A rock stairway dropped down from the restaurant and zigzagged across the face of the hill like an uneven scar. Mary led him down the switchbacks until they walked along the stone-studded beach. With a little urging, Lance began to speak and the trickle of words that Mary coaxed from him became a torrent that he couldn’t stop. As each sentence spilled out, more hideous than the last, he fully expected Mary to stop and walk back in the direction from which they came. He wouldn’t have stopped her. But instead, she kept pace with him, her head down, never looking at him but never looking away. Her gaze remained on the rock-covered shore at their feet, the lapping of the waves the only sound competing with his voice.
He laid his childhood out before her, a massive chunk of pain and suffering, almost acidic at times as he spoke. When he finally fell silent, they stopped walking without agreeing to. A jutting ledge of basalt created a natural bench, and they sat, staring out at the deepening purple the lake had become. A layer of clouds blanketed the evening sky, hastening the darkness that longed to converge on their corner of the world.
For a long time Mary said nothing, her eyes remaining fixed on the fading horizon. Lance stole furtive looks at her every so often, his eyes searching for a sign of regret, or even panic, on her smooth face. He had just begun to think that his early life had stunned her speechless when her voice broke his musings.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She looked over at him, and still, even in the dying light, her eyes shone green.
“Thank you. Thanks for not running away.”
“What made you think I’d run away?”
“I guess that’s what I’d expect of anyone.”
“I’m not anyone.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said.
She looked over at him and smiled. He met her eyes and held them, the urge to lean closer to her nearly overwhelming. Her face sobered as she looked out across the breadth of water, and her next question caught him off guard.
“What do you think happened to your mom?”
Lance frowned and looked down at the speckled beach beneath his feet. The question, so familiar to him, sounded strange coming from another’s lips.
He shrugged. “A part of me hopes my father was telling the truth, that she ran away in the night, got out of his reach where he couldn’t find her and just kept going. Maybe she thought if she couldn’t save both of us, she’d at least save herself. I always hated her a little, you know? She was my sanctuary at times, and at others she was the prison that kept me there, locked tight. I guess she was always both. I was just too young to see it.” Lance nodded to himself and felt tears cover the surface of his eyes for the second time that night.
“What’s your heart tell you?” Mary asked.
“That my father killed her,” Lance said. The words were as cold as any rock in the nearby waves, and just as heavy. The feeling had always been there, but before tonight, he had never voiced it aloud.
“So why do you think you saw your father tonight?” she asked.
Lance took his time answering. “I’m not sure. I’ve had dreams—nightmares—with him in them, but never a hallucination. God, I sound like a mental case. You must want to run away screaming at the top of your lungs.”
“Only until I find help.”
Her laughter cut the cool air with its warmth and Lance relaxed. Until then, he had been expecting a polite brushoff or a request to return to the restaurant so she could leave. Unless he misjudged her, she appeared calm and in no way threatened or frightened of him or his past.
They sat side by side, the night cooling and a crispness that spoke of fall settling into the air. Lance was about to suggest that they head back to the restaurant and try to salvage the remainder of their night, but Mary spoke first.