Page 25

TWENTY-FOUR

SARAH MORGAN

News vans line both sides of the road, and as soon as they see my vehicle, reporters and cameramen scatter, ready to get their shot, hoping I’ll stop to answer questions. I lock eyes with a few of them as I turn slowly into the long driveway that curves and cuts through the woods, giving them no view of my house. Even on a Sunday morning, they’re out here trying to get whatever scraps they can for their story. They weren’t here when I left an hour or so ago, and aside from the run-in at the office, I’ve been able to avoid them for the most part. The media are like freshly hatched lake flies, an overwhelming nuisance that swarms all at once, but they only live a week or two, just like a news story. I can’t wait for this all to be over with, for them to move on to the next salacious news piece, one that doesn’t involve me.

I kill the engine and exit the vehicle, grabbing two bags of groceries from the back seat. I had a few errands to run in town and figured I should take care of that before Summer got home. Rays of sunshine splice through the branches that create a sort of canopy over the house. I can hear the small waves from the lake lapping against the shore. A loon wails a haunting and beautiful call from somewhere in the distance, its sound carrying effortlessly across the water.

Inside, I unpack the groceries and steal a glimpse out the kitchen window to check on Alejandro. He swipes a brush along the fresh deck boards, coating them in a stain the shade of cedar. I left the sliding door unlocked while I was gone, in case he needed to use the restroom, but I’m not sure if he even came inside or not. I survey the living room and kitchen, checking to see if anything is out of place, moved even a centimeter. My eyes go to the rug lying in front of the door that leads to the deck. The corner of it is kicked up. He was inside.

I make my way to the bathroom and flick on the light. My fingers graze the basin of the sink, testing for dampness. It’s bone dry. The toilet seat is down. The hand towel hung on the matte black ring is still perfectly in place. I catch my green eyes in the mirror and stare back at them, finding her in the reflection. Letting out a heavy sigh, I leave her be and return to the kitchen.

With the toe of my shoe, I flip the corner of the rug flat and observe Alejandro through the glass door. He’s kneeling, one hand on the deck to hold himself upright. His back is toward me, so he doesn’t notice my presence. Through his white T-shirt, I can see the muscles in his back tense up, and then he pulls his hand from the deck, quickly bringing it to his line of sight. Alejandro drops the stain brush and sits up on his knees, craning his neck forward as though he’s inspecting something.

I slide open the door and pop my head out. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just got a splinter,” he says, holding up his hand.

“Come inside then. I’ll help you get it out.”

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it later.”

“It could get infected or wedged into your skin even farther,” I argue.

He sighs and cocks his head. “All right.” Alejandro gets to his feet and follows me inside.

He sits at the table while I retrieve a small sewing kit from the hall closet. When I reenter the kitchen, I notice he’s scanning his surroundings, taking it all in.

“Got it,” I say. His gaze snaps back to me, and he tightly smiles.

I pull out a chair in front of him and sit. Our knees bump into one another but neither of us acknowledges it. With a needle pinched between my fingers, I hold out my other hand, and he places his in mine, palm up.

His skin is warm and soft with colorful tattoos covering the entirety of his forearm. Up close, I can see what some of them are now. A cross wrapped in barbwire. A rising sun. The face of a woman surrounded by flowers and flames. A skull. And the words Fear nothing, for fear is nothing but a defect . I wonder if he actually believes that. To have no fear is ignorant. It’s what keeps us on our toes, ensures we’re one step ahead. Knowing his background, it’s clear he’s fallen steps behind more than once in his life, which is why he’s here—sitting across from me in my kitchen. I know what he is, but he has no idea what I am.

I lift his hand, bringing it closer to my line of sight. The skin surrounding the sliver is bloated and red. I press the needle into it, scraping and digging.

“Does that hurt?” I ask, pausing to look up at him. I’ve never seen him this close-up before, and I pick out small details I hadn’t noticed. A small inch-long scar protruding from the arch of his right brow. His facial hair is dense but trimmed close to the skin. There’s a black spot on his iris, like a beauty mark of sorts.

“No,” he says.

I return my attention to his hand and lean forward, dropping my head and flicking my hair over my shoulder. Piercing his skin with the needle point, I push and prod in an attempt to wiggle the small foreign object free. His hot breath sweeps across the tip of my ear and the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re tense,” he notes.

“Well, I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible.”

I can’t tell if he intends his words to be playful or challenging, so I meet his gaze again, trying to get a read on him. I lock onto the tiny dark spot surrounded by the sage green of his iris. It has the magnetism of a black hole, and I wonder how many people it’s pulled in.

“It is,” I say matter-of-factly, lowering my head again.

This time, I press the needle a little harder into his skin, piercing a new hole for the sliver to exit. You can’t always leave the same way you enter. That’s true for both splinters and people. His forearm tightens and several veins swell up, creating long, purple ridges from his wrist to his elbow. He sucks in air through his teeth, the tiniest wince of pain.

“Did that hurt?” I smirk.

“Not at all,” he lies.

There’s a moment of silence before Alejandro speaks again. “You know, yesterday, I overheard that argument you and your husband were having. The way he spoke to you.” He shakes his head, letting out a puff of hot air. “It took everything in me not to intervene. I wanted to knock him out.”

“It’s good you didn’t.”

“No man should speak to a woman like that, especially a husband.”

“I know... that’s why I’m divorcing him.”

“Really?”

I look up at him, but his gaze is a little lower than mine, staring right at my lips.

“Really,” I say, returning my focus to his hand.

He clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you two been together?”

“I mind.”

“Sorry,” he says.

“I mean... because it doesn’t matter how long we’ve been together. Time isn’t an anchor. It’s not something to hold you in place just because of how long you’ve been in that place. Like, for instance, how long were you in prison?”

He stammers for a moment. “Ten years.”

“If you’d only been in one year, would you still want to do another nine?”

“Well, no.” Alejandro shakes his head. “But that’s different.”

“It’s really not. We’re all confined in one way or another. Some of us just can’t see the cages we’re locked in.”

The tip of the needle finally forces the splinter out of the fresh hole I pierced into his skin.

“There you are. Good as new,” I say, looking up at Alejandro.

His expression is serious, his eyes flicking all around my face. And then he leans in, brushing his lips against mine. They’re warm and soft, and he presses into me a little harder. I’d say this was unexpected, but I could tell from the first moment we met, he wanted to do this.

The front door opens, and we break apart.

“Mom!” Summer yells. Her shoes thud against the wall one at a time as she kicks them off.

She stops in her tracks when she spots Alejandro seated at the table, rubbing the palm of his hand.

“Oh, hi,” Summer says with wide eyes.

Alejandro nods and says, “Hey there.”

“Alejandro, this is my daughter, Summer. Summer, Alejandro.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he greets.

“Nice to meet you too. I like your tattoos.”

He cracks a grin, briefly examining his colorful arms. “Thanks.”

I hear another set of shoes clomp into the house. Bob rounds the corner, walking down the hallway without even a glance in our direction. His footsteps are heavy, and a moment later, the bathroom door shuts with a thud.

Summer runs to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I kiss her head and return the hug.

Alejandro gets to his feet and flicks his head at me, signaling he’s going back to work. I nod, all business. His gaze is intense, and he doesn’t take his eyes off me until he’s out on the deck, pulling the sliding door closed behind him.

“Did you have a fun time?” I ask, lifting my daughter’s chin with my hand and inspecting her pale face.

“Yeah,” Summer says, looking up at me. An inch or so below her bottom lip, right on her chin, I notice a bruise, shaded with hues of blue and purple. It’s small, only the size of a nickel—but it’s there and it wasn’t there yesterday.

“What happened here?” I graze a finger over it.

“I slipped when I climbed up on the counter to reach the peanut butter, and my chin smacked the countertop.”

“You know you shouldn’t be climbing on counters.”

“I couldn’t reach the peanut butter, Mom. I’m too short,” she says, slightly nudging away.

“Your father could have gotten it for you.”

“He wasn’t home,” she moans.

I tilt my head, squinting at her. “What do you mean he wasn’t home?”

“Dad said he had to go do something.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “But that means I don’t need Anne or Natalie to watch me anymore, right? I was fine all by myself.”

“How long was your father gone for?”

“I don’t know.” Summer shrugs. “I watched a few episodes of Stranger Things , so like three hours.”

I press my lips firmly together. I’m livid with Bob. He asked to have Summer stay overnight with him in DC and then he leaves her home alone—to do what?!

“I was fine, Mom,” she huffs, picking up on my displeasure.

I relax my face because she’s not the one I’m mad at, and I don’t want her to ever be afraid to tell me things, even things that will royally piss me off.

“Why don’t you go unpack and get your homework done?” I say in a calm, happy voice.

Summer groans, and before she can protest, I tell her, “Now.” Her shoulders slump, and her head lolls forward, but she does what I say, picking her backpack off the floor on the way to her room.

“Bob,” I say as soon as he appears from the hall. My voice is full of anger, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on it.

“Ready to talk?” he asks, strolling toward me.

“Why did you leave Summer home alone?”

He squints like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about but then raises his chin in defiance. “That’s none of your business.”

“Bullshit. She’s my daughter.”

“She’s my daughter too!”

“Really? Because what kind of father leaves their child home alone for hours, especially one that rarely sees her anyway?”

“It wasn’t hours, and she was fine,” he says nonchalantly.

“I don’t care if it was for twenty minutes. She’s got a bruise on her chin, Bob, so she wasn’t fine, and she could have gotten seriously hurt,” I spit.

“Yeah, but she didn’t. You really need to stop coddling her.”

“Coddling her? You mean being a parent, keeping an eye on her, making sure she’s safe. She’s nine years old for fuck’s sake.” I raise my chin to match his. “Now, what could you have possibly needed to do that required you leaving her home alone?”

“We aren’t together anymore, Sarah, so I don’t have to answer to you.”

“Yeah, that’s because you can’t be trusted as a husband or a father,” I say, shaking my head. “When I’m done with you, Bob, you’ll be lucky if you even get visitation rights.”

“I doubt that. You have no idea who you’re messing with.” He narrows his eyes. “And I’ll be petitioning the court for full custody, so I can ensure Summer doesn’t end up like you.”

I take a step toward him, staring into his dark eyes. “The only way that will happen is if I’m dead.”

He whispers his response, but it doesn’t register right away. My brows shove together. “What was that?”

The smallest smile settles on his face. “Nothing, Sarah. Nothing at all.”

Finally, his words register. Or in prison ... and for some reason those three words send me into a rage. Maybe it’s fear that does it. Fear of what would happen to Summer if I wasn’t around. Fear that he’ll take her away from me.

“Get the hell out of my house, Bob!”

“It’s our house,” he says with an air of cockiness.

“Get out!”

We stand mere inches away from one another. He’s got half a foot on me, but right now, he seems so small. Maybe I’ve always seen him that way, and that was my mistake.

The deck door slides open just as I tell him to get out again. This time my voice is calmer and more controlled. I’ve regained my composure, reminding myself that when you lose your temper, you lose.

“She asked you to leave,” Alejandro says firmly.

Bob’s eyes bounce between me and somewhere behind me, just off to my left, where I’m sure Alejandro is standing. I don’t have to turn around to know what he looks like right now. I can imagine it’s the same as when he protected me from that horde of reporters the other day. Chest puffed out. Shoulders pinned back. Chin raised. And a stare so intense, it comes off more as a threat than a look of scrutiny. Bob’s eyes practically disappear behind his lids as he tightens them, deciding whether he should challenge Alejandro or back down.

“I’ve got someplace to be anyways.” He looks at me and smirks. “Some loose ends to tie up.”

I know it’s a threat, but I don’t know what exactly he’s threatening or what it is he has up his sleeve. The words or in prison swirl around my brain. I always knew he couldn’t be trusted, but this confirms it. Bob leaves without another word, just a lingering stare for as long as he can hold it. The front door slams closed behind him. I let out a deep breath and turn to Alejandro, who appears exactly how I pictured him. With Bob gone, his chest deflates, and his shoulders and chin return to a neutral position.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem, and I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just coming in to use the restroom.”

I motion toward the hallway. “Second door on the right.”

He nods and makes his way around the kitchen table and down the hall. I exhale deeper this time, trying to release all the pent-up frustration inside me. But it’s still there.

There’s a knock at the front door, three knocks to be exact. The thorn has returned to my side. I stomp toward it, ready to rip Bob’s head off.

Hurling the door open, I say, “I told you to...”

But I stop midsentence because it’s not Bob standing on my porch. It’s someone far worse, someone who’s been a thorn in my side far longer than my husband has.

“Hello, Sarah,” she says, delivering her classic smug grin.

“Eleanor.”