Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
There’s a new energy humming between us as we move through the prison—reignited with a new, tangible purpose.
True crime has never been my thing. It makes my skin crawl, the way it profits off of talking about the worst days of peoples’ lives, the way internet sleuths take things too far, prying into families’ messy personal lives in the name of seeking “justice.” no matter the cost. The Edith Page Milton case being decades old was the only reason I agreed to this episode at all—and, okay, maybe my soft spot for River’s insistence.
It’s hard to say no to the things that light him up, even when they bug the shit out of me, like when he took up card magic but only had me to practice tricks on.
But there’s something about James and Edith’s story that compels me to get to the bottom of it, like I am personally responsible for clearing his name, for figuring out the truth behind who killed her.
Which is silly. We’re just searching the prison for more hard evidence; from there, it’s law enforcement’s problem. This case has nothing to do with me.
As we pass through the front atrium again, Charlie lingers at the towering windows, drawn to the low slung gray clouds like the tides are drawn to the shore, over and over and over again. The rain’s pulled back some, reducing itself to a thin mist again.
“I almost forgot how much you love these kinds of storms,” I say. It’s so much more than scientific curiosity for him.
The soft curve of my mouth betrays me. I miss seeing him like this: consumed by his own adoration. He’s always been a heart-wide-open kind of guy.
“Love isn’t the right word.” Charlie adjusts his glasses and starts to walk again. I keep pace. “I respect them. I’m in awe of them. They’re beautiful and terrifying.”
I can’t resist; he set me up for the joke perfectly. “Wow. Guess you have a type.”
“Guess I do.” He chuckles.
“That why you can’t resist chasing them?”
I want to capture the sound of his laugh on one of my audio recorders and let it haunt me for the rest of my life—it’s my third favorite sound of all time. The first is the way he says my name. The second is how he groans when I touch him exactly how he likes.
The levity fades and he clears his throat, an intensity settling in his tone.
“Chasing storms gives me a sense of control over them. Understanding why they form. Where they are. How strong they can get. Instead of looking at them and seeing a force of destruction, I see updrafts. Rear flank downdrafts. Wall clouds. Observable, measurable phenomena.”
“Keep your enemies close,” I mutter.
He nods. “Can you imagine how terrifying it must’ve been hundreds of years ago to look up and see the sky coming down to touch the earth?”
“Hopefully they had their very own Charlie to talk them down from the panic.” I bump his shoulder. “That look on your face you get when you look up at the clouds makes me feel like I’m third wheeling. Like, do you two need some time alone together?”
He sucks his teeth and rubs the back of his neck, like his bashfulness is hiding in the soft tendrils of cinnamon hair and he’s trying to keep it under wraps. “Actually, yeah. Would you mind?” His face splits with a grin, and despite the roll of my eyes, my expression matches his.
The soft sound of rain guides our way. We round the corner of the first cell block we explored, a line of light falling across the cracked tile floor from where the exit is still propped open, and the text I sent River telling him about our rigged-up entry flashes in my mind.
I pull my phone out and turn off Airplane Mode, my pace stuttering as I divert my attention.
Nothing from River comes through, the last message still stating once he drops Payton off, he’s heading back to Black Magnolia, so I take the initiative.
Me
Update, please? Did you ever get Payton home? ETA?
The three bubbles start jiggling on the screen almost instantly—he must have his phone on vibrate instead of silent like usual. Or he’s actively texting and driving—god, I hope not.
River
yeah. heading that way soon.
He already got her home and yet he’s leaving soon?
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re most likely taking advantage of her parents ‘staycation’ and the empty house left in their wake.
I fight the visceral full-body ick that lurches up my spine at the thought.
Having far too much awareness of my little brother’s love life was an unexpected side effect of everything.
When he started dating Payton, I thought I did the right thing by buying a small box of condoms and discreetly slipping them on his shelf in the bathroom cabinet.
But when the box finally cracked open six months later, I wanted to hurl.
I was equal parts proud he was being safe, disgusted that I knew my baby brother was potentially using them, and simultaneously hurt he hadn’t come to talk to me about it first.
The lines of our relationship have blurred so much since I brought him back to Dallas with me, and it doesn’t matter how much I Google or how many Reddit threads I peruse, I never feel like I actually know what I’m doing with him. Like I’m one bad call away from ruining him.
It doesn’t help that growing up, my parents instilled very different standards in me, a girl, than they did Patrick, and I’ve been trying to tease out the good from the bad in everything I internalized.
At seventeen, I’d been terrified to be labeled a ‘slut’—and still ended up with the moniker after Sam Wheeler’s glorious fuck up—so it’s hard for me to accept that River and Payton potentially getting more physical isn’t a terrible, awful thing, as long as it’s safe and consensual.
“Is seventeen too young to be having sex?” I blurt, without thinking. I’ve always valued Charlie’s opinion on things, and he was once a teenage boy. Maybe he’ll have more insight than me. “Weren’t you in college when you—?”
His brows jerk up in surprise. “I was eighteen, but I was still in high school.”
“Right.” I swallow. “Allissa Lindale. How could I forget.”
Charlie clears his throat at the mention of his high school sweetheart, his first everything, the girl his parents wanted him to marry, the girl he thought he would, for a time.
“Seventeen doesn’t seem too young, but it depends on the person—the age of the person on the other end of the equation.
The context of the situation. You’re asking because of River? ”
I chew my lip and nod as I shove my phone away and pick up speed toward the exit.
River’s responsible. Payton’s seventeen as well.
They’ve been in a committed relationship for eight months now.
They tell each other “I love you” as if it’s the most obvious truth in the universe.
Maybe he’s okay. Maybe this is nothing to worry about, not a sign of a reckless spiral, an emotional outburst—not the sort of mess I would’ve found myself in at his age.
Maybe it’s just two kids convinced they see forever in each other’s eyes. What’s the harm in that?
“Huh. I guess I thought he was older.” Charlie ruffles his hair then grips the handle on the door to the yard. “You two have really gotten close. And he lives here now?”
“Yeah,” I ease out. The heavy metal door gives way and a heavy drape of rain coming down greets us, pulling us from the conversation. My eyes widen. “That’s a little more than a light drizzle.”
Charlie points to a building dozens of yards away, shrouded by the mist suspended in the air.
“There. I’m pretty sure that’s the warden’s office.
” He turns to me, a wily grin depressing the dimples in his cheeks as one brow arches.
“Great day to ditch my rain gear in the truck. I didn’t think I’d need it, posted up in here all day. Guess we should make a run for it?”
I let out a strangled snort, my cheeks bunching up at the playful twinkle winking back at me from his eyes. “I mean, I guess we—”
Before I finish, he takes off, hollering over his shoulder, “C’mon!”
“But—” I shake my head, full-bellied laughter spilling from me as I take off after him.
Wet and sharp, droplets whip against my face as I jog across the barren, overgrown field; tall, damp grass tickling my ankles.
My sneakers squelch on soggy ground as I push hard, trying to catch up to him, my sides stitching as I heave another guffaw at how silly this is.
The weight of all my gear pounds against my back with each lope, my hip joint grinding in its socket as my leg wrenches.
Keep it together, dammit. Let me have one good moment.
Ahead of me, Charlie looks over his shoulder, slowing when he sees how far behind I am, grin stretched as wide as the sweeping tree line on the other side of the prison fence. “You’re getting drenched!” he yells over the din of rain.
There’s a dirty joke buried in there somewhere, but as an ache builds in my hip, I’m too singularly-focused to dig it up. I push harder, straining to catch up. “So what!”
He laughs and throws his arm out, hand flexing in invitation.
I take the olive branch, and for this one rain-soaked moment, let the complexities of the messy history between us melt away.
The heat of his palm is a balm on my chilled, damp skin as he tugs me alongside him.
Thunder vibrates somewhere in the distance as we race across the grass, fingers tangled, and knife’s edge tingles shoot down my leg as the pain catches with a pop in my hip. Only a few more yards.
The old stone building grows as we near it and finally skitter to a muddy stop at the base of the short staircase leading to the porch.
I slip my hand from Charlie’s grip as he leaps up the steps and I do my best to disguise how I hobble up behind him, favoring my left side, and duck beneath the covering of the awning.
“You used to wipe the floor with me when we ran together.” He runs both hands through his damp hair, only half slicking back the thick mop on his head which refuses to bend to his will, his back still to me.
“Out of practice, I guess,” I pant. What’s the point of staying in perfect shape if I can’t even dance anymore?
Charlie pivots to face me and his lopsided, easy smile cuts itself short.
His gaze darkens as it lowers. Heat clings to my cheeks, much like the soaked-through, thin, cotton Halbach Hunts shirt now clings to my body, leaving not a single line of my curves to the imagination.
I’ve put on a little weight since we saw each other last, filled out all the sharp corners once kept trim for the stage, and judging by the tortured roll in his throat, the way he jerks his attention away, dragging a hand across his jaw, I’d guess Charlie has clocked the difference.
Clearing his throat, he reaches for the door handle. “Let’s hope this one opens.”
With a squeal and a groan, he pries it back to reveal the waiting darkness inside. We exchange a glance as we peer inside.
“Warden’s quarters?” I ask, brow furrowing on the dark stone hallway stretching in front of us. Only a single small window sits at the very end, a pithy halo of light dusting the mildewing bricks beneath.
“I thought so,” he mutters. “You’ve got a little—” With a touch so gentle it has no right to send so many sparks ricocheting down my spine, Charlie brushes a stray raindrop from my cheek. Catching himself, he tacks on, “Sorry.”
“All good.”
But what I really mean to say is it astounds me how this is where we are, apologizing for any innocent touch.
I’ve given Charlie free roam of my body in ways no other man has ever had.
Touch was our state of being. He’d always been hungry for my skin: a thumb arcing my knuckles, tugging my collar aside to kiss my bare collarbone, hands slipping under the hem of my shirt to graze my lower back, fluttering fingertips across my hip when we passed into each other’s space at home.
On slow Sunday mornings, we used to lie in bed for hours wearing nothing but each other.
But now we say “Sorry.”
“After you.” I sweep a hand toward the darkness as I attempt to dislodge myself from my own memories.
Things really were so good.