Thornbird

Chapter Three Are You Going to Kill Me Now?

Three

Are You Going to Kill Me Now?

The floor creaks loudly beneath the soles of his boots. It creaks and whines and creaks some more until the footsteps stop and the room grows silent.

My heart trembles in my chest.

Where is he?

I can’t hear him. Can’t see him. But I can smell him. His citrusy scent mixes with the odor of urine that makes my throat burn with shame. I couldn’t stop it from happening.

I hold my breath for as long as I can.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

It’s not long enough. My breath explodes out of me, and a shadow falls over the hardwood floor in front of my fear-clenched fists.

“Hi, little sparrow.” He pokes his head under the bed. He’s crouching.

I weakly lift my head.

“Hi, Daddy.”

My voice is a squeak. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be brave, like Mom told me to be.

He studies me. I wonder if my face looks the way hers did before she screamed.

I wonder what her face looks like now. I can check.

I can just turn my head. But I stay rooted in place, cowering under their bed.

When we heard him coming down the hall, she abandoned the suitcase, forgot about the clothes strewn on the bed.

She whispered, “Hide, Gabby,” so I hid.

I stare into my father’s eyes and ask the question hanging in the air between us.

“Are you going to kill me now?”

His face collapses. He breathes in hard. “I would never hurt you, Gabby. Ever.”

I do it. I look over at my mom. She’s not moving.

She landed face down, and a red puddle has formed around her tummy.

It oozes outward, getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

How big will it get? Will it eventually cover the whole room?

My eyelids get hot and sting and my throat shrieks silently with pain.

I don’t want to be in here when the puddle reaches me.

I’m scared. I’m so so so scared—

“They’re going to say I did things. Bad things.” He pauses. “I suppose they’re right.”

I force my gaze away from Mom. I force myself not to look at that spot on his left temple, stained with her blood when he wiped the sweat away with the back of his palm.

“Ah, Gabby. There’s no suppose about it. I did it all. But I need you to know two things. Okay? Are you listening closely?”

I manage a tiny nod.

“Good girl. First thing you need to know is that I love them very much. No matter what anyone says, no matter what brush the world will try to paint me with—this is the truth. They’re precious to me.

” He smiles. “I take care of them. And they’re so grateful because they know I keep them safe.

They are safe and loved, always and forever. ”

My head hurts. I don’t know what he’s saying to me. I don’t understand. But I nod and pretend, because if I don’t, he might get mad again.

“The second thing—the most important thing—is that I never wanted to hurt your mom.”

But you did. A sob fights to free itself from my lips. I bite it back.

His head cocks to the side, waiting for me to answer.

I have no answer. No voice. No mother. I have nothing at all.

I’m so scared. So scared. I am so scared so scared so scared so scared—

“Come out from there, sweetness. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I whimper.

“It’s all right. I’m not mad that you wet yourself. I promise.”

As he reaches for me, I see the blood on his fingertips. I smell it, sharp and coppery. I shrink back, pressing myself against the wall. The shadows are closing in on me. I can’t breathe again, and his hand is getting closer.

So scared so scared so scared so scared so scared so scared so scared—

I wake with a start, my scream caught somewhere inside me, my eyes tearing wide open as I bat away a pair of hands that aren’t there.

Gasping, I look around. I’m in Jasmine’s bedroom. Pale early-morning light is filtering through her blinds.

Safe. I’m safe.

On the other bed, Jasmine casts one sleepy eye at me. “Jeez, Ryan,” she mumbles, grabbing her pillow and rolling so that her back is to me. “Nightmare much?”

As my heart rate returns to normal, I reach over and grab the phone I left charging on the night table.

No messages from home. Nothing. Even the social worker didn’t respond to my message telling her I’d arrived safely. Aunt Maggie will be happy; I’ve effectively cut every last tie binding me to Allentown. Now I can truly be Ryan Shipley the Perfect.

Yeah, right. Maybe on the outside. But I’ve been having nightmares like that for a decade. On the inside, I’ll never be normal.

It’s barely six in the morning, but there’s no way I’m falling back asleep.

Rolling out of bed, I duck into the bathroom that adjoins Jasmine’s and Connor’s rooms, where I pee and quietly brush my teeth.

Then I slip into my ripped jeans and tank top from last night, scrape my hair back into a ponytail, and rummage in my backpack for my camera, a sweet Canon DSLR my grandmother bought me a few Christmases ago.

Other than my necklace, it’s my favorite possession.

I carefully check to make sure it’s ready to go, then pull the strap over my head and reach for the doorknob.

It creaks a little too loudly, and I wince as Jasmine sits up on her elbows. “Where you going?”

“Taking a walk.”

“Crazy. It’s too early,” she murmurs, still half asleep. She yawns and collapses back in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. “Watch out for bears. And bear hunters.”

There’s no further interruption as I make my way through the silent house. Outside, the grass is covered in dew and the air smells crisp and earthy. It’s cold, but not frigid like Allentown in the fall.

Connor said something last night about a trail behind the house that goes on for miles.

Not sure where to pick it up, I step off the porch and meander through the tree line.

As I do, two blue blurs, chasing one another, glide into the branches of a tree overhead.

I look up and they bow their little heads, regarding me as well.

Indigo buntings. Blue as the sky on a summer’s day, and just as beautiful.

That’s what my father used to say, anyway.

I feel a stab in my heart. I hadn’t remembered that, until now. The last time I was out here, in woods like these, was with him.

That’s when I notice a birdhouse high in the trees.

Someone has left one, just like we used to do for all the birds around our cabin.

But this one must belong to someone else, because it’s too boring, not intricately carved, and not painted.

My father was an artist. In addition to his portraits and black-and-white drawings, he constructed cages and houses for birds and transformed them into beautiful works of art, letting me paint the different wooden pieces any color I wanted.

There’d be a whole rainbow of them, peeking out from the branches of the trees around our home.

For a moment, I picture my old house. The smaller cabin Dad used as his studio was about a quarter mile from the big house. They’re both in these woods somewhere. I could probably find the address online.

Maybe I will…one day. After all, this is home now. Or rather, it’s home again. But I’m here until June, so I have plenty of time to gather that courage.

The birds fly off, landing on a far branch, and I remember my camera.

I should’ve taken a picture. I continue through the forest, following them but never quite in the right spot to snap a photo.

The trail is narrow and marred with a few footprints, and seems to head upward, where it disappears around a bend.

I’ve lost the birds, so I follow the trail.

Whenever the trees part, I stop to take in the Smoky Mountains looming in the distance.

I don’t notice the elevation changing, but soon the trail winds and I find myself on a rather steep ledge with gorgeous views of the valley below.

A placid blue lake, the roofs of a few homes, and the steeple of a church are visible among the tree branches, but other than that, it’s a blanket of soft green, with a backdrop of the larger mountains fading into the clouds.

A perfect picture.

This time I remember. I raise my camera, twist the lens to focus, and right as the shutter snaps, something comes tearing around the corner, obstructing my line of sight.

“Hey!” I step back, at first worried it’s a bear, but then I hear a very human “Whoa!”

Relaxing, I pull my camera down and look at what I’ve captured. A gray blur. Lovely.

The figure stops and turns, breathing hard. “Shit. Sorry.”

My face is twisted into a scowl of annoyance, but it doesn’t last long. Because at that moment, my gaze lands on the single most attractive thing I’ve seen all day, even surrounded by all this natural beauty.

He’s wearing track shorts, a faded gray T-shirt, and white sneakers. He has earbuds stuffed in his ears and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Looks about my age, with brown hair and a diamond-cut jawline and cheekbones. His eyes are blue-tinged diamonds too.

This guy just demands you do a double take. Which means he’ll turn and run away without another look. Gorgeous, clean-cut jock types like this one usually do.

So I’m surprised when he pops his earbuds out and taps his sports watch. “I’ve run this trail a thousand times. Never saw you before.” He shrugs. “Not that I’m complaining. You’re a much better view than trees and dirt.”

I rarely find myself at a loss for words around guys. Especially snarky words. But here I am, utterly devoid of any speech.

He grins, baring perfect teeth lined up like a regiment of angels and two dimples that make him even hotter, as if that’s possible. With the way he’s watching me, entirely comfortable in his skin, I get the feeling he’s used to having this effect on girls.

“The only house anywhere near here is the Shipleys’. You friends with Jasmine?”

I nod and finally find my voice. “I’m Ryan Shipley. Her cousin.”

“Yeah? Jazzy never said she had a cousin. Where you from? You visiting for the weekend?”

“No…I’m…” Aunt Maggie’s story, which had once been so firmly entrenched in my brain, now swirls around my head like it’s caught in a twister.

Focus, Ryan. Don’t blow everything.

“Switzerland,” I blurt out.

He chuckles. “You’re Switzerland? Like the whole country? Or are you saying you’re the neutral type who doesn’t have opinions either way?”

I want to stab myself in the throat. Luckily I’m the kind of person who’s fueled by embarrassment. Instead of making me hide and cower, it turns me bold.

“I’m from Switzerland,” I correct, crossing my arms. “And trust me, I have opinions. You probably wouldn’t be happy to hear them.”

His smile widens and he takes a step closer. You know how at first glance, something looks great, and then the more you look at it, the more you see its flaws? This guy doesn’t have that problem.

“I love a woman who has opinions,” he says. Is he flirting with me?

“Hmm, well,” I say, lifting my camera as I stare out at the mountains. “It’s my opinion that you’re screwing with my composition.”

“A photographer, huh?” He pushes a lock of sweat-darkened hair from his forehead. “How about this? I’ll let you take a pic of me.”

Egotistical much?

“Pass.” I adjust the lens and try to ignore his curious eyes boring into me.

He doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. I had him pegged right. He’s the type of guy who doesn’t leave a room until he’s owned everyone in it. And he won’t get out of my way until I’ve fallen in line with all the other worshippers.

“How long you in town for?”

I snap a photograph. Too shaky. He’s making me nervous. But I’ve always been good at hiding things, and I’ll hide this too. “Forever, I guess.”

“Yeah? What about Switzerland?”

I shrug. “My mom died. And my dad is too busy with work, so he packed me off here.”

Unlike everyone else, he doesn’t bother to offer condolences on the death of my mom. I’m glad because I don’t want them. It feels wrong accepting them when my real mother’s death was so long ago.

Instead, he says, “You going to Crockett High?”

“Yes. I’ll be a senior.”

“Ah, nice. Me too.”

“Awesome. I can’t wait for us to become best friends.”

“I feel like you’re being sarcastic.”

“Do you, now?” I check the photo, because I know that if I look at him I’ll do something stupid, like smile, and that’s playing right into his hands. Just as I thought, the photo’s blurry. I turn away. “See you around.”

He lets out a short laugh. Maybe he’s never had anyone dismiss him before.

And maybe I shouldn’t be such a jerk; it would be nice to make new friends. But when have I ever had many of those? At Liberty High, I had a friend group of one.

It’s probably better to stay to myself, anyway. It’s less I’ll have to lie.

I focus the camera lens again, but unfortunately the sun is rising up over the ridge, creating too much glare.

“I’m Everett, by the way.”

I turn and realize he’s extending his hand. I don’t shake it, and he smiles again.

“Nice to meet you, Everest. That was really cruel of your parents, naming you after a mountain,” I say politely.

“Everett, not Everest.”

I pretend not to hear him.

“Don’t worry, it’s all good,” he says in a smooth voice. “I’ll let you call me whatever you want on our first date.”

I just stare at him. “Enjoy the rest of your morning, Everest.”

“Everett,” he corrects again, unfazed by my little attempt to get the upper hand. He pops his earbuds back in and takes a step down the trail.

Good. He’s leaving.

Chuckling softly, he skips into a run and heads off at an even pace, but when he’s about five yards away, he glances at me over his shoulder.

“See you Monday.”