Page 18 of All the Things We Buried

SEVENTEEN

LENORE

W e pulled into a gas station off the highway. The fuel gauge was nearly on empty, and he didn’t want to risk stalling in the middle of nowhere.

He parked the bike beside the nearest pump, cut the engine, and swung one leg off. Then he leaned in close, lifting my helmet’s visor so he could see my eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“Looking at my favorite color,” he said, smiling faintly before turning away.

He grabbed the nozzle from the pump, unscrewed the cap on the bike’s tank, and slid the nozzle.

I could feel the smell of fuel through the helmet as he filled the tank.

When it clicked full, he placed the pump back in its holster, screwed the cap shut, and, without a word, walked inside to pay, leaving me there on the back of the bike, alone.

I could hear the engine of a car pulling in, and then a truck pulled up beside us. The driver’s window rolled down, and he moved his face out so I could see it.

“Lenore Thorn,” a man said. He looked like he was in his early twenties, smug and cocky.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“I know you,” he said. “But the real question is, how well do you know your stepbrother?”

He laughed as he tossed a white ski mask and a stack of folded newspapers toward me. Then the truck peeled away, engine snarling, just as Dorian stepped out of the station.

I stared down at what had landed in my lap. The ski mask in my hands, and when I opened the newspaper, the front page nearly stole my breath.

The date was three years ago. The headline screamed about a bank robbery in Salem.

And the photo, grainy, black and white, showed a man in a ski mask staring into a security camera with a middle finger in the air.

The eyes were dark. Too familiar. I knew those eyes.

It had to be him.

Dorian walked back to the bike, a bottle of water in his hand. The plastic crinkled in his grip as he saw what I was holding.

“Is this why you stayed?” I asked, lifting the ski mask, pulling off my helmet so he could see my face.

“No, Trouble, I...” he started.

“Then explain,” I said. “Did you stay because you were hiding? Or did you stay because you wanted to?”

“I wanted to stay,” he said, stepping closer. “I could have left so many times. But I didn’t. I stayed for you .”

“Is that the truth?” I asked, my voice soft, my eyes searching his.

“I promise you it is.” He took another step, close enough that I could feel his breath. “I’m not a good man. But I’m not a liar either.”

“You are a good man,” I told him. “And sometimes good men do bad things.”

“I could do better,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. “For you…”

He inhaled deeply.

“But I won’t,” he said. “You didn’t fall for a good man. You fell for me.”

“And I would fall again,” I said. “But can we go home?”

“Okay.” He kissed my forehead. “Okay.”

He put my helmet back on and zipped the strap gently under my chin. Then he climbed onto the bike, and I followed.

We rode home.

And even though we said we were okay, the truth was—we weren’t.

Two days after my birthday

I had a small backpack I kept hidden under the bed.

I even saved some leftovers from lunch, just in case.

I packed them along with a bottle of water.

The plan was simple: wait until everyone was asleep and leave.

But that’s hard to do when the windows have bars and the doors are always locked. Still, I knew I had to try.

I waited for midnight, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling wallpaper. It had started peeling at the corners again. No matter how many times Dad brought someone to fix it, it always came back. They blamed it on isolation. I knew better. Something was wrong with this place.

A soft knock came at the door. I didn’t move. Just turned to the side, pretending to sleep. The door creaked open. I heard the footsteps. I knew they were his. I always knew his steps.

He shut the door behind him. Sat down on the bed. Then lie next to me. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me close. My heart was pounding so loud I thought it would give me away.

“You won’t leave me,” he whispered like he already knew. “You’ll never leave me.”

His mind was broken, just as much as my heart was when I lied, “Never.” Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at the wall. I bit my lower lip, nerves twisting inside me, then turned to face him, met his dark eyes.

“Promise me,” he said, wiping my tears with his thumb. “Promise. Me.”

“I promise,” I whispered, another tear sliding down.

He kissed my forehead, pulling me closer. “I have only you, Trouble. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” I said, wrapping my arms around him like it was the last time I ever would.

“Then why does it feel like I already lost you?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I bit my lip again, our eyes locked. I couldn’t lie this time, and he knew it. And instead of begging me to stay again, he asked, “What was your birthday wish?”

“A kiss,” I whispered, eyes closing, the tears still coming.

And just before I opened them, his lips touched mine. His hands pulled me in, his mouth moved against mine, slow and deep, his tongue tasting the words I never said. He kissed me like I belonged to him. Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to. If I stayed, it would be for him.

It was wrong. All of it. My body betrayed me, but I couldn’t stop. I pulled him closer, wrapped my leg around his hip, fingers tangled in his hair—I couldn’t stop.

He stole my first kiss. But I wanted him to take it.

Then the door burst open. Dad.

He yelled something. I didn’t move. Dorian didn’t either. He kept kissing me like time had frozen. And maybe I wanted it to.

“Get off your sister!” Dad roared, already unbuckling his belt.

I heard the snap of leather and the whistle of air. Then it struck Dorian’s back.

He gasped against my lips, finally pulling away. He still held my hand.

Dad yanked him off me. Dorian hit the floor hard. The belt came down again. Again. The fabric of his shirt tore, his skin breaking. I screamed, throwing myself at them, trying to protect him. But the belt turned on me too.

“Ezekiel punishes sinners, and you have sinned!” Dad shouted, the belt gripped tighter, lashing across my body.

All I could see were Dorian’s eyes. And all he saw were mine. My tears, my screams as the leather bit into me.

He grabbed me, spun me around, and held me tight, shielding my body with his own.

“I got you, Trouble,” he whispered.

Then she appeared. My stepmother. Standing in the doorway, watching in silence, wearing some deep red cape like she’d dressed for a ritual. And she laughed. She laughed as Dad beat Dorian numb.

“Run,” Dorian whispered.

“Run!” he shouted this time, shoving me free.

I stood, shaking. Looked back one last time. Then ran. Brushed past Dad. Past Dorian. Toward the door. Toward her. She didn’t even try to stop me.

I rushed down the stairs, my soul calling for him. Tears streamed without permission. I couldn’t keep going—I couldn’t run. I stopped.

And then I turned. I ran back.

Before I even reached the front door, she grabbed me. Her nails dug into my arm as she pulled me away. Over her shoulder, I saw him. Dorian’s body is on the floor. Still. Not moving.

“No!” I screamed, shoving her with everything I had.

But then Father appeared behind me. Without a word, he seized me by the arm and dragged me toward the attic door. I fought. I kicked. I begged. He didn’t listen.

He shoved me through and slammed the door behind me, locking it. I pounded my fists against the wood, again and again, hard enough to shake the walls, hard enough to wake the dead. But no one came.

No one came for me.

No one came for him.