Chapter 4 #3
Feeling calmer, I walk toward the oldest marker and find several young daisies sprouting from the earth and pluck them. Then I move to the next. There’s a set of weather-worn faux flowers, and I take a tattered rose.
From the next, a sprig of leaves I don’t know the names of.
The grave beyond that, I take a carnation.
At the end of the yard, I take bits of stone from a crumbling granite cross that hasn’t been maintained and stick them in my pocket. The weight of them is as comforting as coffin silk against the pads of my fingers when I stim myself to sleep.
And then I can breathe a little easier.
The bouquet in my hands is probably a little macabre, but I think it’s beautiful. It’s raw and wild and stolen, which is the only way I would ever give flowers.
I wonder if Denver will understand what it means to me or what I’m trying to tell him with this gift.
There are a couple of hardy palms planted by the church doors, so I peel away a couple of leaves, then use them to tie the bouquet together before throwing it onto the passenger seat of my truck and making my way back into town.
I don’t know where Denver lives. Stalking is second nature to me—it’s how I’ve found every important person in my life who isn’t blood related to me—but I’ve been trying to understand boundaries, especially now that we’re getting out of our old life.
So I haven’t looked him up, and I regret that now.
There are only three places where I know he’ll go consistently, and I don’t feel like going to the gym, and I don’t want to risk anyone noticing me on the college campus. So I go north instead of south, toward the bar where I know he has a show coming up.
When I pull into the parking lot, I feel a small pulse of relief to see that it’s closed and every space is empty. I haven’t actually done anything like this in a while. Lately, my job has been surveillance from the comfort of my truck, where I can snack on the foods I like and not talk to people.
I’m good at getting in and out of places unseen, but when there are tons of people around, it makes my job harder.
I don’t need to worry about that today. It takes me ten seconds to pick the lock on the back and another ten seconds to clip the wires on the alarm so it doesn’t go off and the video stops recording. It was honestly a little too easy.
“Amateurs,” I mutter to myself.
Anyone with any training at all could rob this place blind with a few cut wires and a big enough truck.
Not that there’s much to steal, but robbing people is so much more than just someone taking what isn’t theirs.
It’s also about control. About power. About showing people that they are vulnerable and unsafe.
It’s a motto our family has lived by for generations. And it’s one we’re now attempting to escape. I don’t want Denver to feel like I have power over him. Not like that. I want him to see the gift and know I was here and that I am sorry for leaving him the way I did.
I want him to understand that I will be back, and I will make it right.
I wind my way through the chairs in the dim light of the fogged windows and find the door that leads backstage. It’s set up like one big dressing room with feather boas, wigs, fishnet tights, and dresses strewn about.
It brings me back to the first night I saw my little rabbit. Only he wasn’t Denver onstage. He was someone else in his blonde wig and tight dress and corset that gave him a figure anyone would die for.
I remember watching him, wondering if I could fit my hands around his waist and touch my fingers.
It was a gorgeous little fantasy I kept in my head as he danced and signed and showed off his gorgeous calves. He was so…expressive. He spoke volumes with his body in ways that I could never be capable of.
His language is rooted deep into his veins in ways I can never experience. Ways that made my past ASL teachers hate me because, thanks to my autism, my face does not move through vivid expressions the way the language commands.
I find a single vanity with a stool and a mirror, so I place the bouquet on top with the stones in a neat pile beside it. One of them has part of the date inscribed, so I wonder if he’ll understand what it is.
Hunting around for a moment, I eventually locate a roll of receipt paper and a pen, so I tear off a small bit and bend over to write.
This, he’ll get. This will tell him exactly who I am, even if I don’t sign my name at the bottom.
I slip the note under the palm leaf, then leave the bar, locking the door behind me and heading to my truck. There’s a second security camera on the side of the building, and I offer a small smile before climbing into the cab and freezing when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and try not to sigh at the screen.
Percy: Thursday, ten pm. Shed. Found arsonist. Bring knives.
That’s the day after tomorrow, which is plenty of notice, so I have time to add it to my daily tasks. I send back a thumbs-up, and then I hit the street, back on the hunt. I have a feeling I won’t see my little rabbit again today, but I still feel the thrill of the chase.
And for me, right now, that’s enough.