Archer's Voice(33)

Of course, it had been so long, I wasn't sure what came first, the town acting as if I was invisible, or me sending the message that I wanted to be invisible. Either way, I embraced it now. And Uncle Nate had definitely embraced it.

"It's good, Archer," he had said, running his hand over my scar. "There's no-one on God's green earth who can torture you for intel. You show 'em your scar and pretend you don't understand, they'll leave you alone." And so I had–but it hadn't been hard. No one wanted to believe any different. No one cared.

And now, so much time had passed I felt like there was no going back. I had been okay with it–until she came waltzing onto my property. And now, I was getting all kinds of crazy, unwelcome ideas in my head. What if I went to see her at the diner she worked at? Just sat right at the counter and had a cup of coffee like I was a regular person?

How would I order a cup of coffee anyway? Just point at everything like a three year old while people laughed and shook their heads about the poor mute? No way. Just the thought alone filled me with anxiety.

As I was stepping out of the shower, that's when I heard the distant screaming. I jolted and pulled my jeans on quickly, putting my t-shirt on as I ran for the door. Shoes… shoes… I looked around and the screaming continued. That sounded like Bree. Forget the shoes. I ran out of my house and toward the woods.

I followed the sound of her anguished cries through the brush, down toward the lake to the beach at the very edge of my property. When I saw her, tangled in the net, thrashing and flailing, eyes closed tight, crying and screaming out, my heart felt like it burst wide open in my chest. Uncle Nate and his damn traps. If he wasn't already dead, I'd have killed him.

I ran toward Bree and put my hands on her within the tangled rope. She jolted and began whimpering, bringing her hands up over her head and curling into a ball as much as she could within the trap. She was like a wounded animal. I wanted to roar with the anger coursing through me at my inability to reassure her. I couldn't tell her it was me. I released the top of the trap. I knew how these things worked. I had constructed enough of them as Nate and I sat on rocks down by the lake, and he plotted out the security of his compound.

She was shuddering violently now, little whimpers coming from her, tensing whenever my hands brushed her. I lowered her to the ground and I removed the ropes from around her body. Then I picked her up in my arms and started back through the woods to my house.

Halfway there, her eyes opened and she stared up at me, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart beat loudly in my chest, not from the strain of carrying her up the hill–she felt like a feather in my arms, I was so filled with adrenalin–but from the fear and devastation I could see etched into her beautiful features. There was a big, red welt on her forehead where she must have hit her head before the trap lifted her. No wonder she was all discombobulated. I clenched my jaw, swearing again to knock Nate out when I got to the afterlife.

As Bree stared up, she seemed to recognize me, her wide eyes moving over my face. But then her expression crumpled and she burst into sobs, bringing her arms up around my neck and pressing her face into my chest. Her cries racked her body. I held her more tightly as I stepped onto the grass in front of my house.

I kicked open the door and walked through, sitting down on my couch when I got inside, Bree still in my arms, crying harshly, her tears soaking my t-shirt.

I wasn't sure what to do, and so I just sat there, holding her as she cried. After a little while, I realized that I was rocking her and my lips were on the top of her head. That's what my mom used to do when I got hurt or was sad about something.

Bree cried for a long, long time, but finally her cries grew quieter and her warm breath on my chest came out in gentler exhales.

"I didn't fight," she said softly after a few minutes.

I held her away from me just a bit so that she could see my questioning eyes.

"I didn't fight," she repeated, shaking her head slightly. "I wouldn't have fought either, even if he hadn't run." She closed her eyes, but then opened them a few seconds later, looking at me with heartbreak.

I lifted her slightly and laid her back on my couch, her head propped on the pillow at the end. My arms were sore and cramping from holding her in the same position for so long, but I didn't care. I would have held her for the rest of the night if I thought she needed me to.

I drank her in, still so beautiful even in her pain, her long, golden brown hair lying in loose waves and her green eyes shimmering with tears. Didn't fight who, Bree?

The man who tried to rape me, she signed and my heart crashed to a stop before resuming a fast, erratic beat in my chest. The man who murdered my father.