Chapter 10
Sadie
I don’t go straight back to the house when I leave the barn.
I don’t even go back to the yard. I stand there for a long time, facing uphill, while the moonlight cuts through the dust above the field and the air blows cool against my sweat.
My skin is electric, every square inch lit up like a cattle prod, and I have to steady myself on the gnarled wood of the fence post or risk tipping straight over into the dry grass.
I’m a sick freak for enjoying that.
I squeeze my thighs together, embarrassment flooding my body as I think back to Cade’s thick cock standing at full attention. He didn’t try anything. He didn’t even look at me.
He looked fucking ashamed. He obviously didn’t want to have that reaction to me.
But here I am, wet.
I walk the perimeter with Flint bouncing along at my side, checking the splice in the fence, and circle back to the back porch only when I’m certain the world is as empty as it’s ever going to be.
The bowl feels like dead weight as I make it through the mudroom door.
The house is freezing. The A/C’s set too low again, so the kitchen tiles almost burn my bare feet with cold.
I move on autopilot, washing the bowl and putting it on the drying rack, and then pull the band out of my hair and let it fall sticky against my neck.
My eyes bounce to where the highchair used to sit. I stare for a split second, the giggling coming back to my mind, and then take myself directly to the bathroom. I close the door, and strip without thinking about it further.
As I remove my shirt, I catch the scent of the barn on it.
I need to burn Cade’s old clothes. My mind jumps to where I left them piled in the corner. That was a bad move. If Clayton ends up back out in the barn…
“It could be bad,” I mumble to myself. I’ll fix that tomorrow.
I toss the shirt in the hamper and kick my jeans off, dropping them in a heap. I look at my legs, at the way the skin goes mottled and red from the cold in here, at the scatter of tiny bruises up my shins from the fence line.
There’s nothing beautiful about them anymore. They’re thicker than what they used to be and aging. They’re not the kind of sun-kissed lean that could be shown off with a pair of Daisy Dukes.
I used to be different. I used to think I was strong. I’m so sorry, Lila. I’m so sorry.
I rip my gaze from my body, brush the tears from my cheeks, and pick up the jeans from the floor, tossing them into the basket along with the rest of my clothes. I try to turn the shower knob and miss twice, my knuckles knocking against the ugly white tile.
“Get it together, Sadie,” I chide myself, shaking my head. “If you’re going to pull this off, you need to get your head on straight.”
The water is slow to heat, so I turn it all the way to scald.
I climb in before it’s ready, let the first freezing shock roll over me, then wait for the wave of near boiling to follow.
When it does, I let it hit me full force.
I stand there, chin tipped up, jaw locked, while the steam rises and the water pounds my scalp.
A breath of relief finds its way out of my body.
And my mind runs back to Cade.
I swallow hard, my core going tight again, and then reach for the soap, ignoring it. I wouldn’t ever be the type someone like Cade—all military and muscle—goes for. I’ve never left this county, and probably won’t ever.
I’ll fucking die here.
I scrub myself down, rinse and repeat, again and again, until the air is so thick with steam, I can’t make out the walls. I stay in there until the water cools off. When I step out, the bathroom mirror is a blank white sheet.
Which is fine. I don’t need to see myself.
I dry off fast and rough, dragging the towel over my skin until it prickles, and then throw on a pair of thin gray pajama pants and a white T-shirt with some country artist I don’t listen to anymore.
Running a comb through my hair, I pull it back into a low braid.
The fine baby hairs at my temples are already sticking up in the humidity.
I don’t bother to fix it. I go to the kitchen, make a mug of the blackest tea I can, and sit at the small dining table in the corner.
I wrap my hands around the mug, hold it tight, and try to anchor myself in the heat of it.
He'll be home soon. I squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep breaths to steady my heart rate. It’s better to be awake when Clayton lands, than asleep.
‘What? Do you not care if I make it home okay?’ I hear his whiny voice in my head. ‘I could’ve fucking died in a car crash, and you’d have slept right through the last phone call.’
Tapping my finger against the mug, I stare at the front door.
For a while, nothing happens. The house is so quiet I can hear the tick of the clock in the hallway, the faint creak of the tin roof settling as the outside air goes cold.
Flint snoozes on his bed in the mudroom, not allowed to be in the house when Clayton is here.
My mind drifts back to the barn. I think about the story of Cade’s life, as told by strangers on the internet. There are a dozen words for every sin, but not a single line about why any of it mattered or why it happened. I pick up my mug, and take a long sip.
That’s when I hear the truck.
It’s not Clayton’s. The engine is different, a deeper growl, a little whine on the turn like the power steering is about to blow. I recognize it as soon as it hits the gravel at the base of the hill.
Nate’s county truck.
That’s not good.
He kills the lights halfway up the drive, but I still see the reflection sweep across the front window before he parks. I get up, move to the living room window, and peek through the old lace curtain.
There are two shapes outside. Nate, in full uniform, and a second, heavier man leaning on him. I know it’s my husband.
They struggle up the porch together, a tangled, lurching mess of boots and elbows. I can tell immediately that Clayton’s drunk. He’s slumped over, head down, all the careful balance of his cop walk gone. Nate has his arm under his armpit, practically dragging him.
I step back from the window, letting the curtain drop as my mind runs the plan—as it always seems to do. Just get him to bed. We just have to get him to bed.
When the front door opens, they stumble into the room, boots banging against the warped boards. The smell of liquor hits me first, and I swallow the urge to gag.
My eyes meet Nate’s, and neither of us says a word to each other.
Clayton’s voice is a slow, slurring drawl. “You let her walk around like this, Nate, you’re gonna have a murder case on your hands. You gotta keep your woman in line, like me.” Then he starts laughing, a sound so ugly it makes my skin crawl.
“Can you get the door to the bedroom?” Nate asks me, his voice flat but not unkind. He keeps a firm grip on Clayton, his expression strained from the effort.
I move to the hallway and open the door at the end to the master bedroom. It’s dark, curtains drawn, the air inside stale and cold. I flip on the lamp and then stand back, as if it might suck me inside.
I fucking hate this room.
Nate gets Clayton halfway down the hallway before Clayton decides he’s had enough help. He shrugs hard, breaking Nate’s grip, and stumbles forward on his own.
“I’m fine,” he roars, one hand going out to catch the wall.
He misses. His hand hits the doorframe instead, the one just past the kitchen that has the little marks.
My heart catches in my chest, a wave of protectiveness rolling through me, and I step forward.
“Come on, Clayton,” Nate urges, stepping past him and beckoning him toward the bedroom.
“Fuck you.” Clayton staggers, bounces off the frame, and for a second he’s upright. Then, with no warning, he spins funny and swings wild at Nate. Nate throws up a hand to block, but the momentum carries Clayton around and his fist keeps flying through the air.
He angles downward suddenly.
And I can’t duck fast enough. A blast of pain shoots through my face, and a crunching noise hits my ears as something inside my nose gives way.
I reel back, grabbing at the wall. Blood gushes hot and fast, spilling down over my lips and onto my chin, dripping onto my white T-shirt. I gasp as I try to catch the liquid, my head spinning.
Nate is on Clayton instantly, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Nate explodes.
But Clayton only laughs again.
“Get it together,” Nate shakes his shoulders.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking at the blood on his knuckles. “She fucking deserved it, Nate. You know what she did. What she did to Lila. My sweet little Lila.” He then glares at me, his eyes glassy but sharp, and spits, “You want to hit me back, don’t you?”
“You gotta go to bed.” Nate drags Clayton past me, not meeting my eyes.
I push off the wall, stumbling into the hallway. My head is filled with pressure, my eyes watering so bad I can barely see.
“Go to the kitchen and clean up,” Nate calls over Clayton. “I’ll take care of him.”
But as the sob builds in my chest, I go out the back door instead.
My bare feet trip down the steps, into the yard.
The night air is freezing, instantly numbing my face.
Blood pours from my nose, thick and black in the moonlight.
I tilt my head back, press the heel of my hand hard against the bridge.
You’re fine, Sadie. You’re fine. He didn’t mean to. And if he did…
You do deserve it. You did it. You killed her.
I stand there for what feels like forever, breathing through my mouth, blood and spit pooling in the dirt at my feet and dripping onto my toes. My ears ring, my head thick with pain. I can hear voices in the house, but they’re muffled—Nate saying something, Clayton bellowing in reply.
Focus on something else.
The sky is clear. The moon is huge, so bright I can see every bump and scar in its surface. I stare at it until the ringing in my head fades to a distant hum.
Something slams in the distance, and I snap my head in the direction of the barn, unsure if it came from there or somewhere else.
“Sadie?” a voice calls from the back door.
I whip my head around, seeing Nate peering out at me, his brows knitted together.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Getting some air,” I answer, and then spin on my heel, padding my way back toward the back porch. “The house was stuffy.”
His eyes track me up the steps as I ease closer to him. I don’t trust Nate, but he’s not the worst of Clayton’s minions. Sometimes he shows he’s got some backbone.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Nate holds the door open for me.
I slip past him, heading for the kitchen. “I can take care of it.”
He opens his mouth, but then his radio goes off on his hip, calling for backup. It fills the silence of the kitchen.
“Two teenagers, ATV accident off County-Line Road. Alcohol present.”
He lets out a sigh, peering up at me in this helpless kind of way. “I need to go.”
“Go.” I give him a nod. He’s just a kid. Just twenty-two.
Nate gives me a look, and then heads for the door. Nothing more is said about my nose or Clayton or the faded bruises on my neck.
That’s how this town works.
I take a clean dish towel from the drawer and press it to my face, wincing as the fabric sticks to the blood.
Ugh. Why didn’t I get it wet first?
I go back to the hallway, to the doorframe. I lean there, staring at the last little mark, five years old.
The towel continues to soak up the blood from my face, and the reel plays in my head—the blinding lights, the smell of gasoline, the intense heat, and the silence after. There was never another mark on the doorframe after that night.
Because there was nothing left to measure.