few towns over. He and his dad used to rebuild cars and race them. Our relationship didn’t last, thanks to my parents, but my love for this car did.” She runs her hand over the front of the cover and pauses, lost in the past for a few seconds. “After your grandparents passed away, I, uh, happened to look him up on the internet after a few too many glasses of chardonnay. Imagine my surprise to find out he’d taken over his dad’s garage and turned it into a pretty major deal.” Brushing off the nostalgia coloring her thoughts, she finishes her story quickly. “Anyway, I had Spry pay him a visit and ask him to find this exact car. It turned out he knew of one for sale that needed a fair amount of work, so I bought it and paid him to restore it to its former glory, and then some. All through Spry, of course, so he could never connect it back to me.”

  While it tickles me that my aunt has taken to referring to Spry by the nickname I gave him, the thought of her missing out on something that might have been great because my grandparents disapproved makes me sad. It also makes me wonder what they would have thought of me.

  Probably not much if the son of a mechanic wasn’t good enough, even when that mechanic owned his own business. I can’t imagine they would have been impressed by a diner waitress in secondhand clothes.

  Shaking off the maudlin train of thought, I feel my fingers tingle in anticipation as I reach out and loosen the toggle on the cover, squatting to grab the bottom edge while Cecily moves to the opposite side and helps me
carefully lift and fold the non-descript beige cotton away from the vehicle it’s been protecting.

  Holy shit. That is badass.

  My aunt stares at me expectantly over the roof, as my eyes devour the beautiful example of American heavy metal, my mouth slightly open and my heart beating noticeably faster than it was a minute ago.

  “You like it?” Cecily asks while her eyes twinkle in amusement at my obvious automotive insta-lust. I just nod my head, a massive smile spreading across my face. “Good. Let’s go find Spry. We wouldn’t want you to be late for your lunch thing, would we?” She pats me on the shoulder while trying to smother her own smile in the last swallow of coffee from her mug. “We’ll take care of the license switch, and you’ll be able to drive yourself around in no time.”

  Still dumbfounded by her offer, I let my aunt usher me to the front door, with a quick stop in the kitchen for me to grab my purse and phone. She texts Spry and hugs me goodbye before gently shoving me outside, her tinkly laughter echoing behind me. The sight of her driver heading to the Caddy gets my feet moving, and I slip into the backseat, giving the older man our destination and settling in for the short drive.

  Forget butterflies and their small, delicate wings—I have full-grown, fat-ass geese flapping and squawking around in my gut as we pull up to the imposing house. I haven’t been back since that night, and I can still feel the cold slither of the horror and devastating sorrow that engulfed me and nearly swallowed me whole. The memory of Sunday and I running from here that night flutters in front of my eyes, and the sound of my name leaving Poe’s lips wrapped in confusion and anguish echoes through me.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best place to meet. Maybe this whole idea is stupid. I mean, does it really matter if anybody outside of the Bradleighs looked for her the first time? And why would anybody be willing to help me look for her again?