“I think about you when I fuck,” he says.
I look fully at him; raise my eyebrows. “You think of me hurting you?”
“Jesus, Leah. I don’t want to talk about this shit. I don’t want to get to know you. Grown up Leah. I fucked you. You didn’t do it my way. I don’t fucking blame you, but let’s let this die.”
His words hurt me so much, I actually gasp.
Then I take a page from his playbook. I ask the one question I know might really hurt. “Who’s Shelly?”
CHAPTER THREE
Lucas
I’m driving, so I can’t pull over when my legs and arms grow cold and I start seeing spots.
I struggle to suck air into my lungs, but they are frozen.
My fingers feel so…
“Hansel? Edgar? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I whisper, but I’ve started feeling…
Terror.
Can’t breathe. Trying, but I need to…
Stop.
“Stop asking me about her!”
“Edgar?”
I need a fucking exit.
Need to get these restraints off my arms…
“How are you feeling?”
God my heart is going fast.
Gas station sign.
Foot on the brake. Fuck, I can barely steer the car.
“Charged with manslaughter… You weren’t… Tell us that you’re not considered… other family members… Shelly’s family… Right here… Juvenile detention or…”
“Oh God.”
I feel like I’m floating as I park the car.
Bathroom on the side of the building.
Stumbling; the door; open and shut. Blue tile.
“Been in the bathroom for a really long time…”
“…another suicide attempt?”
“Mrs. McKenzie, we wouldn’t recommend…”
“But Shelly cared about him…very much.”
“We have three girls…”
“A brother.”
“Tomorrow.”
“…well enough.”
“Take all the medicine…”
I sink down to the floor and work to get my numb, cold fingers to pull my shirt’s collar over my mouth and nose.
Breathe.
You can fucking breathe.
“Hansel?”
Please don’t call me that.
“Are you okay? Open the door!”
“I didn’t do it. Please believe me, please, I didn’t…”
“Edgar!”
“…you know anything about the plans to murder and…”
“…when did she adopt you?”
I stagger up and smash my fist into the mirror just to make it STOP.
It has to stop.
“Stop!”
“Edgar? What’s the matter?”
I whirl around. She’s there. “Leah…”
She’s standing in here with me.
I look down at my hand; there’s lots of blood.
“Hansel? Are you okay?” The horror on her face pierces the cloudy haze around me.
I had a panic attack, and now I’m in a shitty gas station bathroom. I look from my hand, to her. She’s watching me. Humiliation makes me rash. I shove my unhurt arm toward her and stagger forward. “Get out!”
I miss her body by a foot, then whirl around to swipe at her again.
She folds her arms. Her eyes are wide. “What happened? I’m worried about—”
I grab her, toss the door open, plant her on the walk outside the bathroom. Then I shut the door and stand against it as she pounds against it.
I blink dizzily. Something fucking hurts. I look down at my hand, and…blood. Okay. I flex the fingers. Fuck, that hurts.
I run the sink and let my hand hang under the cool water. I don’t do shit like this very often, but it works. I get some nice deep breaths as the hand starts to throb like a son of a bitch. Something’s broken. I frown at the crimson water running into the drain.
I can breathe.
I can breathe…
I flop down on the tile floor and take a huge, unsteady breath. I scoot over to put my back against the wall. My teeth are clenched. I tug at my hair and Christ! MY FUCKING HAND! Ohh, shit. I shudder and lean my head down on my updrawn knee.
I shut my eyes as shivers wrack my body. I try to think of Leah stroking my arm like I usually do, but it doesn’t work. Because it isn’t real. Nothing that I crave can happen in real life. The longing for her is enough to drive the breath out of my lungs again. I sit there holding my elbow while my pulse pounds in my battered hand.
“Triplets? Really?”
I nod. “Three blonde bitches.”
I curl over my knees and clutch my face. And then she’s there: between my fingers. The door slams shut behind her and she’s crouching down in front of me. Her hair is so pale. So straight. Her eyes so big. She’s holding a small, plastic shopping bag in one hand.