Page 20 of Thorns of Deceit

Mom’s shoulders stiffened. She didn’t look at me as the tape gun squeaked again, too loud.

I hugged my rabbit to my chest, its fur smelling like these boxes.

“We’ve talked about this, baby. New town. New start.”

The lamp threw yellow light across everything, making Mom’s hair look coppery and tired. Her glass sat beside her, half-full of the brown stuff that made her voice slower, softer.

“But we just moved here,” I said, whining. “It’s closer to my school and I get to see you on the weekends. And I made a friend. Her name’s Athena.”

Mom pressed the tape down hard, the box giving a little grunt of pain. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just safer this way, and I want to keep you safe.”

I picked at a rip in my rabbit’s ear. “Is it because my daddy will find us?”

She froze mid talking and the air suddenly felt thicker.

“We don’t talk about your daddy.” Her voice lowered and her expression filled with fear, scaring me. “Ever. Remember, baby?”

“Because he’s dead,” I whispered.

Mom sat very still for a long moment before she grabbed her glass and took a long drink. I could hear the ice click against her teeth.

“Yes,” she said finally. “It’s my job to keep you safe. That’s all you need to know.”

“Safe from what?”

She rubbed her forehead and the smell of something sweet and bitter from her glass drifted toward me.

“From mistakes,” she said. “From dangers. From bad men who don’t let go.”

I stared at her, not understanding her words. “Let go of what, Mom?”

Her eyes found mine, and for a second, she looked like she wanted to cry.

“You and me,” she said quietly.

The wind outside knocked something against the window and we both startled.

“Promise this is the last time we move?” I asked.

Her shoulders slumped and she watched me with such sadness that it made my little chest hurt. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Her eyes slid away and I knew we’d have to move again. Many, many times.

I crawled over to her and she pulled me into her lap, her arms wrapping around me too tightly. Her skin smelled like soap and her drink. Her heartbeat thumped fast against my cheek, and I found strange comfort in it.

“I don’t like it when you drink,” I whispered into her sweater.

Her voice was small, almost lost in my hair. “Me neither, baby. Me neither.”

The lamp flickered. The taped boxes waited in their quiet stacks, ready to be carried into another night, another town where nobody knew us.

And I wondered if one day we’d stop running. Or if Mom had simply forgotten how to stand still.

Mom never looked back, except when she was drunk. Eventually, I learned never to look back either. There was no point, even though the past seemed to be plaguing me since I’d crossed paths with Aiden.

I glanced over at my husband, the midday sun filtering through the windows making his features somehow less intimidating. He was watching a Yankees game on the big screen. His large, bare feet rested on the coffee table while he seemed to ignore my presence.

But it was a disguise.