Gran shook her head back and forth, over and over, her nearly bare scalp rustling against the pillowcase in a way that scratched the insides of Isleen’s ears.
“I remember.” Gran’s eyes locked with Isleen’s and held on and on and on for an immeasurable moment as if she were trying to convey a message so powerful words wouldn’t suffice. Gran broke their eye contact and turned her face away. “I remember, and I can’t live with it.”
“Oh, Gran…” These were the worst times. When Gran remembered every bad, awful, and terrifying thing they’d been through. “We’re safe—”
“I can’t live with what I’ve done.” Gran’s voice lowered to a rasp of sand over gravel, and she stared off into negative space.
“You’re safe now. We’re staying with Alex…your husband.” Saying your husband felt weird on her tongue. “He’s been taking such good care of you.”
“I hurt him.” Gran’s chapped lips quivered. “I destroyed us by trying to save us. And I did this to you.” The word I came out on an airy sob. A tear slipped down Gran’s crepe-paper cheek. “It’s all my fault. I’d take it all back. But, there’s no take-backs in life.”
“‘Focus forward.’ Your motto. Everything will be all right as long as we both focus forward.” Isleen shifted her chair so Gran could see outside again. “Look out the window.” She waited for Gran’s head to turn. “See all the trees. Do you remember our little house? Remember how we used to walk down our lonely road to the woods and follow that old lane through the trees? You always used to say it reminded you of your favorite place.” Gran’s attention was back on the scenery outside the window. “I know what it reminded you of. It reminded you of here. And now you’re here again. This will be your future again.”
Tears rained down Gran’s cheeks, but her gaze never left the window. Isleen stayed with Gran until the old woman’s breathing eased and her eyes drifted shut. Isleen kissed her on the cheek, then left the room.
Gran had the right idea. Isleen climbed the stairs to her room, then buried herself under a mound of blankets and a heap of denial.
Chapter 13
Xander parked his new truck on the same mud-crusted hunk of earth where he had a few days earlier. Police tape ringed the torture trailer like a too-tight belt. More of it crisscrossed in an awkward X-marks-the-spot over the sagging front door. The back end—the room where Isleen and her grandmother had spent years being tormented—was obliterated. Gone. The only indication it had been there was the debris strewn around the overgrown yard. The horrors that had occurred in that small space were beyond imagination.
His stomach squeezed with guilt for not listening to Isleen sooner. He’d carry that shame for the rest of his life.
He turned off the truck’s ignition, got out—and made damned sure to put his keys in his pocket. Even though the crazy bitch was dead, no one could claim he didn’t learn from his mistakes.
The corn leaves whispered among themselves, the abrasion of them rubbing against each other a low hum. Far off in the distance a hawk cried out, but Xander didn’t see it in the sky. Summer sun beat down on his head. Hot and purifying. He hoped its rays had burned off the pain that once lived here.
He wasn’t certain why he’d stopped here on his way to interrogate the Prairie Murderer. The superintendent had nearly laid a load in his shorts when Xander called him and volunteered to interview the killer and William Goodspeed. Xander had a motive the superintendent didn’t know about—figuring out how Isleen was connected to these two men. And if she wasn’t… Well, that meant he was about to go down a road with his father that he’d never intended to travel.
Maybe he was here to make sure things had happened the way he remembered—since what he remembered seemed as impossible as Isleen surviving. Or maybe to see if this place held any answers.
Wooden stakes protruded from the ground with police tape strung between them to mark off the hole where his truck exploded. He went up to the roped-off edge. No fucking kidding—it really was a crater. Looked nearly four feet deep and almost as long as his truck had been.
Memories flooded his mind, so visceral, so real, he could smell burned corn and feel the heat of the engine on his face. Feel the resignation that death was about to grab him and Isleen.
And then his truck and the crazy bitch driving it had blown up.
The BCI could find no reason for the vehicle to explode. It wasn’t like he’d been hauling around a load of C-4. And there sure as shit wasn’t any explanation for how he’d stood this close to the blast and neither he nor Isleen had been touched.