by Lena Maye
My mother can’t get out of prison. What if she comes here? What if she finds me? What if she finds Charles and Dean? She’ll destroy everything.
“I can try to write a letter.” I force my hands flat against the table on either side of the computer. I can fight this. What good is life if you give up on it?
But the thought of putting my memories into words…
“Ella.” Carly’s low voice makes me hold my breath. Something I don’t want to hear always follows that tone. “I can’t find your brother. He hasn’t had an address in years. But someone needs to contact him about this.”
She won’t find Anthony if he doesn’t want to be found. He won’t be found in the usual ways. We grew up hiding—under radar and off-grid. My mother taught us to be invisible. But I know that Anthony always needed to be surrounded by people. He couldn’t go through a day without talking to a stranger. Or maybe he just needed weed. Regardless, I have a better chance of finding him than she does.
“I’ll look,” I promise. I’d already planned to ask Mitch. “What if…” I bite my lip. I don’t want to even contemplate the question hanging in the back of my mind. But it’s something I can’t ignore either.
Carly looks outside her screen and speaks to someone in the background before returning her focus on me. “Go on. I have to be in court, but they can wait a minute.”
“W-what if…” I start again, but these words are so hard to get through. No. I need to do this. “What if my letter also came with a statement? From a… victim.”
“What are you talking about?” Carly’s tone is a warning. “You’re aware of another victim?”
“He just moved back to Portage. With his son.” I have to tell Dean what I did. No holding back anymore. And then I’ll have to talk to Charles Archer. I press my palms against the table, hiding those tiny lines that my mother believes show my destiny.
Carly blinks at me, her forehead wrinkling before she licks her lips. “You remember this man? And what your mother did to him?”
“Y-yes.”
She sits back in her seat. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I thought you didn’t remember any of them.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, Ella.” The worry lines across her forehead deepen, and she reaches out and touches the screen with her fingertips. She’s brisk sometimes, but I think it might be because she cares so deeply. She’s focused because she cares. She must be such a wonderful mother to Angeline. I wish I had been half that lucky.
“I should go out there.” She straightens. “I’ve got a trial right now, but I can be out there next month. Maybe I can delay the review request even though I’m your attorney and not hers. I’ll do some research. And I’ll send you money for a phone.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Already decided.” Carly gives me a glare, but it softens quickly. “I don’t think the conviction’s going to be reversed. But I had to tell you. Are you going to be okay?”
I force a thin smile. “I’ve been through worse.”
The woman I was supposed to love more than anyone ended up being the woman who has caused me the most pain. If she gets out, she’ll find us—both Anthony and me, and I don’t know what she’ll do after that.
I’m so far from okay I don’t even know where the line is anymore.
18
Dean
“He said he didn’t hurt her?” Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter. We’re standing in the galley, just finished eating turkey sandwiches over the sink—which is pretty typical of how we eat dinner. Matty’s curled up in the corner.
“Yeah, he said he didn’t hurt her, but he deserved it.” I drop my half-eaten sandwich on the counter. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “And I really don’t give a shit about finding out.” He sounds so sure—like he didn’t even have to think about it before dismissing the idea.
And then that makes me wonder why I’m not dismissing the idea just as quickly.
Sebastian stands quietly while I pick up my sandwich and eat another few bites before setting it down. Matty looks up from his place by the wall, but then his head drops again.
“Do you ever wonder what made him like that?” I ask.
“He was an asshole,” Sebastian says gruffly. He pushes away from the counter and opens the cooler. He grabs a can of beer and tosses one to me. Dev’s not going to be happy about us digging into his beer while he’s out for a run, but he’ll get over it.
Dev’s focused on getting a workout in before his date tonight anyway. Renee. Ella’s sister. And Renee said Ella was coming along.
Yep, I know exactly where I’m going to be tonight.
“He wasn’t always an asshole,” I say. “Not when we were little.” I take a drink, contemplating my brother.
He crosses his arms over his chest, pushing out those wide shoulders, a downright sour look on his face.
“You don’t have any questions?” I ask. “About why things were the way they were.”
He uncrosses his arms to take a long swig from his beer. “No, man. I don’t. And honestly, I don’t want to think about it either.” He points at me with the same hand that holds the can. “And you shouldn’t be thinking about it either. I knew this shit would happen, Dean. You’re back here—on this boat—and everything’s coming back. I mean, are you ever really going to be able to live here without thinking of it? All the fucking time.”
I shrug. “I don’t think about it all the time.” My eyes narrow on him. “Do you?”
Sebastian tips back his beer and finishes it in one huge drink before crushing the can. “Yeah, man. I do.”
19
Ella
My mother always got whatever she wanted. I’m not sure how—maybe it was the way she always seemed so genuine. Or the way she would do these little favors for people. Stopping to help an elderly woman shovel snow off her driveway. Or returning someone’s empty shopping cart. Things that people call small acts of kindness.
No opportunity slipped by her. But instead of shrugging off the thanks like most people seem to do, she’d stay and talk. She’d tell them something personal—even if it was almost always a lie. That way she’d know who to ask when she needed to crash somewhere for a night to escape whatever dump we were living in. Or someone to cough up enough gas money to get out of town. Her small acts of kindness always had an endgame.
She always had an endgame.
I need to find out what it is this time.
I could talk to her. I pause in front of the mirror, carefully combing my hair up into something respectable. It’s the first time I’ve thought of speaking to her in years. Not that I have a phone to use. Or that I really want to talk to her. But what if this is all some sort of plan?
I’ve tried to write the letter Carly wanted for most of the afternoon, but the words just won’t come. I’ve never really known how to put what happened into sentences. It makes everything too real. Too concrete.
It’s the same thought as telling Dean. How do I actually say something like this? Do I describe the way his father looked up at me when he was lying on that filthy mattress? The cuts carved down his forearms and how he pleaded for me to help him?
I shake it off, but an hour later, I’m still lost in thoughts when Renee and I take the stairs down to the Horseshoe.
The Horseshoe is this underground place named after the worn U-shaped bar that fills the tiny room. I step around an old gum-ball machine and rusted metal sled to get a seat in the corner where the bar meets the wall. Mitch, the bartender my brother befriended when he first visited me here, is something of a hoarder. Not just with objects, but with names too. So even though I know him as Mitch, when Renee sits down next to me, he introduces himself as Beto and drops two cans of beer in front of us. He leaves his fingers clenched around mine for an extra second.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while.” Tattoo spiderwebs cr
awl up his arms, so light they are almost invisible in the low light of the bar. The one time I saw Mitch in the sunlight, they looked like laced silver.
I take a small sip and try not to be awkward. “H-h-have you heard from Anthony?”
Mitch tilts his head and stares at me for so long I debate if he heard the question. Renee shifts, drinking her beer faster than normal.
“No,” he finally says. “But I have a number if you want it.” He disappears to the other side of the bar and pulls out a box stuffed with papers. He sets it across from us and sifts through the chaos.
Renee’s nails clip against the rough wood of the bar.
“We can go somewhere else after this,” I offer.
She nods, and the click, click, click continues. “My date’s meeting us here. Then we can go somewhere else.”
A can of empty beer later, Mitch flops a torn scrap of paper in front of me—the only thing written on it is a phone number. No name. No area code. It doesn’t even resemble Anthony’s handwriting. I look up at him with raised eyebrows.
“That’s all I’ve got. Some girl he was staying with for a while.” He raps the bar with his knuckles. “Take it or leave it.”
I tuck it into my pocket, trying to clamp a lid on my disappointment. Anthony is always hard to find. But I’ve got to try. Which means I also need to get a phone. Just in case he calls me.
Renee grabs my arm. “That’s him,” she hisses.
Holy crap, Renee is right about one thing: the guy is definitely a steak knife. Thick black hair and a wide face with full lips and a broad nose. He could palm a watermelon. His shoulders fill the doorway as he scans the room. He’s in jeans and a button-down, and a ring glints gold on his finger. Everything about him screams confidence. Or cockiness. Actually, he might be more than a knife. A freaking rolling pin.
As attractive as he is, my heart doesn’t start thumping until he moves aside, and I catch sight of the figure behind him.
Oh, bigger holy…
Wait. No. Not Dean.
But…
Sebastian. A chill washes over me. The same chill when I first realized who Dean was. A third figure is just outside the door, and I lift off my stool a little. Although I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Dean walks in, and I plop down again.
Renee’s eyebrows cinch up, but her smile doesn’t un-plaster. “Well, look who’s here. Your hero.”
“Renee,” I hiss and grab her arm. “No, no, no.” I don’t know what else to say. No seems like the most appropriate word for the situation.
“Holy crap, there’s two of them!” Renee says excitedly. “We’re working up to a full place setting.”
“Renee, I can’t do this,” I hiss. “I know you want me to date, and maybe I should. But not him.”
“Why not?” She tilts her head, her bottom lip sticking out.
“Did you set this up?” I ask, but I already know she did. This has Renee written all over it. “When did you set it up?”
She shakes her head. “Not important. What’s important is that I’m being indifferent. And completely unruffled by the steak knife.”
She swivels toward me. Behind her, the rolling pin strides across the room, straight toward Renee with a wide smile on his face.
“Good to see you,” he says when he reaches her.
Renee flinches and turns. “Oh, I didn’t see you.”
He leans close to her ear, giving her something between a hug and a kiss. And I’m pretty sure she smiles, but then she pushes on his chest and leans back so fast she almost falls off her seat. Like he’s shocked her with his touch.
“Oh, this is my sister, Ella,” she says nonchalantly, regaining her composure quickly.
“Dev,” he says as he extends his hand, and I absently take it. But I’m hardly looking at him or the way he’s nodding and repeating my name. Hardly looking at Renee as she feigns indifference.
The only thing I see is him. Ocean-blue eyes focused on me and that little scar pulling up with his grin. It’s a long minute before I realize Dev’s hand is clasped in mine in the most awkward handshake ever. I drop it and grab my beer. But then that feels strange too, so I finally just slip my hands underneath me.
I’m not happy with Renee for the sneaky setup. But if I want to get information about Charles Archer, this is probably the best way to do it.
Dean stops behind my barstool, and I have to swivel a little to see him. He’s got that thin necklace tied around his neck, and my eyes keep flicking to it as he smiles down at me.
Sitting on the stool, I’m looking straight at his chest and a tight t-shirt that lays flat on his stomach, so I tilt my head to look at the bar, but I can’t help taking in the rest of him. He’s standing so close, his chest and stomach moving with each breath. One hand tucked in his pocket. There’s a thin leather band around his wrist that matches the one on his neck.
No. Focus on the bar. The ugly ambiance. Mitch/Beto changing the music to something heavier and turning it up a few notches. Anything else.
But the moment goes on too long, and I have to tear my gaze away from the bar. I find him watching me, rubbing the back of his fingers along his jaw. His hand drops, and he signals to Sebastian, who’s ordering at the bar behind him.
“Have you met my brother, Sebastian?” he asks, speaking over the music.
My heart launches into my throat. What if Sebastian knows me? It doesn’t seem like he would if Dean didn’t, but I can’t really be sure. But there’s no recognition in Sebastian’s eyes when he introduces himself.
“Ella,” I say, clearly. I can’t help but look between them. I’m sure they are always getting compared, but they have so many similarities. That slight cleft on the chin, those blue eyes, the need to have restrictions due to attractiveness. But as Sebastian smiles at me and steps back to get some drinks, I see their differences too. He doesn’t have that easy, fluid movement like Dean. Sebastian’s bigger, maybe a bit gruffer.
“You’re comparing us,” Dean says—close to my ear, probably so I can hear him over the music. But his closeness makes me realize how dry my throat is. How alone I’ve been—sitting on this stool with so much distance between me and everyone else around me.
“I…” I lick my dry lips and lean back. But then I run into Dev’s arm, which makes me jump too. Renee’s talking about how this bar is one of the first in town, like she actually enjoys coming here.
“It’s fine, Ella,” Dean says, his eyes flicking to my lips and then back up. “I’m used to it. Questions too. You can ask me anything you want.”
Anything I want. Like where his father lives? If he knows who my mother is? But I still don’t know how to start this conversation.
So instead, I raise an eyebrow. “Which one of you is the evil one?”
“Sebastian,” Dean says without pause. He tilts toward me, his leg close to mine. “Watch him. Bet you anything that he’ll run his hand over his mouth in the next few minutes. It’s because he doesn’t have a mustache to twirl.”
I look over Dean’s shoulder toward Sebastian, who’s leaning over the bar and speaking with Mitch. He nods and reaches for his wallet, taking it out and holding it in front of him while Mitch sets some shot glasses on the bar.
“Oh, is he ordering shots for all of us?” I can’t stop myself from smiling. “That discounts your evil theory.”
Dean’s laugh is warm. He doesn’t turn to look at his brother, but keeps his attention on me. “It’s probably part of some overarching evil plot. Seriously, you can’t miss the mustache twirls. Just wait for it.”
I swivel a little on the stool to see Sebastian better, and my knee presses into Dean’s thigh. He doesn’t step away. And I… don’t want him to. I want to pull him to me—feel the arc of his shoulder and bicep under my palm again.
Discover where that rope goes. What if I let myself?
“What’s my brother doing now?” Dean’s still looking at me—I can see him from the corner of my eye. And maybe he doesn’t know I ca
n see him, because his gaze travels down the side of my face, lingering on my neck. Just that look sends goosebumps shivering across my skin. If he touched me, the world might turn a little faster. There’s so much heat between us.
I shift on the stool, leaning closer to Dean. “He’s just standing there, holding his wallet and watching Mitch pour the shots. Oh, now he’s handing over a credit card. Which probably isn’t the smartest choice in this bar.”
My attention flicks to Dean. Crap, it’s hard not to look at him. And the knot of that necklace sits on the side of his neck—right where the muscles smooth down to his shoulder. And those blue eyes are going to be the death of me.
“Now he’s got the shots,” I say. “No mustache twirling.”
“Damn. Maybe I am the evil one.” Dean’s lopsided grin is about as far away from evil as one can possibly get. “But then I’d have to stop rescuing you. Or can I be both a hero and evil?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think it’s one or the other.”
Sebastian steps up next to us with a line of shots.
“Then I’ll pick hero.” Dean moves away to take two of the shots and passes one to me.
Amber liquid drips over the edge and onto my fingers. Renee grabs the shot as she always does, with a flip of her hair and a smile. She leans past Dev to toast me, her pink tank top sparkling in the low light. I mimic her easy cheers, and we all throw them back.
Oh, whiskey. I cough a little, then glance at Renee and raise my eyebrows. That was one drink, right?
“I was just telling Dev about the haunted lighthouse,” she says in answer.
“Haunted?” Dean asks from behind me. I turn to see him set his shot glass on the bar. Light filters through the glass and colors his fingers with reds and browns. The leather band on his wrist is tightly knotted. He runs a hand over his mouth and then stops himself—his hand hanging in front of his chin. Evil mustache move completed.
