Chapter 13
Turner
Burying a body in frozen ground is a fucking task. I don’t mark the guy’s grave when I’m finished. He doesn’t deserve it. I heard the way he spoke to Emersyn, and the way he went after my dog. On my property. Sure, it was the heat of the moment. Sure, I was trying to kill her five minutes prior in a blackout. But still. He had to go—and the blood spilled doesn’t really bother me. Not so long as I can justify it.
“Looks like it’ll be Christmas before the east sides of the county get cleared,” the voice on the radio spits. “Next round of snow is already here.”
I turn off the radio and leave it in the barn with the Jeep. I know I’ll have to break the vehicle down and get rid of it. Or maybe drive it into the river when the freeze clears in the Spring. I’ll figure it out. But not tonight. I need to get inside and check on Emersyn. She’s pissed at me. Rightfully so, I suppose.
But at least she’s not dead. She should be thankful for that. Maybe.
I make the journey back to the cabin just as the snow starts to fall again. I sigh, knowing that if we get another few feet of snow, things are going to be even more complicated—and that’s more time in enclosed spaces. I push away the thought as I open the front door, spotting Emersyn by the fire, her head down.
She’s still in her parka and drenched jeans. My chest tightens at the sight. It’s a lot worse than I expected. For some reason, I didn’t think about the repercussions of killing her boyfriend. Er, ex-boyfriend. Whatever he was. He thought he was doing her a favor by rescuing her. But it was his fucking duty. He shouldn’t have complained about it, called her a whore, or tried to kill my fucking dog—my only lifeline.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” I say finally as I slide out of my snow pants and parka. I expect her to rattle off some sort of snarky reply.
But she doesn’t. She acts like she doesn’t even hear me.
“I said, you need to get out of those clothes and get some sleep.”
Emersyn lifts her head but doesn’t look at me. Her eyes stay focused on the flames in front of her as she slides out of the parka. She then slowly rises to her feet, her coat in her arms. I walk to her, and she remains unmoved as I take it from her arms.
“I’ll hang this up for you.”
Nothing in response.
Emersyn turns on her heels and heads down the hallway, her jeans sticking to her as she slips away into the darkness.
“Goodnight,” I call after her, my stomach swirling.
Maybe I should’ve killed her.
Because this fucking feeling I have now, is killing me.
Four blizzard days pass. Four. Emersyn won’t look me in the face. She won’t utter a word to me. She went from talking to fill the silence to forcing me to drown in it. She eats granola bars and stays in the bedroom. I only know she’s here by the fucking lump in the bed when I pass through to piss or shower.
And I’m not okay with this arrangement.
I tried to give her space, but tonight, I’m done with it. She’s either going to talk to me, or she’s going to fucking die at my dinner table. She will not be a fucking ghost in my house.
I set dinner, another shit casserole, on the table, and then decide to force her to sit at my fucking table. I rap my fist on the bedroom door. “Dinner.”
Nothing.
I reach for the knob, and turn it, shoving the door open with force. “I said, it’s dinner time. ”
She sits cross-legged on the bed, her damp hair spilling over her shoulders, and her black sweatshirt hanging loosely on her shrinking frame. She stares at her hands.
“Get up,” I command, taking a step toward her. “You’re eating with me tonight.”
“No,” she says, her voice barely audible.
“Yes, you are,” I stalk toward her, catching the lavender scent of her as I come within a foot of where she sits. “You are going to eat with me.”
She shakes her head.
“Fuck, Emersyn,” I seethe, clenching my fists. “Get up.”
“No,” she answers. Rage floods my vision, and I don’t know if I want to fall to my fucking knees and beg her to come with me or choke the life right out of her. Why is she doing this? Why does this all have to be so hard?
I reach down, clamping my hand around her forearm. “ You’re coming. ” I drag her off the side of the bed, and she whimpers as I give her zero gentleness. “You’re making me do it this way. I won’t let you die of starvation.”
She stays silent as I damn near drag her the entire way to the kitchen. I pull out the chair, force her to sit down, and then fill her plate with a chicken rice casserole. She goes to stand up, but I’m faster, pulling my pistol and setting it beside my dinner plate. She sits back down.
“That’s what I fucking thought,” I mutter. “You want to give me the silent treatment, but you still don’t want to die.”
She lifts her eyes to me then, meeting my gaze for the first time in four days. “I’d really just hate for you to get blood in your food.”
“I’d eat it anyway,” I snarl back at her disgusted expression.
“Sick fuck.” She shakes her head, stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork. She lifts it up, like she might take a bite, but then sets it back down.
I take her in, sitting under the warm glow of the kitchen light for the first time since I killed her boyfriend, and it fucking hurts . I barely know this woman, really, but yet I hate myself for being the reason she looks so… fucked up. Dark circles hold her jade eyes, dulled and puffy. Her lips are cracked. Her hair disheveled. She doesn’t look like the woman that danced with me in the kitchen four days ago.
She looks like walking death.
And I did it. She’s starting to look like Thomas did. Maybe it’s better when people don’t survive me long.
I force myself to eat, now me being the one who can’t look her in the face. I’ve taken a lot of lives, but this is the first time I’ve seen the repercussions in person—the damage I’ve done. The person I killed is dead in the ground, at peace, but this woman… She’s in hell right now.
I need a drink. I scoot back from the table, suddenly sick with myself for making her eat at my table. I go to the liquor cabinet, something I don’t frequent, grabbing a bottle of bourbon. I pour myself a glass, and then down the whole thing.
Maybe I should kill her. That would bring her peace.
But I hate the idea. I hate the idea of her being with him , even in death. I’m sure that makes me a sick fucking bastard. I didn’t want her here. But now that she is… I glance back to her, meeting those somber fucking eyes.
I want the Em back that I kissed.
What do I have to do? Do I have to tell her the truth about me? I want to tell her everything, and my expression must give me away, because for a split second, there’s curiosity in her face instead of coldness. I look away.
“It’s the winter solstice,” I grunt, pouring myself another glass. “Four days until Christmas.”
“Why’d you do it?” Her question cuts through my walls, slicing into me. “Turner,” she repeats herself after a few long beats of silence. “Why did you kill him?”
I blow out a breath. I can answer this. “He tried to kill Gunner. I need Gunner.”
She lets out a sharp breath of annoyance, like she can’t argue with that. “Okay, but then why did you try to kill me?”
I look up as I tip the glass back, knowing this one is going to lead to a spiral of truth. “You were in my older brother’s room.”
“I didn’t know the room was off-limits,” she says quietly. “I started looking around when I shouldn’t have, but… I just wanted to know you.”
I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “You don’t want to know me, Em. There’s nothing good left of me.”
“Yeah, I was stupid,” she mumbles, surprising me by not asking anymore questions. She scoots back from the table, leaving her plate basically untouched. “And now, I’d rather die not knowing you.” A tear rolls down her cheek as she stands to her feet. She doesn’t wipe it away, leaving it to taunt me, reminding me of just how horrible I really am.
She goes to walk past me, and I panic, my hand landing on her bicep. “Don’t go back there. Just stay. Please.”
“Why?” Emersyn tips her head back. “So you can try to intimidate me with your guns and psychosis? You don’t scare me anymore, Turner.” The numbness in her face is gut wrenching.
“I don’t want to scare you, Em,” I blurt out, my guard slipping in desperation. “I just want you to stay here with me. I have a TV. I can hook it up for you. We could watch a movie. I can?—”
“Shut up,” she cuts me off, her voice painfully soft. “I don’t want your niceties. I don’t want your fucking TV or your time. I want you to decide what you’re going to do with me, and just fucking do it. ”
I down the rest of my bourbon and set the glass on the counter, and then jerk her body into mine. She lets out a sharp breath, and I back her into the cabinet. I grab her chin and force her to look at me.
“What if this is what I want to do with you?” I lean down, my nose brushing hers.
“So you want to play house then, Turner?” she spews back at me, her voice cold. “Might as well kill me, stuff me, and then set me at your table. You’ll get more of a reaction from my dead body than living.”
I grit my teeth, trying to keep my anger at bay as Gunner whines from somewhere. “Do you just want me to kill you? Because trust me, when I blackout again, I will. ”
She spits in my face. “Go ahead. Saves me the agony of living with you, you sick fucking psycho.” If she means to anger me, it doesn’t work. It doesn’t enrage me in the slightest. Instead, it drains me of emotion leaving my stomach feeling nauseous and my chest tight. I release her, backing away.
She finally sees me for who I am, no sugarcoating it to herself. There’s not an ounce of denial. It is what it is—and it fucking hurts.