“Your kid okay?”
“Seems to be. The subject hasn't come up again. It seems to have been a bad break. And the meds have helped. But we watch her, and I worry—”
He sighs. “Don't we all.”
“What about you?” I need some noise to cover the sounds of Milla crying, at least if I want to leave her the privacy to keep it to herself.
He shakes his head. “I'd rather not go into it.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
Denise tightens her lips, and I pat her shoulder. She glances toward the pipe again, echoing my own reaction. “You wanna go see if she's okay?” Her voice hardly reaches my ears, it's so thin and whispery.
Relief spreads through me, at not having to justify it. “Yeah. I'll go do that.”
She squeezes my hand, and turns back to Allen. By the time their low voices resume filling the empty space, I'm already finding Milla's path down to the subfloor.
There's not room to stand straight, but there's not standing water either. The pipe she's in is about the size of a coffin, and for a moment I wonder how she can stomach it.
I knock on the side of the pipe, to let her know I'm there, but she doesn't say anything, or react. So I sit next to the opening of the pipe, and take her hand. I stroke her fingers, and try to will some of my own fortitude into her.
This time I'm smart enough not to ask what I'm comforting her from.
Chapter Six
Milla
Crying’s mortifying. Especially in such close confines. Knowing everyone here knows, that none of them will be able to meet my eye... but it doesn't matter, anyways. And I can't help it. Calder's questions, his smug look... it leaves no doubt in my mind that he knows exactly who I am, and exactly what happened to my family. And is needling me for it.
Evil fucker.
I can't shove him away, not without risking his anger. And if he's angry... if he exposes me to them, lets them know that not only do I have a reason to kill them, but the skills to do it...
Fuck, how I wish I'd slid the knife out of my pocket when he approached, dragged it across his wrist when he reached for me. Blood for blood. None of these mind-games, him baiting me, and me playing along, letting him kiss me, me kissing back, and us pretending either of us is a human, capable of bonding.
Fuck .
At least he doesn't attempt to talk. Just squeezes my hand, and stares at the back of my head. It's the reason I won't look up, won't take my face out of my arms.
Fuck Calder Roane.
I should be trying to sleep—the others are plainly settling in for the night. Which makes my outburst all the more noticeable. But the pain wells in me, too deep to be purged, even if I cried myself into a desiccated mummy.
The memories are strong enough, even, to chase away the burned stench. I want to seize Allen by the hair, press my face into his burned skin, and inhale, just to cling to it a moment longer. Better that than the bitter tang of gunsmoke and blood.
It's late enough that I should be in bed, but Dad's preoccupation has kept Mom busy, and no one's outright ordered it. So it's a rare privilege, watching the after-midnight programming.
Mara is already in bed, sleeping soundly. We have to keep the TV on low, to avoid waking her. Every time someone laughs too loudly on the TV, my head twists back toward our bedroom door, reassuring myself that her shadow's not moving against the pastel floral wallpaper. If she gets up, she's gonna make enough noise to remind them I'm supposed to be in bed, too.
I laugh under my breath at a bad joke, but the laugh turns to a hitch and a cry, as the front door slams open, the handle hanging loose and broken from the force of it.
My dad lunges to his feet, diving for the little safe secured to the wall, and my mom darts for the phone, as two men walk in as though they own the place. I glare at them in confusion; I don't know who they are, or why they're here, but I'm not stupid. I've seen enough action movies to recognize a gun when I see it.
“Put it down,” one of
“Seems to be. The subject hasn't come up again. It seems to have been a bad break. And the meds have helped. But we watch her, and I worry—”
He sighs. “Don't we all.”
“What about you?” I need some noise to cover the sounds of Milla crying, at least if I want to leave her the privacy to keep it to herself.
He shakes his head. “I'd rather not go into it.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
Denise tightens her lips, and I pat her shoulder. She glances toward the pipe again, echoing my own reaction. “You wanna go see if she's okay?” Her voice hardly reaches my ears, it's so thin and whispery.
Relief spreads through me, at not having to justify it. “Yeah. I'll go do that.”
She squeezes my hand, and turns back to Allen. By the time their low voices resume filling the empty space, I'm already finding Milla's path down to the subfloor.
There's not room to stand straight, but there's not standing water either. The pipe she's in is about the size of a coffin, and for a moment I wonder how she can stomach it.
I knock on the side of the pipe, to let her know I'm there, but she doesn't say anything, or react. So I sit next to the opening of the pipe, and take her hand. I stroke her fingers, and try to will some of my own fortitude into her.
This time I'm smart enough not to ask what I'm comforting her from.
Chapter Six
Milla
Crying’s mortifying. Especially in such close confines. Knowing everyone here knows, that none of them will be able to meet my eye... but it doesn't matter, anyways. And I can't help it. Calder's questions, his smug look... it leaves no doubt in my mind that he knows exactly who I am, and exactly what happened to my family. And is needling me for it.
Evil fucker.
I can't shove him away, not without risking his anger. And if he's angry... if he exposes me to them, lets them know that not only do I have a reason to kill them, but the skills to do it...
Fuck, how I wish I'd slid the knife out of my pocket when he approached, dragged it across his wrist when he reached for me. Blood for blood. None of these mind-games, him baiting me, and me playing along, letting him kiss me, me kissing back, and us pretending either of us is a human, capable of bonding.
Fuck .
At least he doesn't attempt to talk. Just squeezes my hand, and stares at the back of my head. It's the reason I won't look up, won't take my face out of my arms.
Fuck Calder Roane.
I should be trying to sleep—the others are plainly settling in for the night. Which makes my outburst all the more noticeable. But the pain wells in me, too deep to be purged, even if I cried myself into a desiccated mummy.
The memories are strong enough, even, to chase away the burned stench. I want to seize Allen by the hair, press my face into his burned skin, and inhale, just to cling to it a moment longer. Better that than the bitter tang of gunsmoke and blood.
It's late enough that I should be in bed, but Dad's preoccupation has kept Mom busy, and no one's outright ordered it. So it's a rare privilege, watching the after-midnight programming.
Mara is already in bed, sleeping soundly. We have to keep the TV on low, to avoid waking her. Every time someone laughs too loudly on the TV, my head twists back toward our bedroom door, reassuring myself that her shadow's not moving against the pastel floral wallpaper. If she gets up, she's gonna make enough noise to remind them I'm supposed to be in bed, too.
I laugh under my breath at a bad joke, but the laugh turns to a hitch and a cry, as the front door slams open, the handle hanging loose and broken from the force of it.
My dad lunges to his feet, diving for the little safe secured to the wall, and my mom darts for the phone, as two men walk in as though they own the place. I glare at them in confusion; I don't know who they are, or why they're here, but I'm not stupid. I've seen enough action movies to recognize a gun when I see it.
“Put it down,” one of
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