Back To Back, стр. 49

“I want to show you something,” he says and then motions for me to let him up. I move and he goes to get the duffel full of items he took out of the safe. He rifles around until he pulls something out.

“This was one of the only things that I was able to save from the house during the fire. Except for the coffee table, but I went back and got that later,” he says, holding the album on his lap. I scoot over and he opens it.

“Oh, Sylas.” The album is filled with pictures from his childhood. Birthdays and summers outside and school pictures. He’s in a ton of them, but then so is his mother. She really was a beauty. I’ve only seen the few pictures Dad was able to save.

He turns the pages and I drink in all the snapshots of his life before his mother died. There he is, missing teeth and grinning as he opens a Christmas present. And again playing t-ball in a blue uniform.

I stop when I get to one of his mother. She’s wearing an apron with little blue flowers on it as she looks up from a cake she’s frosting. It looks like one of the cakes from Sylas’ birthday. Her face is radiant with a smile, the sun streaming in from the window behind her, lighting her up.

“She’s so beautiful,” I say, but that’s such an understatement.

“I know. Too beautiful for this world. She was too good.” I don’t know about that, but it’s a crime that her life was severed by the one man who was supposed to protect her, take care of her.

I’m about to turn the page of the album when I notice something. The floor of the kitchen looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Huh. I discard the feeling and turn the page of the album, but something in the back of my mind flickers and itches. I don’t know what to do to scratch it.

“What is it?” Sylas notices my discomfort somehow. He really must be able to read my mind. Or I’m just not very good at hiding my expressions anymore. Out of practice.

“Nothing. I’m just sad for you,” I say. “That she was taken from you, taken from Lizzy.” He sighs.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now and the person responsible is dead. That’s the best we can do.” I suppose it is. The picture is still bothering me, but I keep going through the album until I get to the end. There are tears in my eyes and they finally spill over. I wipe them away and Sylas lays the album aside.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry.”

“It’s okay, Saige. I wish I could cry. It’s normal to cry. But I can’t.” I’ve seen him cry before, but only when he’s at his emotional breaking point.

“I can’t seem to stop crying,” I say. I never thought of myself as all that emotional, but maybe it’s because I bottled everything up for so many years and it’s all getting squeezed out of me now.

“I love you anyway,” he says, tickling me in my ribs and turning the serious moment into something much lighter.

“Stop it,” I say, collapsing as he attacks me. The assault ceases and he smiles down at me.

“Thank you for letting me share that with you. I’ve never shown anyone those pictures,” he says. I reach up and stroke his stubbly face.

“Thank you for trusting me with them,” I say.

I love him. I love him so much I can’t even comprehend it. Can’t hold it in my hands. It would spill over my fingers. So much. Too much.

“How about I make dinner for a change?” he says. Neither of us are very good cooks, but we do our best.

“Sounds good.” It get a kiss on my nose before he climbs off me and heads to the kitchen.

I pick up the album and go back to the page with the picture of his mother. I stare at it, but I can’t figure out what is sparking something in my mind. It’s going to bother me until I can figure it out, but then there’s a crash in the kitchen and I have to go rescue Sylas from a frying pan with nefarious intentions.

Twenty-Five

This time when I wake from the nightmare, I know.

“I was there,” I gasp into Sylas as he holds me. The nightmares don’t always strike at the same time, but he’s always there with me when my eyes snap open.

“You were where, Saige?” he says in a soothing voice.

“The floor. The floor in the picture.” I can’t get the words coming from my mouth to come out right and explain what’s going on in my head. Everything is happening too fast, the images and thoughts bursting like too many fireworks.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it right now,” he says, but I need to make him understand.

“I saw her. I saw her bleeding on the floor, Sylas. Your mother.” His entire body stiffens, his muscles locking up and he’s holding me so tight it hurts.

“You need to tell me what you mean, right now, Saige.” His voice has a dangerous edge to it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I was there when she was killed. At least after. I can see it all now. Her body on the ground, the blood everywhere. I was outside in the rosebushes under the kitchen window.” He makes a sound that doesn’t seem human.

That’s what was bothering me about the linoleum floor. I’d seen it before. Now that I’ve uncovered the memory, it all rushes forward.

I was fourteen and angry with my dad for not letting me work more for him. He’d only give me simple jobs. Play jobs, really. I knew they weren’t real and it drove me crazy. So I did what I could to find out what he was doing. I’d hide in his office, in his closet, anywhere. I was small and limber enough from dance I could get myself in tight spaces and stay there for hours.

I would also hide in the trunk of his car whenever he’d go somewhere and lie to me about it. It was easy to pull the trunk release and let myself out when he got wherever he was going. Then I’d sneak around and find out what he was doing. In my brain, I justified it and I loved doing it. Yet another facet of my stupid teenage rebellion.

I’d been to Sylas’ house once before that afternoon. I didn’t know why Dad came here. He’d park and then I’d wait for him to get out of the car, but he would just sit with the engine off and then drive away. He stopped once and got out, but he was back so fast I barely had time to hop back in the trunk and pull it shut.

That day I’d pretended I was sick so I could stay home from school. I did that a lot and my mother never questioned it. She was far too busy shopping and getting her nails done and gossiping on the phone all the time. Dad was home for most of the day, but I heard him on the phone and knew he was going somewhere in the afternoon.

I got in the trunk and rode until the car stopped. I waited for the sound of Dad getting out and it happened a few minutes later.

Popping the trunk, I slipped out and shut it as quietly as I could. I was in a residential neighborhood, but parked in the driveway of what looked like an abandoned house.

I searched and found Dad walking between the houses. He’d taught me how to follow someone without being seen and I employed all of those skills, darting behind cars and bushes to make sure he didn’t see me.

Finally, he stopped just beyond one house. It looked like all the others and I wondered what my dad was doing here. Who was he following?

I crept closer and closer and watched as Dad looked into the one of the windows. He froze and then he was running, yanking open a side door. I rushed to see what was going on and pulled myself up on a windowsill.

Blood. A woman. My father.

Dad, cradling a woman who was covered in blood.

I was frozen until there was the sound of a beeping school bus. Dad kissed the dead woman’s forehead, in a place clean of blood and then bolted out the door again.

His front was covered in blood. It was so bright against his white shirt. Like paint.

I nearly tripped over myself to run back to the car. And then I did, falling. I wasn’t thinking about getting caught. Just getting away from the horrible scene. The woman’s eyes were blue and open and staring off into space. Something horrible happened in that house to that beautiful woman.