Chapter 5 #2
“However…I do worry what can of worms that might open. Like I was saying before, I don’t think his guardian—” He waves a hand.
“—caseworker, whatever. I don’t think she knows who you are.
She knows about your existence, yes, but unless Aston told her your name, it’s unlikely she has any clue that the very same boy who was there that night has been living right under her nose these last few years. ”
I nod. Makes sense. I was a minor. My name would have been redacted from his records.
Quentin pauses for a long moment. Then, “I could speak with her—tell her, if that’s something you want.
If she truly cares about Aston’s well-being, and seeing as she’s gone out of her way to not only take him in, but get him enrolled in high school—to experience some semblance of normalcy, pointless at this stage that it may be—then I’m willing to bet she does…
” He sighs. “It’s very possible that if she did know what kind of risk this is to his progress, that—”
“What does that mean?” I interject.
He hesitates, before saying, “Bryce could only divulge so much…as I’m sure you can understand.”
I nod.
“From the sounds of it, Aston’s only progressed as far as he has, because he’s repressed so much of what happened to him.
All that he’s been through… what happened that night…
what he did…” He shifts an unreadable look my way.
“It’s become a sort of taboo topic over the years—his childhood.
Specifically, his time living with the Baders.
A subject his therapists have noted should be approached with extreme caution, and only if deemed absolutely necessary.
With proper… measures in place, so as to ensure no one gets hurt. ”
Frowning, I look down at my lap, watching blindly as I wring my hands together. “What…what exactly happens? What does he do?”
Quentin doesn’t respond for a long moment. “He didn’t say. Only that Jennings’ wife assured him that Aston is stable…enough. That he’s medicated, and in therapy, and that he’s no threat—”
I blink. “Stable… enough…” I reiterate slowly. “So, he’s not fucking stable?”
At Quentin’s pointed look, I wave him off. Right. This isn’t news. Not to us.
Not to anyone who saw what he did first-hand, whether it be through crime scene photos plastered across a projector in a courtroom…
Or experienced it in its technicolor, high-def, real-time glory.
Hell, I not only watched as my twelve—twelve—year-old foster brother blindly stabbed a grown man over and over and over again, until you couldn’t see any skin left. All the while laughing and singing.
I wore the damn evidence of his sickness.
I was covered in it.
Carried the stains of it in my nail beds for days. The mental scars even longer.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Rick deserved it, but for fuck’s sake, has he ever heard of a little thing called restraint?
Glancing down at my palm, I run my finger over the faint, jagged line running just over the meat of my thumb. My eyes flick to the little slashes of discoloration down the insides of my fingers, just under the middle knuckles.
“Nothing screams stable quite like pulverizing a man well beyond his last breath,” I mumble, stroking the scar.
Quentin inhales sharply. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I close my hand into a fist and stare straight ahead. “So, what you’re telling me is there’s a chance he might not even remember me. That he might not want to remember me.”
My heart pounds at the possibility. I already know it’s not likely. The image surging forth of him smiling down at me from the stands—the fervent intensity with which he met my gaze—proves as much.
“It’s possible…” Quentin says slowly, but I barely hear him.
Perhaps he was ogling you for reasons that had nothing to do with recognizing you…
It would definitely explain that brief flare of hunger I swear I sensed radiating from him. In fact, it’s the only logical explanation.
He liked what he saw because I’m a stranger to him.
Because if Aston did recognize me, there’s no way in hell he’d feel anything but rage, and maybe disgust. Not after everything…not after that night…not after what came after…
The kind of power this would give me. Over him, over the situation…
Fuck if my traitorous body doesn’t like the thought of that far more than it probably should—the idea of him lusting over me, clueless to who I once was to him.
“Which is why I wonder if perhaps we should just…let it go,” Quentin goes on after a moment, pulling me from my thoughts.
I don’t have to look over to know he’s watching me very carefully.
Scrutinizing me with that sharp lawyer gaze of his.
“At least for now. After all, it’s possible that even if he does remember, he might not want anything to do with you.
Perhaps he’ll come forward about this all on his own, and…
I don’t know, transfer to Crowley High. For the sake of his own mental state, and all the progress he’s made.
In which case, you’d be left completely out of it. ”
My simmering blood threatens to boil over once more, and I tell myself it’s because I sincerely doubt that’ll happen. And not because I don’t want it to happen.
“For all we know, we’re worrying for nothing. He’s probably just as unsettled by this turn of events as you are. And that’s only if he remembers you at all.”
My jaw clenches as I recall the spark in Aston’s eye earlier when our gazes locked.
The tilt of his full pink lips
That hungry, predatory, single-minded focus he had on me…
Something tells me he was watching me long before I spotted him. And if it weren’t for being so preoccupied by the game—and so dead set on ignoring anything beyond that—I’m certain I would’ve caught him watching me. Tracking my every movement.
No. Unsettled is the last word I’d use to describe how he feels about this.
Whether he remembers me or not, it’s no matter—something about me piqued his interest.
And that’s a very, very dangerous thing. I would know. He was once the center of my universe and look where it got me.
“Even if he does remember more than he’s led professionals to believe—and he’s more self-aware than they give him credit for—he’s had years to—”
“Plot his revenge,” I finish flatly.
Quentin sighs. “Vale, that's not—”
“You saw the crime scene photos.” My jaw tightens. “He fucking disemboweled him. Practically carved his heart out. It was a massacre.” I wave my fingers. “Not that Rick didn’t deserve it, but you know what I mean.”
Had it not been for me walking in that night…
I sense more than see the harsh disbelieving look shot my way, and I roll my eyes. “I had every damn right to snoop. It was my file.”
He huffs. “No, the file just so happened to contain reports of you as a witness and victim. A minor at that.”
I scowl at that. I’m not a fucking victim.
“How the hell did you even figure out the code?”
Shrugging, I mumble, “Maybe try to be less predictable.”
He swats the back of my head, and I give him a sharp, slitted look.
Shaking his head, he says, “I don’t know whether to be impressed or worried.”
“If it helps, I know a really good lawyer.”
By his blazing stare, I know he’s not amused.
After a long moment, he says, “May I ask why?”
Another shrug. “I was curious.” Not a complete lie.
“About what? You do realize how dangerous that could have been for you, right?”
Dangerous for me, or…
Cracking my neck, I shove away that thought and turn to look out the tinted window. It’s so dark now without all the headlights, making my stone-faced reflection all the more visible.
“Reliving a trauma like that…” Quentin’s voice trails off into another long-winded sigh.
I absently rub at the scar stretched across my palm. “Still here and talking, aren’t I? If I haven’t cracked yet in the two years since I took a peek, I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear.”
He groans. “Two years? Jesus Christ, Vale.”
My mouth twitches. I know he’s more annoyed that I got away with it than anything. That I somehow managed to sneak into his office and raid his filing cabinet without him having ever suspected.
“You need to be more careful.”
“I was.” Obviously.
“You know what I mean,” he says, voice as serious as ever. “You’re not invincible, as much as you like to think you are. No one is.”
I’d roll my eyes again, but my head is starting to throb.
“You scare me sometimes, Vale.”
Well, that makes one of us.
Fortunately, I have just enough restraint to not voice that retort.
“Sorry,” I say.
Shaking his head, he faces forward once more and drops a hand to the gear shift. “You could at least try to sound sincere, you know.”
My phone goes off with a text alert before he can say anything else, and I dig it out of my front pocket, giving the lock screen a cursory glance before it fades to black once more.
“Seth?”
“Yeah.”
“Wondering where you are?”
I make a soft sound in my throat.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Quentin says dryly. I hear the distinct sound of him shifting gears and feel a slight jolt just before we’re moving.
Not bothering to reply, I turn the phone face-down in my lap, squeezing it with my scarred hand.
“Vale.”
“Don’t start.”
He sighs. “Fine. But you really should put that poor boy out of his misery.”
I slide him a pointed look. “What did I just say?”
He holds up a hand, thankfully backing off.
It’s a short drive from the school to the abandoned Crowley Iron Furnaces. Only a couple miles away. We spend most of the short drive in comfortable silence.
“So, the restraining order. Yes or no?” Quentin eventually says. “I can put in a call tomorrow and get the ball rolling, if that’s what you want. Or I can just reach out directly to—”
“No,” I say simply, without hesitation. “You’re right, it’s too risky. All either route would do is draw attention back to the case, which is the last thing I need right now.”
It’s a long moment before Quentin speaks again. “I should’ve kept better tabs on him. For that, I’m sorry. This should’ve never happened.”
“There was no logical reason for you to do that. This is just shit luck. You couldn’t have predicted it.”
To that, he says nothing, but I know he heard me.
The road stretches out before us, empty and dark, save for the sweep of headlights. Soon enough, woods give way to giant cornfields along either side of us.
Slowing the car to a crawl, Quentin steers us into a small easy-to-miss turn-off.
I fling open the passenger door as soon as the car comes to a stop, letting in a rush of chilly air into the SUV, and what sounds to be the muffled bass of some rap song playing from shitty truck speakers somewhere in the distance.
My rib cage expands as I jump out, stretching my limbs, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of wood and leaves burning into the night air. My nipples bunch under my baggy muscle tee, and I catch the hoodie Quentin throws me.
“Should I expect you home tonight?” Quentin asks loud enough to be heard across the front seat.
Gripping the top of the SUV, I duck down slightly to poke my head in to say, “Probably not.”
He shakes his head but is well familiar with this song and dance. Our relationship might not be of the typical parent and child variety, what with him being only fifteen years older than me, but there is a level of respect and trust between us that most don’t have.
I know, in a way, it’s because I feel like I owe him. I resent that feeling, but it is what it is. Could be a lot worse.
Hell, it has been a lot worse
I might be really bad at the whole grateful thing, but I’m not so far up my own ass that I can’t see how good I have it.
And it’s all because of him.
And Aston…
I quickly slam a steel door against that train of thought.
“I’ll call if I need a ride,” I tell Quentin, knowing it’s what he needs to hear.
He nods, a silent thank you if there ever was one.
Just as I go to shut the door, he stops me.
“Hey, Vale.”
“Yeah?”
“No matter what happens, I have your back. Okay?”
My fingers tense around the doorframe, and I just stare at the man who saved me in too many ways to count.
Throat suddenly dry, I nod. Knowing without a doubt he means that.
“Him being here…back in your life…it doesn’t have to change anything.”
My eyes narrow, because it almost sounds like he’s…warning me. And not just stating the obvious.
“You saying I probably shouldn’t go hunt him down and have beers over our shared trauma?”
Quentin’s mouth tightens at the corners, bleaching his lips. “All I’m saying is if it’s true what Jennings’ wife said about his memories, I can’t imagine it would take much to unlock them. You get what I’m saying?”
Clamping down on my back molars, I nod. “Don’t poke the beast. Got it.”
In other words: steer fucking clear.
As if I hadn’t already vowed to do just that…
Quentin nods back, short and sweet, then throws his hand on the gear shift. “Now, forget this shit and go celebrate. You kicked ass tonight, kid. Penn State’s gotta be foamin’ at the mouth right now.”
“They better be.” Seeing as I’ve got a full-ride there next year, and don’t plan on wasting my rookie season warming the bench.
Throwing the door shut, I turn around and head for the dirt path cutting through the fields, leading toward where all the commotion is coming from. Behind me, I hear Quentin get back on the road, his tires kicking up gravel.
You can’t make out the giant-ass bonfire from the road, not with the cornfields so tall and dense this time of year. But just over the tops of the stalks, a splash of embers explodes across the night sky, smoke billowing, expanding, and disappearing, guiding my way.
Beyond that, there’s the faint outline of the stone stacks making up the retired furnaces, slowly coming into view as my mind replays our conversation.
“Perhaps we should just…let it go. At least for now.”
“For all we know, we’re worrying for nothing.”
And yet, somehow I already see it for the lie it is.
I don’t normally make a habit of burying my head in the sand and relying on luck or fate to intervene. Of letting problems—threats—linger like loose ribbons waving in the air. Of relinquishing control to a fickle, uncaring universe.
But I have nine months until I graduate. This time next year, I’ll be living halfway across the state, playing college ball, and making a name for myself.
It will be here before I know it. I just have to make do until then.
And nothing—I mean nothing—is going to get in my way.
Least of all, the one person with the power to destroy everything.
If I’m lucky, he won’t remember me at all.
If I’m lucky, he’ll never get the chance.
For both our sakes, I hope so.