Chapter Twelve #2
Being intimate with a new partner is a mental battleground.
It takes a long time to erase someone from your body.
Caleb’s smell is different. His weight is different.
The shape of his body, the way he moves, the noises he makes, his touch—warm and unhurried, almost reverential, like he can’t believe she’s real—it’s all different, but it’s not enough to escape the muscle memory of the past eight years.
Sarah moves with him, screwing her eyes shut as if she can evict the image of Ben’s face.
With every stroke, the voice at the back of her head whispers, Ben, Ben, Ben, even though he’s dead.
She grabs Caleb’s hips, terrified of moaning the wrong name, and meets his thrusts with a determination fueled by passion and fear.
She opens her eyes and watches his face, wondering if he’s remembering a past lover, too.
Each grimace as he strains—is it for her, or for the memory of another woman? Is it desire, or dread?
It is a terrible thing to close your eyes to pleasure and find someone unwanted waiting there, like a ghost standing in the middle of your dream house.
Afterward, she snuggles in his arms, her limbs soft and heavy, careful to lie on the side of the bed opposite to where she used to sleep with Ben. The difference is enough to be a relief. And Caleb is bigger than Ben, more solid.
“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs, skimming his chest with the flat of her hand, tracing faded scars that match Elijah’s.
His fingers tense briefly around her shoulder.
She’s said the wrong thing, even if it’s true.
She forgot he owes his physique to his father, to the threat of violence.
A ghost haunting his body, as Ben haunts hers.
He presses his lips to her temple and says, “So are you,” and she knows she’s forgiven.
But he can’t be right. She’s not beautiful, because just as Jacob Vass shaped his eldest son, Ben has shaped her. What will she become because of him?
Her last thought as she drifts into sleep is that she came all this way to escape Ben, but there might be no escape after all.
* * *
Sarah wakes a few hours later and untangles herself from Caleb’s sleeping form. The windows glow a deep indigo-grey, providing enough light for her to groggily stumble to the bathroom. When she returns, she catches a glint of metal on the floor.
A handful of keys splay from a carabiner, attached to Caleb’s discarded jeans.
She jolts to full alertness. She could grab her backpack, get into his truck, and drive away from Sweetside. Disappear into the night and finally start the new life for which she’s been longing for months.
She crouches over the puddle of clothes and reaches for the carabiner, her insides trembling.
“What are you doing?” Caleb’s tousled head rises from the pillows.
Sarah smiles at him. “I was just picking the clothes off the floor.” She scoops them up and deposits them on the recliner. “What did you think I was doing?” she adds, letting an accusatory note slip into her voice.
It’s something Ben would say.
“I’m sorry,” says Caleb. “Come back to bed.”
As she burrows into his arms, the thing that’s been nagging her all evening finally puts itself into words. “Caleb,” she whispers, “why would you think Elijah killed Ben?” Elijah is so sweet, so vulnerable, and Caleb normally treats him like a child. It doesn’t make sense.
Caleb’s reply is a murmur; he’s falling back asleep.
Of course he’d assume Elijah had done it. She’s the nice girl in need of rescuing, utterly harmless.
Her last thought before sleep overtakes her is that maybe she should lock the door.
* * *
She doesn’t know what time it is when she opens her eyes and sees Elijah standing at the foot of the bed.
“What is it?” she wants to say, but her mouth refuses to open.
She’s curled up and frozen stiff, like Ben in his salt-filled coffin, weight pressing against her from all directions.
If she opens her mouth, it’ll fill with salt.
She can’t make out his face, only the boxy silhouette of the shearling coat.
Maybe there isn’t anyone wearing it. Or maybe there is, but it’s not Elijah.
She expects the apparition to growl Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, but he remains silent.
She grunts, trying to remember if she locked the door.
Why didn’t she lock the door? Caleb always told her to.
Or was it Elijah? She can’t keep track of who said what anymore.
The howling wind lets up. It’s not her pulse stuttering, but an engine outside. Is Ben pulling up to the house? Is he finally home? Will he come into the room and slip into bed beside her, or go to sleep on the sofa? The freshly cleaned and sterilized sofa? She grunts again but still can’t move.
The apparition in the shearling coat tilts its head toward the window, listening. Ben’s coming, she wants to yell. Get away, Elijah. He’s coming.
Broken glass tinkles in the distance. Terror curdles on her tongue. She’s huddled in the bathroom at the Suicide Motel, the floor tiles cold and hard under her bare feet, shoulder blades digging into the door.
The weight pressing against her back stirs. It’s only Caleb. The wave of terror breaks, and her eyes pop open.
“Elijah,” she croaks.
It’s too late. The figure has disappeared, leaving behind the scent of tobacco and turpentine.