I think about going back to sleep—he’s certainly entitled to privacy—but it has been a strange night for both of us. I tell myself that I need to check on him, but as I pull on one of his T-shirts and head for the door, I know that’s a lie. My motives are selfish; I need to find Dallas for me.
He’s not in his study or in the den. I check the kitchen next—empty—then continue on to the basement room that Deliverance uses as an operations center. I have the code to enter, but when I do, I see that it is empty as well.
I lock it back up, lean against the closed door, and wonder where to look next.
I check the garage, because maybe he decided to go out, but his cars are all parked in their slots, and his motorcycle is, too, so he didn’t go joyriding down Meadow Lane in the middle of the night.
I head out to the pool, using my phone as a flashlight to illuminate the deckchairs, but he’s not there. I’m certain I’ll find him in our cabana, but I lose that bet because he’s not there either.
Finally, I’m out of ideas, and I return to the house to check the alarm system which monitors all the public rooms. Empty. There’s also a setting that allows me to see if any of the closed rooms have been recently entered. None.
I’m about to give up, when I think to switch over to the system that monitors the windows and attic access. And that’s when, finally, I find success.
When Dallas and I were growing up, we used to sneak up to the attic, then climb out through one of the windows so that we could sit on the roof and look out at the Atlantic. Sometimes we’d just talk. Sometimes we’d count falling stars or look for ships on the horizon. When we were older, we held hands, each telling ourselves that it was innocent. A way to make sure we didn’t tumble off the roof.
But it wasn’t innocent, not for him and certainly not for me. After our rooftop excursions, I would return to my room, climb into my bed, and slide the hand that had held his between my legs. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew it felt good. And I wanted him to be part of that feeling.
I’ve loved Dallas Sykes my whole life. And I don’t think I ever believed in curses or bad luck until Eli decided to adopt me—just like he and my mother had adopted Dallas—and made us full-blown siblings.
The attic is easily accessed by a set of stairs behind a door in Dallas’s office, and I go there now. As I’d expected, the door is cracked open—I should have noticed it when I peeked in the office earlier—and I climb the stairs slowly, careful to avoid the fifth one, which always creaks.
As attics go, it’s huge, and full of old furniture and boxes of holiday decorations and all the usual things that get stored instead of tossed. My childhood memories are here, but I don’t even glance at the boxes with my name printed in my mother’s neat handwriting. Instead, I head straight for the open window and the man who I can see sitting on the flat roof where we spent so much time as children.
“Hey,” I say as I climb out next to him. “Hiding from me?”
I’m joking, but for a moment I think he’s going to admit that he is. But then he shakes his head, his smile little more than a contraction of the muscles around his mouth. “Never,” he says. “I’ve just—I’ve just got a lot of shit running through my head.”
I exhale, a little concerned. A little afraid. For a moment, we both just sit there looking at the ocean, but then I take his hand. I don’t look at him, though. I don’t think I can say what needs to be said if I’m looking at him.
“I thought it would be easier,” I begin. “Us being together.”
He turns sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“Together, we’re not fighting anymore,” I say. “This thing between us. So I thought it would be easier.” I lick my lips, hating what I’m about to say, yet knowing that I have to at least put it out there. “But now I’m thinking that we’re making it harder on you. Forcing you to see what you’d rather forget.”
I can see from his expression that he doesn’t understand me. Or maybe he doesn’t want to understand me.
I draw a breath. “Memories,” I say. “Nightmares. I know you’re remembering stuff, Dallas. I sleep right beside you. And I’m afraid that all of this—you and me—has made it harder on you.”
“No. Never.”
I glance at him, but don’t respond. Instead, I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them, staring out at the ocean beyond. “We had great talks out here as kids. And this was the no bullshit zone, remember? If we talked about something, we told the truth.” I hold up my hand and wiggle my pinkie. “You, me, and Liam. We pinkie swore.”
“It’s not harder,” he says. “You seem to have me confused with someone who has forgotten. I don’t remember because I’m with you, Jane.” He puts his arm around me, and I lean my head on his shoulder. “But because I’m with you, I want to get past it.”
I sigh and nod, and right then all I want to do is stay quiet and let the moment take us. But I can’t, because there’s more. “Then tell me what is bothering you.”