The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and goosebumps erupt across my arms. ‘And who was the box from?’ I ask, even though deep down already know – from the monster haunting my dreams. I’m just hoping – wishing – that maybe Luke will prove me wrong.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking below his weight and the emptiness I’d been feeling diminishes again. ‘It didn’t say exactly who sent it … but there was a photo of you inside … ‘He puts his hand on my back and I feel a tremble in his touch. ‘Please just come to class with me.’
I turn all the way over and face him. The fear in his eyes tells me I should be afraid; that whatever was in the box I should be afraid of. But I won’t let myself do that, feel the fear. ‘What was in the box, Luke? ‘
He keeps his intense brown eyes on me. ‘I already told you … a photo of you.’
I steadily maintain his gaze. ‘And what was I doing in this photo?’
He searches my eyes for something and I wonder what he sees exactly. Someone lost and scared or the façade I’m trying to wear, the one I’ve been wearing since I was five. ‘I just want to protect you.’ His fingers spread across my cheek and warm my skin. ‘From all the bad and ugly in the world.’
‘I already know too much about the bad and the ugly to be protected. And it’s better to know than to be in the dark,’ I tell him, although I’m not sure I believe my own words. There are many times in my past where I’ve questioned whether it was better to stay in the dark, starting out with when I was five and in the basement where my parents were killed. If I had stayed there until someone came to the house, I’d never have seen my parents dead. The memory of the blood, and my father’s final words, wouldn’t be branded in my head, like a hot iron rod singeing flesh. And then maybe the foster families wouldn’t have been so afraid of me. Then maybe I would have grown up with a family and I wouldn’t be here in this moment. But see, that’s the problem. Because deep down, my heart wants to be here with Luke, which means all of that had to happen. Destiny, right? Well, I’ve been conflicted over destiny a lot lately. Because it led me here to Luke, but it took so much for me to get here. To go back would mean to lose Luke, but to admit that I wouldn’t want to go back would feel like a huge betrayal to my parents. And if I did finally accept just how much I care for Luke, I’d be accepting that something might happen – maybe destiny again – that would rip him from my life and I’d lose him perhaps forever. And I’m not sure if I could handle that – handle destiny again. All I really want is … well certainty I guess.
‘You were in this room … in the photo.’ Luke finally divulges and there’s a tremble in his fingers. ‘I think he took it from across the street.’
Fear blazes through me, but I extinguish it quickly. Bury it, dammit! ‘So you think it was Preston who left the box and took the picture,’ I state emotionlessly, refusing to feel anything toward Preston, whether it hatred or fear. I will not let him get to me. Won’t think of him. But just trying not to think of him makes my blood boil. My fingers curl inward, my fingernails stabbing my palms, cutting flesh, slicing through the pain, distracting it into something else. ‘That’s new and bold of him. Beats sending texts I guess.’
‘I’m not sure it was him, but …’ He trails off, his expression sinking.
‘But I only have one stalker,’ I finish for him, my voice sounding empty. Empty, just like me. I hate it, hate myself for everything I’ve done. Why can’t I just let it go and change?
Luke starts to say something, but I cut him off. ‘You should go. You’re going to be late for class.’ I roll over to my side again and face the wall.
‘Violet, I really don’t think you should stay here,’ he says, his fingers falling from my face.
‘We already talked about this. I’m not going anywhere and Seth’s here. I’ll be fine.’ There’s a forced iciness to my tone so he will leave me alone. I hate that I have to do it, but if I don’t I know eventually he’ll convince himself that he has to stay here and look after me and that’s not what I want for him.
He doesn’t say much after that and I lay still, pretending I’ve dozed off again while he gets dressed. Before he walks out of the room, he gently kisses the back of my head. ‘I’ll be back as soon as classes are over.’
‘Don’t you have to work tonight?’ I ask. A couple of weeks ago, Luke got a job at the diner with the help of Greyson, helping out in the bar. I was a little worried what this would do for his recovery, but he assures me he’s fine for now, although he wants to get a new job as soon as he can.
‘No, not until this weekend.’ He grabs his diabetic kit and stuffs it into his backpack, along with his books.
‘Okay, see you later then.’
He whispers something about being safe then briefly waits, as if either wanting me to say something or wanting to say more, an excruciating almost painful habit that’s developed between us. And just like always, nothing ever gets said and he ends up leaving in silence.
I only move again when I hear the front door shut and then enough time’s passed that I know he’s not coming back. Hopefully, by the time her returns home later today I’ll have gotten myself collected enough that I can pretend I’m okay with everything. Put on my smiles. Skip around, clean the house. Be drunkenly stupid, pretty much, because that’s what it takes now.
After about an hour ticks by, I get out of bed and take a quick shower then pull on a pair of holey jeans and a faded Silverstein t-shirt. I put my hair up in a messy bun and then head back to the room, passing by Seth’s bedroom door. It’s cracked and I can see that he’s sleeping in his bed. Greyson’s gone, probably to work.
I wander back into my bedroom, lock the door behind me and turn on my playlist and ‘People Live Here’ by Rise Against clicks on. I go over to my bed, lie flat on the floor, and crawl halfway under it until I reach the box I’m looking for. Once my fingers brush the box, I slide out with it in my hands and get onto the bed.
Like every day since I got it, I stare at it for at least a half of an hour before I get the courage to open it up. Then it probably takes me another half of an hour to reach in and take out the contents: a small stack of photos, a silver bracelet and a spiral notebook with notes my mother scribbled down. These were the things that Detective Stephner could let me take that belonged to my parents. They’d played no part in the investigation, had been checked for blood and DNA but came up with nada, so he gave them to me a couple of weeks ago – right about when we got back from California – thinking I’d want them. I’m not sure if I do, since I spend way too much time simply holding them and staring at them – I haven’t even made it past the first page in the notebook yet. No one knows I have the stuff either, except the detective.