by K. A. Tucker
Twice, I’ve called her, just to hear her voice.
But I had to come today. You can learn a lot about a person from poignant moments like an anniversary at the grave of someone that person loved. Things you definitely can’t learn through reading email or spying in coffee shops.
And so I sit on this bench, watching from behind my thick aviator glasses as people filter through the cemetery to leave flowers and words of longing to their loved ones. The sun plays hide-and-seek behind billowing clouds, and I absorb the heat from its rays in a way that I didn’t allow myself to for so long.
And I wait for her.
If I thought for a second that she’d recognize me, I wouldn’t be here. But, for all the times she’s seen me, she’s never really looked at me. She’s never so much as made eye contact.
Finally, the navy-blue Camry—the one I recognize as Aunt Darla’s—pulls up. Sliding off the bench, I take six quick steps to kneel before a random stone, offering my apologies to Jorge Mastracci for using his resting place as a cover.
The car is barely in park when Kacey jumps out of the backseat. I can’t really see her face. The top half is hidden behind giant dark sunglasses. The bottom half looks rigid, as usual.
She hangs back like a statue as her sister and aunt approach the twin tombstones, Livie hugging a large wreath of purple flowers, her aunt with a rosary dangling from her fingers, both wearing solemn expressions. Even from this distance, I can see Kacey’s throat bob up and down as she swallows repeatedly. As she fights against the emotions. I know that she’s a fighter. She’s strong. But, after four years, she needs to find a way to let go.
How much longer can she go on like this?
“Are you kidding me?” Suddenly Kacey’s diving toward the graves. Only when she stands up with a bouquet of flowers and tosses them to the side, her mouth pressed in a thin line of anger, do I know.
“Kacey!” her aunt cries out, her mouth hanging open. Livie doesn’t say a word, simply scooping the flowers up and adjusting some of the bent petals. She makes a move to place them back.
“Don’t you dare, Livie.” The iciness in Kacey’s tone as she warns her sister off sends chills down my spine.
“It’s a nice gesture,” Livie argues in a soft, even tone. A tone much too old for a fifteen-year-old to be using.
Snatching the bouquet from her sister’s hand, Kacey marches off.
I bow my head, my heart speeding up with each angry step as she cuts through the grass.
Heading straight for me.
Fuck. Not again.
“Here.” The flowers land in front of me. “I’m sure Jorge could use them.” Without waiting for my response, she spins on her heels and marches back. And I release the air held tight in my lungs.
I check the small tag peeking out, to confirm.
We are always thinking of you. The Reynolds family.
She can’t even handle a simple gesture like flowers from us.
They stay for another half hour, both Livie and Darla talking to the tombs while Kacey stares off into nothing. I keep my head down the entire time, not wanting to attract her attention. Only when they pile into the car and drive away do I get up, settling the flowers from my parents back in between the two tombstones.
I’ve definitely learned something by coming here. That forgiveness isn’t in Kacey’s vocabulary.
Chapter 20
August 2012
Miami?
I give my eyes a good rub before checking my computer screen again. “How long was I asleep?” I mutter, checking the time stamps to the emails. They started at ten last night. Four emails in total between Kacey and a guy named Harry Tanner, property manager of an apartment building in Miami, Florida.
Where Kacey and Livie are apparently moving.
Next week.
“Fuck!” Miami is a helluva lot farther than Caledonia, Michigan. “Why?” There’s not much to go on from the email. Kacey answered an ad on an online site, asking for a two-bedroom. When Tanner requested references, she said she’d pay him six months’ rent upfront, cash. The subject line in his responding email said, “Sold!” on top.
And now they’re moving to Miami.
What the hell happened? There’s no way their aunt and uncle are okay with this. Livie’s, what, fifteen? Just starting her sophomore year of high school?
Something must have happened.
I fall back into my chair with a heavy sigh, letting my eyes roll over the two-bedroom condo I bought almost a year ago, the walls still white and without a single picture hung. I just got a couch the other week. Before that, I was watching TV in an armchair. It’s a place to stay, nothing more. It’s never felt like home. And now it feels more like a trap.
How far away is Miami, exactly? I quickly type into Google. “Twenty-one hours to drive.” My stomach sinks. I was actually considering getting a place out by Lansing and renting this out. So I could be closer to Kacey. Then I realized how fucking creepy that is.
Now she’s moving to Miami. But for what?
Maybe to start over . . .
Maybe to let go of her past.
That could mean all kinds of things—good things. Like maybe she’ll be ready to meet some guy. To let herself fall in love.
Unfolding the piece of lined paper that I’ve carried around in my pocket for over two years now, I read the words for the thousandth time and realize that I don’t want her meeting some other guy. Falling in love with some other guy.
I want her to meet me. Trent Emerson. The guy who wants to feel the warmth that I know exists within her. The guy who’s tied to her forever, whether she likes it or not. The one who needs to somehow make things right with her because I made everything so wrong.
Before I can fully think through what I’m doing, I’ve copied Tanner’s email address into my own email and fired off a message, inquiring about an apartment.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I have a response. A one-bedroom is available beginning next week, if I have references.
I don’t. But I have money. That’s the thing about living the way I have for four years. Besides this condo and the Harley I bought three months ago after getting my motorcycle license, I haven’t spent a dime. I’ve got plenty sitting in my account.
Enough to cover six months’ rent.
In a matter of twenty minutes, I’ve secured a furnished one-bedroom apartment in the same building as Kacey Cleary, leaving me spinning. I was afraid this Tanner guy might get suspicious, having another person offer cash in place of references, and the exact same length of time. But if he is, he’s not letting it get in the way of a deal.
Is this really happening? Yes, it is. And she’s not going to ignore me anymore, I decide. I’m going to make her see me. But I can’t rush this; I have to get it right. I’m only going to get one chance.
Chapter 21
I can barely hear anything with the blood rushing into my ears as I watch my new landlord lumber through the common area with Kacey and Livie trailing behind, pink suitcases bumping along the path. It’s not much more than what I came with, given that I rode my bike down, figuring I’d just buy what I need.
For a few days there, I was afraid that I’d just handed Hank Tanner six months’ rent for nothing. That Kacey would have bailed. There was nothing stopping her from backing out. Maybe she hadn’t paid the guy upfront, after all.
But I can breathe now, because she’s here.
Through the gauzy curtains, I see the awkward Tanner thumb toward my apartment and I instinctively take a step back. I’d kill to hear the conversation. Especially if it’s anything like the “no orgies” rundown that he gave me before handing me my keys.
Within minutes, they’ve disappeared into the apartment beside mine.
And so I wait.
Tanner reappears a few minutes later, a fat envelope gr
ipped within his meaty hand.
And . . . what now? Are they going to hang out in the courtyard? Do I just walk out and sit down beside them? No, that won’t work.
After twenty minutes of pacing, I settle back into the desk that I’d strategically pulled up to the window so I could attempt to get some work done. As far as anyone knows, I’m in Rochester, working away in my home office. Luckily my mom doesn’t do drop-ins. I stopped by her place the day before I left and gave her an extra-big hug, so big that I saw anxiety flickering in her eyes. I can’t forget to text her every day.
I don’t think she’ll ever stop worrying about me. Not in the way a mother worries about her child. The way a mother worries about the son who should have died. Twice.
But I’m not going anywhere now, not when I’m sure I can help Kacey. I just need a chance.
And I get that chance. Hours later, after they’ve gone and come back with grocery bags dangling from their fingertips, the door slams shut and a flame of red passes by, a laundry basket with bedsheets in hand.
I dive for my own sheets, gathering them into a bundle, my jug of Tide in my free hand. And I head for the set of stairs that lead down to the laundry room. Machine doors slam on the other side and my heart begins racing. Am I really ready for this?
I can almost hear the note that sits in my back pocket answering me, giving me courage. The courage that I will need if I want to make her smile again. Because it’s all I want to do.
To make her smile again.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the door.
Acknowledgments
This is an extremely sad story that for a long time I didn’t see myself ever writing. But I’m glad that I decided to do it. It gives Trent a chance to explain himself—what he went through and why he did what he did, as crazy as some of it seemed.
I have a few people to thank for their help getting me here.
To Treini Joris-Johnson, for your paramedics expertise. You helped me get that chaotic scene just right.
To my readers and my super-readers (the bloggers), for continuing along this journey with me, picking up my books, and for helping to spread the word.
To my street team, for your willingness to jump whenever I ask. You ladies are awesome.
To K.P. Simmon of Inkslinger PR, for dropping everything and calling me the moment I texted to tell you I was going to write Trent’s story.
To my agent, Stacey Donaghy, for coming full-circle with me and this series (and going above and beyond.)
To my editor, Sarah Cantin, for wanting this story. I actually knew where I was going with this before I started writing it! This is the first time (and probably the last time, so we should celebrate this.)
To my publisher, Judith Curr, and the team at Atria Books: Ben Lee, Ariele Fredman, Tory Lowy, Kimberly Goldstein, and Alysha Bullock, for helping me get this story out.
To my husband and my girls, for tolerating a surprise book in my already busy schedule.
Turn to the next page for an excerpt of K. A. Tucker's Burying Water
PROLOGUE
Jesse
now
This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . .
The words cycle round and round in my mind like the wheels on my speeding ’Cuda as its ass-end slips and slides over the gravel and ice. This car is hard to handle on the best of days, built front-heavy and overloaded with horsepower. I’m going to put myself into one of these damn trees if I don’t slow down.
I jam my foot against the gas pedal.
I can’t slow down now.
Not until I know that Boone was wrong about what he claims to have overheard. His Russian is mediocre at best. I’ll give anything for him to be wrong about this.
My gut clenches as my car skids around another turn, the cone shape of Black Butte looming like a monstrous shadow ahead of me in the pre-dawn light. The snowy tire tracks framed by my headlights might not even be the right ones, but they’re wide like Viktor’s Hummer and they’re sure as hell the only ones down this old, deserted logging road. No one comes out here in January.
The line of trees marking the dead end comes up on me before I expect it. I slam on my brakes, sending my car sliding sideways toward the old totem pole. It’s still sliding when I cut the rumbling engine, throw open the door, and jump out, fumbling with my flashlight. It takes three hard presses with my shaking hands to get the light to hold.
I begin searching the ground. The mess of tread marks tells me that someone pulled a U-turn. The footprints tell me that more than one person got out. And when I see the half-finished cigarette butt with that weird alphabet on the filter, I know Boone wasn’t wrong.
“Alex!” My echo answers once . . . twice . . . before the vast wilderness swallows up my desperate cry. With frantic passes of my flashlight, my knuckles white against its body, I search the area until I spot the sets of footprints that lead off the old, narrow road and into the trees.
Frigid fingers curl around my heart.
Darting back to my car, I snatch the old red-and-blue plaid wool blanket that she loves so much from the backseat. Ice-cold snow packs into the sides of my sneakers as I chase the trail past the line of trees and into the barren field ahead, my blood rushing through my ears the only sound I process.
The only sign of life.
Raw fear numbs my senses, the Pacific Northwest winter numbs my body, but I push forward because if . . .
The beam of light passes over a still form lying facedown in the snow. I’d recognize that pink coat and platinum-blond hair of hers anywhere; the sparkly blue dress that she hates so much looks like a heap of sapphires against a white canvas.
My heart freezes.
“Alex.” It’s barely a whisper. I’m unable to produce more, my lungs giving up on me. I run, stumbling through the foot of snow until I’m on my knees and crawling forward to close the distance. A distance of no more than ten feet and yet one that seems like miles.
There’s no mistaking the spray of crimson freckling the snow around her head. Or that most of her long hair is now dark and matted. Or that her silver stockings are torn and stained red, and a pool of blood has formed where her dress barely covers her thighs. Plenty of footprints mark the ground around her. He must have been here for a while.
I know that there are rules to follow, steps to make sure that I don’t cause her further harm. But I ignore them because the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me I can’t possibly hurt her more than he already has. I nestle her head with one hand while I slide the other under her shoulder. I roll her over.
Cold shock knocks the wind out of me.
I’ve never seen anybody look like this.
I scoop her limp body into my arms, cradling the once beautiful face that I’ve seen in every light—rage to ecstasy and the full gamut in between—yet is now unrecognizable. Placing two blood-coated fingers over her throat, I wait. Nothing.
A light pinch against her lifeless wrist. Nothing.
Maybe a pulse does exist but it’s hidden, masked by my own racing one.
Then again, by the look of her, likely not.
One . . . two . . . three . . . plump, serene snowflakes begin floating down from the unseen sky above. Soon, they will converge and cover the tracks, the blood. The evidence. Mother Nature’s own blanket to hide the unsightly blemish in her yard.
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t try to restrain the hot tears as they roll down my cheeks to land on her mangled lips—lips I had stolen plenty of kisses from, back when I was too stupid to realize how dangerous that really was. This is my fault. She had warned me. If I had just listened, had stayed away from her, had not told her how I felt . . .
. . . had not fallen wildly in love with her.
I lean down to steal a kiss even now, the coppery taste of her blood mixing with my salty tears
. “I’m so damn sorry. I should never have even looked your way,” I manage to get out around my sobs, tucking the blanket she loved to curl up in over her.
An almost inaudible gasp slips out. A slight breeze against my mouth more than anything else.
My lungs freeze, my eyes glued to her, afraid to hope. “Alex?” Is it possible?
A moment later, a second gasp—a wet, rattling sound—escapes.
She’s not dead.
Not yet, anyway.
ONE
Alex
in between
A fire.
The fragrance calls to me.
I cannot see, for my eyes are sealed shut against the wicked glow in his stare.
I cannot hear, for my ears have blocked out his appalling promises.
I cannot feel, for my body has long since shattered.
But, as I lie in the cool stillness of the night, waiting for my final peace, that comforting waft of burning bark and twigs and crispy leaves encases me.
It whispers to me that everything will be okay.
And I so desperately long to believe it.
Beep . . .
“. . . basilar skull fracture . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . collapsed lung . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . ruptured spleen . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . frostbite . . .”
Beep . . .
Beep . . .
“Will she live?”
Beep . . .
“I honestly don’t know how she has survived this long.”
Beep . . .
“We need to keep this quiet for now.”
“Gabe, you just showed up on the doorstep of my hospital with a half-dead girl. How am I supposed to do that?”
“You just do. Call me if she wakes up. No one questions her but me. No one, Meredith.”
“Don’t try to talk yet,” someone—a woman—warns softly. I can’t see her. I can’t see anything; my lids open to mere slits, enough to admit a haze of light and a flurry of activity around me—gentle fingertips, low murmurs, papers rustling.
