The corners of his mouth turn downward as he shuffles backward a step, taking a cue from the pain flashing in my eyes. “This . . . wasn’t your fault.”
When he repeats it, the hesitation causes the memory to echo even louder in my ears. Dad’s words coming from Oliver’s lips feels almost like a betrayal, and yet, the most bittersweet passage of poetry ever spoken. My heart throbs to the point where it hurts to fill my lungs, the pressure unbearable. The tears that fell over and over during my recollection of the crash blur again in my vision as I whisper, “How did you know that?”
“I knew, that’s all.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he hadn’t finished a dead man’s sentence. Though he acts casual, his voice is gentle. It’s clear that he wants very much to comfort me in some way, but he doesn’t know how. I’m not sure I’d let him anyway.
I’ve been through so much in the past day that I’ve stopped reacting the way I ought to—including developing a crush on Oliver. Having feelings for him is at the very top of my not-to-do list, or it should be. No dating the dead—it sounds like a given. But when he looks at me with such intensity, like he’d throw himself in front of a moving vehicle or take on a thousand Conductors to keep me safe, it stirs up the swirl of confusion all over again.
Angry mobs surrounding me, Duke getting hurt, stumbling into The Divide, The Conductors nearly dragging me to who-knows-where, reliving the worst moments of my life before Mitte, and finding any kind of emotional energy for puppy love? Whatever. Even I can admit when I’m completely losing it. I laugh and shake my head at my own ridiculousness.
Oliver tries to keep up with the wide sway of my mood swings, but he has to blink a few times before he realizes I’m laughing instead of crying. “Are you okay?”
My laughter breaks down into shoulder-shaking rumbles and I can barely breathe. Tears stream down my face, but this time they’re not from sadness. I’m seriously cracking up. Somehow I manage to gasp, “I need to go back home.”
“That’s fine. We should head back to the cabin soon, anyway—before sunset.”
“No. I want to go back to my aunt’s.” Actually, I don’t know what I want. Getting far, far away from Mitte sounds pretty darn appealing. But if that isn’t an option—and I know it isn’t—at least I can sort things out in my head a little better in my own room. There’s the added benefit of not getting dragged away by Conductors if I get up in the middle of the night to pee. Yes, the more I think about indoor plumbing and electricity, the more I’m convinced that I need to return to the mansion.
Oliver doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the idea. “I don’t know, Lucy. I haven’t talked to anyone in town to see if it’s even safe to bring you out of hiding.”
“I’ll stay inside all night, promise.” A couple days ago, his protective streak would have made me angry, but Angus hadn’t confronted me and split Duke’s head open on the pavement then. I shudder remembering the way Duke’s head had sounded like a ripe watermelon thudding against the ground. That should have been my head split open on the pavement, and, given the right opportunity, I doubt Angus will spare me again. Now I can see what Oliver’s been trying to shield me from. Danger really is all around me.
“Well . . . If you promise to stay inside, maybe,” he says, stroking his chin as he stares off into the distance. “And I can stick around the orchard.”
“Fine. Perfect. Let’s do that,” I say, impatient to get back to the house before he talks himself out of allowing it. The longer I let him think about it, the more opportunity he has to come up with a list of reasons why it’s such a horrible idea. I even walk over to Jasper and swing myself into the saddle before Oliver can react.
“Hey!” He clicks his tongue behind his teeth as he approaches me. “You got lucky this time, but you might want to check to make sure the girth’s tight before you get on, unless you like eating dirt.” He sets his jaw in determination as he tightens the leather around Jasper’s belly. It’s something so routine to Oliver, and I’m sure he can do it with his eyes closed, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I loosen the saddle so he can relax while I work,” Oliver explains.
In that moment, I know the kind of man Oliver had been when he was alive. Caring and compassionate, a protector. If I’d met him at Manny’s party, I’m sure he wouldn’t have tried to stick his tongue in my ear uninvited and in front of half the school. He’d taken care of his family until the very end, until tragedy stole that from him. Death had tried to steal the best parts of the man standing before me, but it hadn’t succeeded. If anything, his loyalty had intensified, like it was the only thing left.
Sitting behind me on the spotted horse, Oliver shows me the way back to Aunt Perdita’s place, a short ride through the apple trees. All the way, his eyes scan the deepening shadows for any dangers lurking there. I let him, and I don’t even roll my eyes because, even as annoying as it is, I know he can’t help but protect me. Why he wants to keep me so safe when I treat him poorly and mope around, I don’t have a clue, but my irritation with him slowly turns into gratefulness. Without Oliver, I would have died, or worse, several times over. Though I’m not afraid of death, necessarily, because it would mean being reunited with Mom and Dad, I don’t care to die at the hands of a snarling ghost biker or creatures so awful that words fail to adequately describe them. When I choose to move on—really move on—I hope it will be on my terms and nothing more sinister than that.
The great white mansion slumbers as we enter through the French doors off the patio. I expect Aunt Perdita to meet us in a rage, hair flying out like a banshee, spewing split pea soup from her terrible mouth. Or perhaps she sits waiting in one of the stiff chairs in the parlor, hands folded in her lap, ready to interrogate and carry out a harsh sentence. I imagine her locking me away in my room for the rest of eternity, only allowing me stale heels of bread and glasses of warm water in a dented tin cup. She’ll install one of those peepholes in my bedroom door so she can slide it open just wide enough for me to see her icy eyes and then snap it closed again when she finishes tormenting me. I watch too many movies.
As we slip through the shadows stretching across the parlor and into the entryway, Aunt Perdita is nowhere to be found. It doesn’t surprise me, really, despite my dramatic imagination. Still, I try to quiet my awkward gait as we make our way down the corridor to my room. Oliver peeks into every unlocked room along our path, looking for any indication something is off. His search concludes at my room, where he spends a long while circling around, peering under my bed and in my closet, then in my bathroom and behind the shower door.
“Everything looks fine,” he announces. He manages to sound sad and relieved, all at the same time.
I move toward the bathroom, anxious to turn on the shower and wash away the worst parts of the past day. I pause at the door, and turn to smile at him one last time before he leaves me. “I guess so. Thanks.”
He hesitates near the foot of the canopy bed, running his fingers lightly across the spread. I wait for him to work out what he wants to say. When he finally speaks, all he manages is, “I’ll be out in the trees, if you need me.”
“Okay,” I answer simply, punctuating it with a quick nod. My heart dips in my chest in disappointment at his practical statement. It’s not the response I expected—from him or from me. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to—at least not now. All I want is to get cleaned up and pass out in my bed, free from any more danger for the moment. Anything else is icing on the cake.
“So this is goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
Our eyes meet, and he holds me there in an embrace. Not an actual embrace, full of tangled limbs and thrumming pulses, but something else that makes me feel strangely exposed. He doesn’t dare cross the space between us to tuck me securely in his arms, but his soul reaches out for mine—just for a second. Just until heat washes over my body. Suddenly very aware of our connection, I twirl the long tail of my head scarf between my fingers and glance toward t
he window.
Beyond the feeble cover of the gauzy curtain, the blood-red sun stains the horizon outside. Night follows closely on the heels of the day’s fading beauty, eager to conceal every trace of her existence. Oliver needs to go to the night, too.
“It’s almost—” As I turn my attention back to him, my eyes stop at the bedside table. A fresh bloom floats within the curve of the delicate bowl. My heart stops, stutters, then rushes forward in frantic motion.
Oliver knows my father’s dying words, the same words Dad had been unable to complete. He knows about the pink rose my parents exchanged every week. How can he know those things? He can’t, unless . . .
Unless Dad is here. In Mitte. With me. My chest swells with the idea, and tears slip down my cheeks. My father, here with me again in this awful place, makes me happy beyond words. Now I won’t be alone.
But you’re not alone.
I push aside my inner voice because, obviously, my inner voice can’t appreciate how huge this really is. It’s huger than huge.
But, Oliver . . .
Oliver. Of course! Oliver will know for sure.
“He’s here?” I ask, my words hopeful. But when I glance back to the door, Oliver’s gone.
I move as quickly as I can down the hall, trying to catch him before he disappears into the night. My voice echoes and crescendos from the walls and the high ceilings, punctuated by the urgent long and short notes from my flip-flops slapping on the tile. With each step, worry worms itself further into my brain, eating away at my resolve. He probably defies all laws of physics or whatever when I’m not around. He’s probably halfway across the orchard by now, and I’ve barely made it to the parlor. My questions will have to wait for the morning.
No! I refuse to rest until I see Dad and feel him with my own hands. I need to see him whole again and warm to the touch. A spark flickers and glows beneath my skin, and I fan it forward into a blaze as I cross the foyer to the only other person who can give me the answers I seek.
My hand hovers over Aunt Perdita’s door, ready to knock.
Chapter 17
I knock twice, hard, feeling bold in my search for information about my dad.
There’s no answer.
I try once more, pounding a little harder. Again, silence wraps around me.
The next time I knock, I pair it with an “Aunt Perdita!” I repeat this a few more times with no response, until it’s clear she’s not going to open the door. My shoulders droop, and I turn back to my room.
That’s when I hear it—a faint scraping on the other side of the heavy door. White-hot anger flashes through my body, momentarily blinding me. She’s in there, all right. I’m not usually filled with rage, and I’m not very strong, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could splinter her door into a million pieces just to see the look of shock on her face. The way she treats me feels wrong on so many levels, considering I’ve never done a thing to her, besides . . . kill her sister.
No wonder she despises the very sight of me. If the roles were reversed, maybe I’d hate me, too. No need to go to all the trouble to convince me I’m horrible for what I did. I’m already not my biggest fan.
I almost give up right then and there, defeated, until I remember why I came to my aunt in the first place. My dad’s out there somewhere, and maybe just as lost and scared as I am. With renewed urgency, I pound on the door once more. “Please let me in. I need to talk to you.” My voice quakes, matching the zigzag of emotions darting through me.
Silence.
Aunt Perdita’s obviously in there—why won’t she answer?
I bite my lower lip, dreading what surely will come next. Bursting into the room uninvited won’t make friendship with my aunt any easier, nor will unanswered questions about my dad’s whereabouts make it possible for me to concentrate on anything else. One more deep breath in, and I place my hand on the door handle. A breath out, and I press the handle down, simultaneously easing the door open.
The room glows harshly, and I blink furiously for several seconds until my vision gets with the program. As soon as my pupils adjust, I promptly throw up on the floor, barely missing my own feet.
“Get out of here, now!” Aunt Perdita roars, her head flying up from where it had been resting on the bed. Her bloodshot eyes protrude from her chalky, bloated face.
I stumble backward a step, trying to make sense of the scene before me. A wave of nausea hits me again, my mouth pooling with bitter saliva. My body becomes sticky with sweat. The tangy metallic smell of blood and something burning does me no favors, and I heave again, this time finding a wastebasket near the doorway.
Doc Blevins, dressed in gore-stained surgical scrubs, crouches over her wide-open abdomen, wielding a razor-sharp scalpel that glitters dangerously in the lights. He’s gutting her alive, with no anesthesia, no hospital room, no witnesses . . . except me.
“What’s . . .” I take a woozy step forward, sure that I need to save her from this madman. The room spins around me and I pause.
The doctor shoots Aunt Perdita an anxious look, which is when I notice the circular mass of dark, coagulated blood at the base of his spine.
“You—you’ve been shot?” I choke after heaving over the wastebasket again.
“I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT,” my aunt shrieks.
It’s an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life—or the rest of whatever this is. No matter how much she despises me, I don’t want any harm to come to her. My definition of harm definitely includes being dissected while still alive, with her vital organs arranged on the sheet next to her like they’re playing a real, live game of Operation. And she’s demanding I leave her here to this torture.
Tears flood my eyes, and I stagger toward the door. “I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry.” Sobs wrack my body as I back into the doorjamb. I can’t remember why I came here in the first place, but I know I’d been desperate for her help. Now I feel sick, drowning in sadness as I watch the life drain from my only remaining family.
Alone, once again. Everything else fades into the background.
My aunt turns her face from me, focusing instead on the blank wall. With a sober expression, Doc’s eyes meet mine. “Lucy, please leave us. You can’t help her, as much as I know you want to.”
I manage the smallest of nods, letting the truth of his words sink in. That horrible, glaring white room will become her tomb, I know without a doubt. I leave her to the doctor’s mercy because I know I cannot save them. I can’t save anyone at all, not even myself. No, I was born to destroy.
The moonlight washes through the great wall of windows as I thud through the parlor. He said he would be in the orchard if I needed him, and I’m pretty sure this counts as a need. The night had flown in to nest for the evening, a black raven with wings of violet blue. The full moon floats high above, cutting a smoky path through the void. I can make out my steps easily, guided by the faint light above, but still I move with slow, deliberate steps. My skin crawls over my frame, wanting to be anywhere else but out in the open where God-only-knows-what can easily spot me.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
This time I agree with my inner voice, cursing my hip as it clicks and sticks, biting my tongue raw each time my undependable ankle protests beneath my weight. The welcoming arms of the trees urge me forward, and I train my eyes on the goal. Only in the shelter of the trees will I stop to call out for Oliver. I don’t know why, but the trees seem like good secret-keepers. They won’t turn me over to the darkness. It’s true that they’re trees, without the ability to discern right from wrong or good from evil, which is lucky for me since I can’t quite figure out which side I belong to.
Finally, I reach the deepest shadows of the orchard, and I collapse against the trunk of the nearest tree. Then and only then do I allow myself to think again about the grisly things happening back at the mansion. As soon as her tortured face forms in my mind, I have to think of something else. My stomach rolls, though there’s nothing left to lose.
Y
ou shouldn’t be out here. Focus!
I nod in agreement. Though it’s dark, I close my eyes to shut out the grey forms swaying at the edge of the grove. The orchard appears smaller than it had last time I ventured here after dark. Then, it seemed to stretch on and on endlessly. The gentle breeze trails across my bare skin, and I hope it will deliver my message to Oliver alone. But what if he isn’t the one to hear my plea—I haven’t thought this through very well, or at all.
What option do I have? Stay here and wait for The Conductors to put me out of my misery? Or return to the house where I’ll be haunted by what I witnessed tonight? I utter a prayer under my breath, asking for God to help, though I’m not sure if He can hear anyone in this forsaken place.
Now. Call out to him now.
“I need you, Oliver.” The words come as naturally as an exhale, barely louder than a whisper. The desperation in my words push them deep into the gloom. I don’t know how I’ll know if he heard me, or how long to wait, but it’s not long at all before I pick up the sound of heavy footfalls traveling my direction. To be safe, I hold my breath and curl into a ball near the base of the nearest tree. Hiding is probably a waste of time, as I’m probably the only person in this town who can’t see in the dark. Funny—even in a town full of strange things, I’m still the freak.
“Lucy,” he breathes into the night, so very close.
Relief floods over me at the sound of his voice and his nearness. I clamber to my feet and turn in a slow circle, trying to place him within the darkness. Before I can make out his outline against that of the trees, Oliver finds me. His hand moves up to stroke my cheek tenderly, hesitating when he feels the traces of my tears.
“What is it?” His hushed voice brims with concern.
I can’t answer him because I’ve broken down crying again. I throw my arms around his neck to support myself, and bury my face in his chest. He stiffens beneath me, caught off guard by my embrace. After a moment, he softens and wraps his arms around me, resting his chin against the top of my head. It’s the safest I’ve felt in a very long time, and I don’t want it to end even though I know the longer we stay here the greater our chances of discovery. There’s already been enough discovery for one day. My body shudders, living and reliving my aunt’s butchering, and I nuzzle closer to him.
In the Middle Page 12
