Page 65 of The Lovely and the Lost

“Jude?” I managed.

He didn’t reply. The last thing I’d said hung between us.You don’t know.

“Mom had a talk with me when you came to live with us,” he said softly.

I realized then what should have been obvious: Cady knew. Of course she knew. She’d adopted me. She’d been a part of the search. She’d probably seen this file.

Cady knew. Jude knew.

“Mom said not to ask you about it—not unless you brought it up first. She said…” Jude swallowed, his Adam’s apple tensing against his skin. “She said that if the worst thing you could remember was the forest, then maybe that was a blessing. She said that it was our job to protect you.”

At some point in Jude’s confession, my grip on the file must have loosened, because I dropped it. A gust of wind blew the folder open. My past—the statements, the pictures—scattered.

Anyone could see them.

I lunged, stumbling to my knees to get them back. Jude knelt beside me, his fingers capturing a wayward page. I ripped it away from him.

“Go,” I said.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You lied to me,” I said, my voice eerily calm, even to my own ears. “My whole life—youknew, and you kept this from me.” I’d told Bales not to send Jude out here. And now I was naked and raw and bleeding, and Jude wouldn’t leave.

“I’ve been keeping things from you, too,” I heard myself say. “Bales is dying.” I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. Sometimes, a wounded animal nipped as a warning.

And sometimes it bit to draw blood.

“Cady knows,” I continued, “but she won’t forgive him. She won’t stay.”

Hurting Jude didn’t make me hurt any less.

“Ash isn’t your father. He had a thing for Cady, but she had one for Mac.” I pulled the Saint Jude pendant from the pocket of my jeans and held it out to the boy who’d been my anchor, my friend, myeverythingbefore I’d known how to be anything back. “Mac gave me this.” I nodded to the medallion as Jude took the necklace from my hand. “That’s his patron saint.”

“Saint Jude.” Jude’s voice was as quiet as mine now.

He left.

Ichased down most of the pages, but a few got away from me. Within an hour, I was tired of looking and done running after ghosts. Most of all, I was sick of replaying my conversation with Jude. I’d hurt him. I’d known I was doing it, and I’d done it anyway, and why?

Because he knew what I was, what I’d survived. He’d always known—and maybe he thought he’d been protecting me. Maybe he and Cady had done what needed to be done, but I didn’t want to be that girl.

I didn’twantto know, and I didn’t want them to know, either.

For once, the open sky overhead did nothing to calm the twisting, achingawfulinside me. The trees and grass and dirt weren’t comforting or familiar. They just reminded me what I’d known as a child: No matter how far you ran, you couldn’t stay out of arm’s reach forever.

Sooner or later, you had to go home.

I made it into the house and up to the bedroom Free and I had been sharing without running into Jude or Bales, for which I was grateful. But my luck ran out when I opened the bedroom door.

“You look about as good as Jude does.” Free was standing near the window. I wondered where she’d been, wondered if she’d talked to Jude, wondered ifsheknew.

“I need to lie down,” I said.

I need you to not be here.

“Jude is a happy guy,” Free commented, ignoring my silent message. “Pathologically, unerringly, purposefully happy at almost all times.” She paused. “If I were a betting woman, I’d wager that if the two of you had a fight, Jude’s not the one who picked it.”

“It wasn’t a fight.” I didn’t elaborate. What did you call using the truth as a weapon? What was the word for looking at someone you loved and feeling like your guts had been hollowed out?