“Unique seed structure?” Sam asks.
“All the individual little pieces attached to the cob.”
“Oh, like a raspberry,” Sam says.
“Same thing I said. And much like me, you would be wrong. A raspberry is an aggregate. Lots of little fruits attached together.”
“So, what is it?” I ask. “What was the final verdict?”
“It’s all of them. And butter is a dairy, making it a golden, delicious liquid protein source,” he says. “Balanced dinner.”
“Alright,” I say with a firm nod. “I accept.”
Xavier appears at the end of the hallway, wet hair across his forehead and a towel wrapped around him like a fuzzy blue strapless cocktail dress. He stares down at his hands in front of him.
“I look like a corpse.”
Dean throws his hand out toward Xavier and shoots me a look.
Hours later, I wake up stretched across the couch with one of the blankets draped over me. The lamp positioned on the bookshelf behind me is on, casting some light into the room, but the rest is dark. Sam and Dean aren’t here. I must have fallen asleep at some point, and rather than waking me up, Sam just covered me up and let me rest.
It was a sweet gesture, but I don’t want to be alone. I sit up and start to stand when I notice I’m not.
“Xavier,” I say.
He looks at me from the chair where he’s sitting in the dark, staring ahead of him. “Hi, Emma.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sitting,” he says.
“I can see that. Why are you sitting in the dark not doing anything?”
“I am doing something,” he says.
I draw in a breath and comb my hair back away from my face with my fingers. “Right. Sitting. You just told me that.”
“No. I mean I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“The window.”
He still hasn’t looked at me.
“Xavier, what’s bothering you so much about that window?” I ask.
“I don’t like uncovered windows. You see too much,” he says.
“You mean from the outside?”
“From the inside. It turns a house into a cage.” His head tilts to the side. “How did Elliot get to the porch?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, curling my legs up again and cuddling up against the chill in the room. “He walked up onto it. He was already shot by the time he got here.”
“But you didn’t see him go by the window,” he says.
“Not that I remember.”
“Or anyone else?” I shake my head, and he lets out a sigh. “I don’t know what that means. You didn’t see him. You didn’t see anyone. Where were they?”
“On the other side of the cabin, I guess. He parked his car and called his contacts to come get it if they didn’t hear from him,” I say. “He already knew he was in danger and might not get out of it alive. He hid his dog tags in the wall of the hotel.”
“You didn’t hear a car? Or a shot?” he asks.
“No. Why?”
He pauses for a long time. “I don’t know.” Another pause. “What time is it, Emma?”
I reach over to the coffee table for my phone. “Three.”
“What time does the sun come up?”
“Around six-thirty, I guess.”
He nods and stands, heading toward the hallway. Just as he gets to the entrance, he turns back to me. “When you can see the moon in the sky during the day, do you think it’s telling the sun the secrets of what it saw?”
“I don’t know, Xavier. Maybe,” I say, leaning my head back against the couch.
He gives a slight nod. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Chapter Eight
Seventeen years ago…
It was supposed to be just that one time. Just one indulgence, and that was it.
But he couldn’t resist anymore. Not after that first moment he saw her. He couldn’t keep himself away, couldn’t fight the irresistible draw that brought them to that moment. As soon as he saw her that first time, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop himself.
Not that he really wanted to.
He knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew every thought, every breath, every movement, every touch, every last moment weren’t right. No one needed to tell him that. No one needed to lecture him or get through to him.
He knew. It wasn’t a question or hesitation. He simply didn’t care that it was wrong. It was what he wanted. What he needed. But it was only supposed to be that one time.
He wasn’t going to let himself fall into that deep well of fantasy and fulfillment any more than that. Once was a taste, a dip that washed over him and quelled the endless gnawing need. Another time and he might drown.
But no matter how much he told himself that, no matter how many times he promised it, the need rose up again.
Only this time, it was more than just the urge. It wasn’t just the fantasy. He had experienced it now. It wasn’t thought or imagination. It wasn’t just a feverish dream that left him lying awake. That wasn’t enough to make it irresistible.
It was the reaction of the people around him. Before he gave in the first time, he wondered what it would be like to walk out of that room and back into the reality of his regular life. To step out of the pages of a fantasy and back into his neatly organized and structured datebook.
How would people look at him? Would they be able to tell?
As soon as it was done, would there be a change that came over him, letting anyone who came close to him sense the shift?
And afterwards, he watched. He waited for the reaction and gauged everyone around him. He watched how people looked at him, some with hope, others with something close to suspicion. There were moments, singular seconds that hung, frozen in the flow of a day, when he thought for sure somebody knew. That they heard something or
