Wild Card (North Ridge #1)

“The courts would have.”

“But they didn’t,” she said sternly, turning to face me dead on. “Listen to me, Shane. My husband put you in a terrible position, but you did the right thing. It was the hardest thing for everyone, but it was the best thing. Because you finally gave her the courage to leave. You spared her. And the loss of her opened my eyes to what was really going on, all the horrible truths I tried so hard to ignore because facing them would have destroyed me. But it destroyed me in the end. Don’t you believe in fate? In luck? In wishes?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“She’s here. Maybe it’s because of me, maybe it’s because of you. Maybe it’s because of a million wishes made.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “She hates me.”

“No. No, she doesn’t. She hates what you did to her but that’s not the same thing. And I’m telling you, I may not know my daughter that well anymore…maybe I never really did. But I do know that just because someone has a broken heart, it doesn’t mean the heart doesn’t work anymore. It beat for you before, and it will beat for you again. You just have to be patient and honest and true. You have to be brave. You have to.”

I nod and close my eyes. The wind feels like ghosts from the past rushing through me.

“I’ve tried to tell her, but…”

“You have to try harder,” she says, adamant. “And I have to try harder too. She’s here now and there’s a reason she’s here. But she won’t be here for long, not unless we both give her reasons to stay. Promise me that you’ll let her know the truth. Do that and her heart will repair before your very eyes.”

It’s not that simple. Rachel has moved on. Telling her the truth will only give her closure—it won’t open another door. Vernalee has far more stock in our love than I do.

Shit, I didn’t even know I was still in love with Rachel until I saw her again.

All those years I spent trying to move on, to find love with someone else, to push her out of my head, dig our relationship a grave and throw dirt on it like she did with the raven. And all of that was for nothing, because deep in my heart, I never stopped loving her. I never stopped thinking about her. The longing became so ingrained in my head, part of my routine, that I never stopped to realize just what—who—I was longing for.

“You better get back to bed,” she says to me. “I know you’re all early risers out here.” She pats me on the arms and walks off toward the house.

“Vernalee,” I call out after her. “He loves you, you know.”

She stops and glances at me over her shoulder, the hair blowing across her face so that I can’t see anything but a slight curve of her lips. A smile.

She doesn’t ask who, because she knows.

Then she turns and keeps walking, disappearing into the grass.





11





Rachel





Past – 20 years old





I lie back in my bed, summoning courage.

The room is dark. The sky outside my window is even darker.

My heart feels like tar.

Sticky, black, turned over and over a million times.

It lies in wait for the next blow. My soul cowers behind it.

I saw the look in my father’s eyes the other night and I know I’m on his agenda again.

It’s been years. And it’s been months. And I’ve worked past it and I’ve tried to thrive. I’ve stayed behind in this shitty town because I don’t want to leave Shane. I know Shane would leave with me in a heartbeat, but I’m not selfish. I know his life is here. And I don’t want to make him choose.

So I’ve stuck it out. And I’ve tried to put distance between me and my parents.

I’ve tried. I lived with my friend Jasmine for six months before rent got too high. I’ve spent more time than ever at the Nelson’s. They don’t care if I live there, sharing Shane’s room.

But it’s not enough. Because sometimes I have to come home.

And this is one of those nights. When my mother is drunk, passed out on the couch with a bottle of gin next to her pale, skinny fingers. Those nights where the front door slams shut because my father is home from his shift and each footfall through the house sounds like a jail cell door slamming on my future. On the person I’m trying so hard to be.

But this time I will not play dead.

I will not be invisible.

I will not shrink into the corner and try to take up less space.

I am full of space. I deserve to take up air in this world.

I deserve to be seen.

I won’t hide anymore.

No matter how many times I tell myself that, though, the fear runs through me like it’s got an iron grip on every single organ. The tightest one is around my soul. Because there’s a battle going on in there. There has been since the day my father first touched me, the day he first told me to never tell anyone, the day he made me hate myself.

The day he made me afraid.

You’re twenty years old, I tell myself. You can do this.

And I think this to myself with silly naiveté, as if the fact that he’s the revered chief of police in this town won’t matter at all.

Of course it will.

His word against mine.

Still, my limbs go stiff, ready to fight.

The door to my bedroom opens.

A column of cold light shines in.

Footsteps.

The door closes.

The column fades.

“Rachel,” my father whispers, and I know it’s the devil himself.

He leans over me. Touches my arm gently. He’s always so gentle to start, as if he’s a nurse, as if he’s helping. As if I need soothing.

His hand slides down my arm and I can’t take it anymore.

I exist.

I exist.

I exist.

I stiffen all over.

His hand pauses.

“Don’t touch me,” I manage to say through grinding teeth.

There’s a moment where I know he’s trying to gather his thoughts.

“What?” he says, shocked.

“I said, don’t you fucking touch me.”

I don’t know what I expected to happen, but I guess I didn’t think that far ahead. Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t have said anything.

His hand goes to my hair. It grips me there, making a tight fist. He’s no longer being gentle, he’s no longer being a nurse.

He pulls back in one quick motion, one hardened grunt, and I’m thrown out of bed and onto the floor, screaming as I go.

I hope my neighbors will hear me, but my windows are all closed. I know my mother won’t. Even if my cries do wake her up, she’ll be too chicken-shit to do anything about it. She’ll go on as she has before when I’ve told her what he’s done to me. She’ll pretend I’m fucking crazy. Her husband, my father, would never, ever do that.

I land on the ground with a thud, pain shooting through me in waves of lightning. All my instincts are on fire, though, and I scramble to my feet, heading for the door.

He’s bigger, quicker, stronger. He’s a fucking cop.

He grabs me again, this time by the arm, twisting it far behind my back until I have no choice but to pivot around and face him. He rams himself against me, slamming me back until my head bounces off the wall, paintings falling and shattering on the floor.