by Bright, Sera
She returned to the kitchen while I stared down at the plate of food. My appetite vanished. Ash wasn’t supposed to come back from L.A. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be searching for me after what had happened between us. I thought I’d made sure of that.
All the heartbreak of the last year threatened to pull me under if I didn’t get out of there. I slipped a five-dollar bill under the plate. Helen was going to be mad I hadn’t finished eating, but I didn’t care. I had to go home.
Chapter Two
When I was eleven years old, I started sneaking a boy in through my window. I’d do anything to keep him safe, even if I didn’t always know how…
It was the perfect night to scare the hell out of myself. Already after midnight, a late season storm was rolling in off the lake. Alone in my room, I snuggled into my favorite quilt on my bed and settled in to read a new horror novel. My dad worked the overnight shift at a factory in Cleveland, leaving me with the latest babysitter.
She hadn’t checked on me since dinner—the one I’d cooked and cleaned up—so I didn’t expect her to care that I was staying up late on a school night. I couldn’t sleep. The wind picked up, whistling between the trees surrounding my house.
A faint tap came from the window. I didn’t bother to glance up from my book. It was probably a branch hitting the glass on its way down to the ground. Another tap followed immediately, louder and more insistent. I bent back the cover of the paperback novel in my hands and stared at the window from my bed. My mind flew right to the urban legend about the teenagers making out in the car when a serial killer with a hook for a hand taps on their window, waiting to rip their throats out.
Another tap. Fear ran up my spine and my heart raced along with it. I threw the book as hard as I could at the window, hoping to scare whatever it was out there away. It cracked against the window frame and slid down to the floor.
A ghostly white hand appeared in the glass.
Oh. My. God. They’re going to find me dead in the morning and the only clue left will be a bloody hook left on the windowsill.
I screamed my head off and tried to jump out of bed. Tried being the operative word. The quilt tangled around my legs and I fell to the floor, knocking the wind out of my lungs. With a pained gasp, I kicked the blanket away and scrambled to my feet, focused on getting to the door alive.
“Katie!” A muffled shout came from the window. “What happened?”
I looked over my shoulder, even though everyone knows in slasher films the girl always gets it the second she stops to look back. My best friend’s face peered in the window. What was Ash doing outside my bedroom window so late? His mom would kill him. I spun around and hurried over, tugging the window open. He clung to the trellis several feet off the ground, his t-shirt damp from the sprinkling rain.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, shivering as a cold gust blew around us. Dead leaves from the backyard swirled in the air. “Is everything okay?”
He ignored my questions. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. He knew I was a total klutz. I’d survived worse. “Get in before we get caught.”
Ash pulled himself through the frame. I stuck my head out the window and scanned the backyard. The lights were off at his house, but I wanted to make absolutely sure no one watched us.
My heart stopped. In between the two large oak trees, there was a silhouette of a man. I leaned out the window. The trees swayed as another blast of wind swept through. Cold, misty rain stung my cheeks, and when I blinked to clear my eyes, the outline dissolved.
This was why I shouldn’t stay up late all the time. I freaked out about guys with hooks at my window and started seeing things that weren’t there. I quickly shut the window.
Ash stood barefoot in the middle of my room, his hazel eyes huge in his pale face. He had on simple pajama pants and an old t-shirt. Surprising, since his mom usually made him wear brand-name clothes he hated all the time. Dark brown hair stuck up in random cowlicks from the wind.
Worry gnawed at my stomach. Something was really wrong tonight. He wouldn’t risk sneaking out on a school night otherwise. His parents weren’t like my dad—they had rules and punishments.
A dull thump came from outside my room. My eyes went wide. The babysitter must have heard all my screaming, and I needed to head her off before she found Ash in my room. If she told my dad she’d found a boy in my room, he’d think it was funny. If she told Ash’s parents, it would be much worse.
I put my finger to my lips and pointed to the door. He nodded and hung back while I opened my bedroom door and listened. I didn’t hear any movement. I padded silently down the hall, running my fingers over the peeling wallpaper out of nervous habit.
A snore came from the living room, and my shoulders relaxed as I went over to the couch. I studied the sleeping woman. Her name was Karen. Or maybe Sharon. Very short and very blonde, she talked in a breathy voice like she was trying to imitate Marilyn Monroe. Definitely not very bright—she’d kept calling me Katherine. I tried to tell her Katie was short for Katelyn. The third or fourth time, I just gave up. She wouldn’t last long; none of the other babysitters had. They got tired of taking care of a bratty kid and sleeping on a lumpy couch.
“Karen?” I asked. “Are you awake?”
Nothing. She didn’t seem to mind the couch, at least. Passed out cold, she let out a snore that was more like a cross between a snort and a hiccup. An empty glass lay on the area rug. She must have knocked it over and that had been the sound I heard. I stooped down and picked it up.
She turned over with a burp. A sour smell hit my nose. Awesome. And this was the person who was supposed to protect me from an ax murderer breaking in and chopping me up into little pieces. I set the glass back on the coffee table. My dad had sworn he didn’t find this one at the bar. Liar.
I went back to my room, knowing she wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon. When I turned twelve next year, things would be so much easier. I could stay home alone, or so my dad said. He said lots of things that weren’t always true.
Back in my room, Ash watched out the window. Long and lanky, he was one of the tallest boys in our grade, as well as the quietest. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Just the way he held himself, so still and tight, brought the fear creeping back into my head. The earlier fright seemed weak in comparison.
My heart didn’t race. If anything, it ached. I hated the idea they might have hurt him again. I went to stand by his side. Tension rolled off of him and filled the room like the storm clouds outside filled the night sky.
“I shouldn’t be here. This was a stupid idea,” he said, his voice apologetic.
But he didn’t move toward the window or the door. Refusing to meet my searching gaze, he looked at his mud-splattered feet.
“You don’t have to go.” I plucked at the hem of my pajama top. “She’s not going to wake up anytime soon.”
We’d been best friends as long as I could remember. My first memory wasn’t my mother—she’d left when I was little. It wasn’t my father, either. It was playing in my backyard with Asher Townsend while our shared babysitter watched us from the shade. We couldn’t have been more than four years old. I think I loved him even then.
I laid a hand on his thin back, instinctively wanting to comfort him in some small way. “What’s wrong?”
He sucked in a breath as he jerked his shoulder away. My heart sank. I should’ve known better. He avoided being touched all the time.
“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered.
He took a couple steps to the window, moving stiffly. He was never awkward, unlike me. Even if he didn’t want to talk about it, he’d come over for a reason tonight. I understood that part of him more than anything else about him. Sometimes when you talked about things, saying the words out loud made them real. But if you didn’t say anything, you could almost pretend your problems didn’t exist. Almost.
I bit my lip and reached for the bottom of his shirt, uncertain how
he would react. He stopped when he felt the pull of my hand, and didn’t say a word as I lifted the back of his t-shirt up to look. His back was covered in thick red welts, and thin lines of blood wept from the skin of his shoulders. Tears came to my eyes. He trembled while he shoved his shirt down. It was the first time he’d ever let me see what they did to him.
“It’s not that bad,” he said fiercely, like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
“Yes, it is!” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn’t want him to see me cry. “Was it your mom this time?”
Ash’s mom was nice when everyone else was around, but a complete monster in private. When I was little, I’d wished I had a mom like her. But I’d caught on a couple of years ago. She wouldn’t let anyone come over. Then I’d noticed the fear on his face when she would call his name while we played together.
Sometimes, she wouldn’t know I was in the backyard and could hear every word she said through the fence. I wanted to be older and braver those times. I wanted to go over there and slap her, tell her she was the worthless one.
“N-no.” He stared out the window. “It was my dad, but only because he was drinking again and I shouldn’t have been listening.”
“We have to tell someone—”
“We can’t!” He finally turned to look at me, his face white. “You can’t tell anyone.”
I shook my head. They were only going to keep hurting him if we didn’t. But Ash’s dad was a cop. He’d just won a community award last month.
“If someone finds out, they’ll send me away and I can’t—” he choked out. “I can’t leave you.”
I glanced at the floor, clutching the bottom of my shirt. I wanted him to be safe, but I also didn’t want him to leave me. I was so selfish. Except there really wasn’t anyone we could tell. My dad worked all the time and couldn’t remember to sign a permission slip. I didn’t bother to remember the names of the revolving door of babysitters. Our teachers didn’t care about anything other than our test scores and grades. I didn’t know anyone I could trust to listen. I trusted Ash, and he always listened to me, but we were just kids.
“Promise me,” he said. “Promise you won’t do anything.”
The rain broke free from the sky, and heavy drops rattled down my window. I met his gaze and the pain in his eyes tore a hole through my heart. I couldn’t cause him any more pain.
Reluctantly, I answered, “I promise.”
Ash started to go toward the window, his shoulders sagging. I wished he didn’t have to go back to his house. To them. I couldn’t let him leave, not yet. Maybe there was a way I could make him feel better, just for a little bit.
“Wait.” I picked up the quilt off the floor. “Don’t go yet.”
I spread the quilt over my bed and crawled up to sit cross-legged on the colorful patches. I patted the space beside me. “The storm’s freaking me out. Would you sit with me? Please?”
He hesitated at the window. The ache in my chest worsened at the thought of him leaving when he was so sad.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I told him, making myself sound scared. I was used to being alone. What I really meant was I didn’t want him to be alone when he was hurting, but I didn’t know how to say it without making him feel worse.
The wind whined outside, and it seemed to help him make up his mind. He carefully climbed up and sat next to me on the bed, hunching over with his hands in his lap to keep his back off the wall. Together we silently watched the rain cover the window in silver sheets. The glow of the lamp on my nightstand cast shadows on the pale yellow walls of my room as the rain pounded on the roof.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to your mom?” he said with a weird note in his voice. “How things would’ve been different if she’d stayed?”
He focused on his hands, his hair curling on his high forehead. I didn’t understand why he mentioned my mother tonight, but compared to his problems, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. She had left when I was too little to know her. I thought about her sometimes, and how it was my fault she abandoned us. That was what my dad made it sound like when he talked about her.
“No,” I said finally. “I don’t care that she’s gone. It’s not like I remember her.”
“I just needed…” Ash trailed off and swallowed. “They’re asleep now, and I just wanted to get away.”
Without thinking, I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. He froze up, his eyes opening wide in shock. Why couldn’t I remember that even if it felt natural to me to reach out to him, it only made him more uncomfortable? I couldn’t do anything right. But before I could pull my hand away, he squeezed and held on tight. My stomach flipped in an odd little way.
“You can always come here,” I said. “It’ll be okay.”
My house wasn’t as nice as his, but it was safe. No one would hurt him here. I wouldn’t let them.
“I don’t think it’ll ever be okay.” His hand pulsed, warm and soft in mine. “But thanks.”
Chapter Three
Friday
I drove down a tucked-away side street to a small cul-de-sac where my house stood out, and not in a good way. One of the smallest houses in this area of far grander homes, it was a small Cape Cod bungalow with peeling blue paint and scraggly bushes. My father always called it the worst house in the best neighborhood, which fit, since the neighbors thought we were the worst family in a neighborhood of the best families. A nice, convenient lie to tell themselves and each other.
But I wasn’t looking at my house when I parked my truck at the curb. My eyes were on the For Sale sign planted in Ash’s front yard next door. His house seemed empty from where I sat. No drapes framed the windows and while the lawn was green and short, there was an air of indifference about the whole place.
Relief released some of the tension holding my chest hostage. His parents must have moved away. I wouldn’t have to face them while I was back in town. I hated both of them for everything they had done to Ash, but most of all, I hated them for using me as just another way to hurt him with their threats.
A gold sedan sat at the curb, and as far as I knew, it wasn’t his car, or theirs. But how much did I know after a year? Shame speared my heart, whispering that I didn’t deserve to know anything when I’d made it almost impossible for him to find me.
Last summer, I’d lied to him about leaving early for a special program at the University of Michigan, and packed up my truck in the middle of the night. Dumped my phone plan, scrubbed my online accounts except for an anonymous email account that only a few people knew. I had wanted to disappear, so I did. With a touch of dark irony, I even went by my mother’s maiden name. Why not? I was already enough like my mother.
I jolted upright when the front door of his house opened, but the shock quickly died when a well-groomed woman stepped out onto the front steps. She spotted me in the truck and waved. Too curious to try to avoid her, I climbed out of my truck and met her halfway, on the sidewalk.
“Are you here for my 9 a.m. showing?” She spoke in a nasal voice, her gaze gliding over my appearance. I gave her credit—her professional smile didn’t slip once.
“No, sorry.” I pointed toward Ash’s house. “I was wondering, though, what happened to the people who used to live there?”
“Oh, them?” She smiled, her teeth almost blue against the redness of her lipstick. “They’re fine. They got a great deal on a new house in the development right outside of town and didn’t want to wait for a buyer.”
“Thanks.” I turned toward my own house. I knew it was too much to hope that Ash’s parents had been horrifically maimed or, at the very least, left the country.
“Excuse me, young lady?” the woman called behind me. “I’m good friends with the owners. In fact, I’m helping Michelle with her campaign for state senate. If you tell me your name, I can pass on a message, since you were so concerned about how they were doing.”
Another band of tension eased. If his mothe
r was running for political office, they would be very careful right now. People might talk. “No, thank you.”
“Is that your house?” she called again.
I ground my teeth. It’d be pointless to lie, and rude to ignore her. I so wanted to be rude. “Yes.”
“That was the first house I sold,” she said. “Do the Flynns still live there?”
I turned to face her. “You sold this house to my parents?”
“Oh, yes.” She chuckled. “It was so long ago, I’m surprised I even remember. But it was my first house, and I was incredibly proud of it at the time. How are they doing?”
Before I could answer, her face colored. “I’m so sorry. I forgot—your mother passed away when you were small, didn’t she?”
“It’s okay.” Technically, she simply left at that point. My father was the one who told people she had died at the time, likely to use the grieving single father angle to his advantage. “It was a long time ago. But—”
The woman tipped her head to the side. “Yes, dear?”
“Do you remember meeting her?” All I knew was what my father had told me.
“Not a lot, unfortunately. She was very pregnant and had the cutest accent.” She looked to the house and her eyes softened, making her seem younger. “What I do remember was how excited she was about the room she wanted to be a nursery. She loved the light in one of the bedrooms, and insisted she was going to paint the room yellow.”
A weed tickled my ankle. He’d never told me that part.
The woman glanced over to me, and said, “You remind me of her, thinking about all of this now. She was very pretty and petite, just like you.”
My jaw spasmed involuntarily. I was aware how much I looked like her, every single time I looked in a mirror.
“Thanks again.” I looked back to my house, hoping she got the hint. “It was nice talking to you.”
“And it was nice meeting you.” She moved forward with her hand extended.
