“Griff.”
He drops me like I burned him. “Shit! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry.” I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Remember me? The girl whose dad kicked her around? I’ve been through way worse. I’m durable.”
“You should never have to worry about that with me.” Griff’s smile is bitter. “I’m . . . edgy. I’m sorry, Wicked.”
They’re always sorry after they hurt you. The thought slithers from the dark and, just as quickly, returns to it, lying in some unused corner to wait. I’m being ridiculous. This is Griff. Not my dad. Not Todd.
I reach for him again and he sidesteps me, goes upstairs to check the bedrooms, leaving me to circle through the downstairs, noting how everything is fine. Perfect even. The lamplight has turned the rooms peach and gold, like we’re living in a jewelry box. Knowing Bren, that’s probably on purpose.
Except for a tiny smear of dirt still on the kitchen floor, the house is as immaculate as ever. I’m wiping up the mud when Griff walks into the kitchen.
“It’s empty. You’re safe.”
“Thanks.” The word’s so small I don’t think he even hears me.
Or maybe he does, because Griff pauses, hovering as if he wants to tell me something. I step closer and Griff shakes his head, once, like he’s clearing it, and says, “I should go.”
“Okay.” He’s out the door now and I sit on the floor listening for his motorcycle long after the sound has disappeared. After a bit, I make my way upstairs and, out of habit, my hand brushes the painted-over mark from where I crashed into the wall as Todd chased me. Between the lighting and the dark paint, you can’t see the dent unless you feel for it, but it’s there.
In my bedroom, I collapse into my desk chair, reminding myself that at least one good thing came out of this: The sniffer was installed. I should be able to start working on Bay tonight. The thought is such a relief it takes me a beat before I realize my laptop is on . . . and I never leave it running when I’m not around.
Slowly, I straighten and look around my bedroom. Nothing’s been moved. Nothing’s been touched.
But suddenly it feels like someone’s been here.
15
Bren takes the cell phone accident better than I expected. It’s probably side effects from the mini-vacation to Birmingham—her voice is the lightest I’ve heard it in weeks—but she tells me it’s okay and these things happen. She’s even generous enough to offer me one of her old cells. It’s completely lovely and makes me feel way worse.
Tears are dangerously close to the surface now and I know I should get off the phone before I blurt how I screwed up everything . . . and yet I can’t seem to make myself—hearing Bren’s stories about their trip feels like a lifeline.
I wait for them with every light on in the house. And when Bren and Lily finally come up the driveway, I pretend that this is who I really am: a girl whose little sister grabs her for a bear hug, a girl whose adoptive mom grins and waves the moment she sees her.
It feels so good I almost believe it.
“What happened to your face?” Lily hisses, one arm snagged around my neck.
I resist the urge to touch the cut with my fingertips. It looks better than it did. I found some concealer in Bren’s bathroom and touched up the edges, thinking about my mom the entire time, how she used to do the same thing after my dad went after her. It was all very, Maybe she was hit in the head. Maybe it’s Maybelline.
“’S no big deal,” I say. “I tripped and fell.”
Lily’s scowl doesn’t last. She’s too flipping happy and wants to show me a trophy that’s almost as tall as she is. She bounces through the house, alternating between dancing and doing moves from her routine, giving me a play-by-play of the tournament.
I don’t remember ever loving anything that much. It makes me feel even worse.
I spend time with Bren, helping her unload the SUV while Lily runs upstairs to shower. Used to be, I needed my sister around to make small talk with my adoptive mom, but we’ve gotten better.
At least for the three seconds before Bren sees the cut on my face.
“What. Did you. Do?”
“Slipped. I have to remember to pick my feet up.” Along with Stand Up Straight, Pick Your Feet Up is one of Bren’s favorite discussion topics and never gets old.
For her.
My adoptive mom must really be tired though because she sighs and follows me into the house, muttering about ordering takeout. While Bren studies the Pies On Pizza menu pinned to the fridge, I drag Lily’s suitcase upstairs.
Only to find my sister in my room.
Lily’s facing my bed and I don’t even make it through the door before my stomach sinks two inches lower. Something’s wrong. “Lil?”
She turns around and heat rolls up my neck.
Lily holds out one hand, the two DVD cases fanned against her fingers. “What are these?”