Nineteen
Damn it. My head is cracking in two. My eyes blink open and take a second to adjust to the artificial light. Memories of being in Clark’s apartment cause me to jolt upright. I immediately regret the action when pain flames across my head.
“Whoa! It’s okay. You’re safe.” Clark walks over to the couch where I’m covered in a blanket. “I read that you’re allowed to sleep now with a concussion, you weren’t out long,” he assures me. Concussion? My fingertips brush against my head, padding the cut. A hiss passes my lips when the movement causes a little oozing.
“You need to tell me everything,” I croak. My throat feels dry, and I’m still a little lightheaded. “You’re here because of Willis?” I ask.
“I’ve been following the activity.” His brown hair looks wild, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.
“The activity?” I scoot up a little.
“The killers,” he clarifies, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
“You mean Willis?”
His eyes drop to the floor. Coiling in my stomach tells me whatever he’s going to say isn’t going to be good. “I don’t believe it to be Willis.”
My head is going to explode. His eyes shoot up to mine, and I freeze at the piercing torment there. “Ask me again what my name is.”
My heart kicks into high gear. I can’t. I’m so terrified of his answer. “I don’t know if I can.” A tear leaks from my eye, emotions colliding inside me. Stroking my tear away, he leans forward, capturing my gaze. He takes my hand in his palm, and the fear from before lingers into hope. This is all going to be okay. The touch he offers will be around in the long-term. I want him to be the angel in the darkness my life has become. Friend or foe, hunter or hero? Phantom sirens sound in my head. His thumb strokes over my flesh, driving out the alarm.
“Am I the reason you live here?” I croak.
“Yes.” Pulling my hand from his, I sit up further on the couch to put more distance between us. Tension hangs in the air like we’re facing the gallows.
He sighs and gets to his feet, pacing the floor. “It’s complicated, and I didn’t want to just spook you and come out and say I know who you are, and you know who I am.”
I pull a cushion to my chest in a tight fist. “So, stalking me and having a weird wall of victims was a better plan?” I scoff.
His eyes dart down the small corridor to his room, then back to me. “It’s not a weird wall. It’s an evidence wall.” My mind races. I want to ask him all the questions, but I’m struggling to think. The red-circled picture of the murdered girl materializes in my head.
“Why did you tell me I look like the victim?” I get to my feet now, feeling too vulnerable sitting.
“Because I wanted to know if you thought so too…if you put the pieces together.”
I throw his blanket down on the couch and walk around it to create a barrier. “What pieces?”
He stops moving and stares at me. “What do you remember about him—about what happened back then?”
“Nothing!” I shout, feeling defensive.
“What about his son?”
Jack.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I fumble backwards, my ass hitting a side table. “What about him?” Is he you? I’m almost hysterical now. Are you him? No way. I refuse to believe it. It can’t be, can it?
He takes a few steps toward me. I balk, but can’t go anywhere because of the table behind me. Luckily, the couch is in front of him. Halting his steps, he places his hands up. “Ask me who I am, Lizzy.”
“No.”
“Ask me, Liz Wiz.”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“I can’t.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
My arms wrap around my waist. The need to be held is so strong, I almost want to weep. “I was a child. All I remember is him killing our mothers and taking Jack.” A lie. I remember everything in excruciating clarity. The sound of our laughter as we played. The smell of freshly cut grass. The hum of a light breeze through the branches of the trees.
Marco…
Polo…
Marco…
My mother’s otherworldly screech. Jack calling out to me. My own screams at the sight of Jack disappearing from my vision. Loneliness. Overwhelming guilt.
You can come out now.
I was seven years old. I couldn’t have helped him even if I’d tried. I was lucky his father didn’t kill me for witnessing the abduction. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, maybe he would have. Now, he’s back.
“Do you ever think about him—Jack? What he lived through?” he asks, and my soul aches.
“Of course,” I gasp. Tension hangs over my eyes, weighing me down. I move to the stool and sit down before I crumble to the floor.
“Who am I, Lizzy?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“You do know.”
No. No. No.
“Don’t. Please don’t,” I plead.
“Fine. I’ll write it down for you.” How is this happening? My head pulses. My heart leaks through my ribcage.
“Here.” He shoves a piece of rolled-up paper into my hand. “When you’re ready, read it.”
I slip from the stool, clutching the paper, the ground shifting beneath me. I move toward the door, feeling the burn of his gaze. Whatever the hell this is between us is so potent, it’s like a thick ball of energy floating in the atmosphere between us. Resistance to the pull is almost impossible. He is the moon, and I the ocean. “I’ll be waiting. I’ve been waiting,” he calls out as I open the door and slip through it. Racing down the stairs, almost tripping on my own feet, I barge into my apartment, startling Charlotte. “Where the hell have you been?” she shrieks.
Ignoring her, I race to my room, slamming the door and throwing myself onto the mattress. My heart races. One, two—breathe—three, four. I squeeze my eyes closed. Open it. Open it. Unclenching my palm, I stare at the piece of paper. Unraveling, the bold
