Page 10 of Where Daisies Breathe (Star Meadows #2)

AVA

C lara and I are quiet during the drive to my mother’s house. She’s uneasy and keeps fidgeting with her bracelet, readjusting the size as if her wrist is somehow growing.

“We’ll be fine,” I assure her as I make the turn off the main road lined with a house every so often. “And you can wait in the car if you want.”

She swiftly shakes her head. She is wearing a pair of sunglasses, and her hair is pulled into a messy bun. “Like hell I’m going to let you go into that house by yourself.”

I shift gears. “I’ll be fine.” I’m donning sunglasses as well, but the sunlight creeping through the clouds feels blinding against my throbbing headache.

“I saw what happened yesterday between Jason, you, and your mother. You won’t be fine if any of them are here. Plus, a girl was found dead the other day. The last thing you need to be doing is wandering around by yourself.”

I think about the cut on my back: slut .

It was almost a match to what Camilla showed me on her stomach while we were near the crime scene yesterday: vain . And according to rumors, allegedly the dead girl found in the park had a word branded onto her flesh as well: whore .

Slut.

Vain.

Whore.

Camilla had also speculated that the murder occurred because of my return to Star Meadows. But if that’s true, why?

And if that is the case, then did someone kill my father to lure me here?

That thought strikes me out of nowhere and scares the fucking hell out of me. But maybe I’m reaching. It seems unbelievable to think about. But so does everything else that’s occurred.

I finish the drive to my mother’s house, lost in my thoughts and worries.

Instead of parking the car out front, I decide to steer it toward a turnout located on the side of my parents' property, where the towering trees are so thick that the area is relatively concealed. Parking here allows the car to remain conspicuous, so no one should know we’re here.

I roll the windows down for Bailey, who’s in the backseat. His ears are perked up, and he’s peering around, nervousness radiating from him. No cars are parked in the driveway or nearby, and yet my nerves are on edge.

“Let’s make this quick,” I state the obvious as I pocket the keys and phone, then push open the door to get out.

“That goes without saying,” Clara says, climbing out of the car as well.

We meet at the front of the car and hike the short walk to the house. It doesn’t dawn on me until I go to twist the knob of the front door that my mother would lock the house. She used to hide a key beneath a rock that’s beside the front porch, so I hurry over to it and luck out.

“Some things never change,” I mumble as I return to the front door with the key in my hand and unlock it.

“Yeah, your mother doesn’t seem like the type to change much,” Clara remarks as she wraps her arms around herself. She starts to follow me inside but pauses. “Are we sure no one’s home?” she whispers.

“The front door was locked,” I point out as I close the front door behind us.

It’s a rational thought to assume no one is home, given the door is locked. And yet, I have this odd feeling that we’re being watched. It could be paranoia. I used to feel that all the time, right after Jason and I split up; that he was still watching me from the shadows.

“We should hurry,” I tell her as I turn for the stairs.

“Definitely,” she agrees as we rush down the stairs.

Our footsteps are soft, but the house is so silent that even the faintest noises echo through the stillness. It brings me back to that memory of the most chilling silence I’ve ever heard.

Snow crunches beneath my shoes…

Blood stains my hands…

Her blood…

Zoey’s blood…

I tried to save her…

But I couldn’t…

There was so much blood…

Blood everywhere…

On her face…

On her legs…

Her arms…

On her back…

Something is on it….

But what…

I gasp as the memory tears through my brain, like an old wound that never fully healed being ripped open again.

Clara slams on the brakes right before she’s about to enter my bedroom. Her head whips toward me. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head, my throat thick with too many emotions. “I’m just remembering some bad things. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” she questions with a raise of her brow. “Remembering bad things is a big deal.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“I guess you should listen to us both then.” She pushes the door open and walks inside. “You shouldn’t downplay your feelings.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Good.” She steps around the trundle bed and makes her way to her suitcase.

I head over to where I left my bag, unzip it, and stuff my clothes into it. “Do you ever do that? Downplay your feelings, I mean?”

“Sometimes,” she answers as she starts folding up her clothes. “I used to do it less when I was younger. It bothered the hell out of everyone. Like, I would seriously tell people to fuck off if they were invading my personal space. That was when I was like twelve.”

I shove a pair of shoes into my bag. “That’s pretty badass.”

“Maybe, but there are some people who don’t like it when kids speak their minds. I had a few aunts and uncles who kept telling my mother that she needed to get me under control.”

I glance at her from over my shoulder as I put a pair of pajama bottoms into my bag. “Did she listen to them?”

She nods, her gaze fixed on her suitcase.

“She tried to anyway, but it didn’t work out that well for her.

Or for me.” She tosses a shirt into her suitcase and clears her throat.

“It’s part of the reason why I knew she’d pay for our rental place.

I kind of feel bad for holding everything that happened over her head, but at the same time, bad stuff went down because she thought it was a good idea to,” she makes air quotes, “‘try to get me to behave, and be quiet.’”

I recall the story Clara told me about her neighbor hurting her and wonder if that’s what she’s referring to. I start to ask, but the slam of a door in the house cuts me off.

Clara’s head snaps toward me. “Was that inside the house?”

With a frantic nod, I place a finger to my lips. Then I quietly push to my feet, tiptoe over to the doorway, and peer out past the living room toward the bottom of the stairs. My heart is slamming in my chest, the air quiet—too quiet.

Then the stairs creak as someone descends into the basement. I don’t wait to see who it is. I push my bedroom door mostly shut, but not all the way, to avoid making any noise. Then I gesture for Clara to come to me as I flip off the light.

She hurries around the trundle bed as I pad over to my closet. Holding my breath, I ever so gently slide the door open. Inside are boxes, and a few clothes are hanging up, but there’s enough room for both of us to hide inside. I step in, then grab her hand and tug her into the small space with me.

“What’s—” she starts to say, but I cover her mouth with my hand and again, place my finger to my lips before slowly sliding the door shut.

The moment I do, the lights turn on in my bedroom, faint light filtering through vents on the wooden closet door. I lower my hand from Clara’s mouth and smash my lips together, breathing through my nose.

Clara stands still beside me, but I can feel the tremble of her body. My heart is pounding, blood roaring in my eardrums. When I peer through one of the cracks in the vent, my fear only heightens.

Snow crunches underneath my feet…

Footsteps rush after me…

“Oh, Ava,” he calls out.

Trystan is standing in my fucking room. He's wearing a button-down shirt and tan slacks, as if he’s either just come from a fancy event or is about to attend one. Perhaps the dinner my mother told me to attend tonight? Who the hell knows. What I want to know is why he’s in my room?

The sight of him standing in the middle of my belongings, some of which are from my childhood, causes a chill to spread through my body. But beneath the chill, something crisp and raw lies, anger attempting to spark to life underneath the ash that filled my body a long time ago.

Why the hell is he in my room?

I want him out!

I want to fucking scream until my lungs burst. Maybe then all the shards of pain and rage embedded in them will explode out of me and slice through his flesh.

I want to.

God, do I want to.

But instead, I bite down on my tongue with so much force the taste of rust floods my mouth.

In tormenting silence, I watch as he walks through my room.

He makes a path around the trundle bed, one foot in front of the other, and he’s clutching something in his hand.

He’s too far away, so I can’t tell what.

He doesn’t touch anything, and carefully steps over each item on the floor, as if being vigilant not to leave a trace of him being here.

He crouches down in front of Clara’s suitcase and uses the object he’s holding to move her clothes around. A glint of silver catches in the light—it’s a knife.

I bite down on my lip as my fear spikes. But I don’t budge—barely breathe. I need to keep it together. It’s something I’m not used to, but at this moment, I know I have to.

Trystan moves Clara’s clothes around for a while before straightening and making his way over to my bag. He does the same thing, moving my clothes around with the knife.

“Where the hell did you put it, you little fucking cunt?” he mutters as he continues to dig through my stuff with the knife. He pauses.

On the end of the knife is a pair of my underwear. He stares at it for longer than he should before setting it inside. Then he begins digging through my bag again until he’s gone through every pocket.

“Dammit,” he mumbles as he stands up and yanks his phone out of his pocket.

He dials a number and then puts the phone to his ear.

A pause and then. “She doesn’t have it.” He grows quiet for a second.

“No, I looked through her stuff. The key isn’t here…

Are you sure she’s the one who took it? Maybe you lost it…

I know… Well, what the hell do you want me to do about it?

If she has it, then it’s with her… I don’t know why you’re stressing about this.

It’s Ava. Even if she has the key, what would she do with it?

She’s never fought back. We all know this.

Plus, she’s moldable…. Get Jason to do it…

He’s always been good at controlling her…

He falls silent for a beat, and his gaze strays to the closet.

I stiffen. Can he see me?

“I don’t know why the fucker had to divorce her…

It’s not like she would’ve done anything if he said he just cheated on her all the time.

” He falls silent again and then turns to leave.

“Fine, I’ll keep an eye on her. But talk to Jason too.

He might be able to help.” The last part of his words fades away as he exits the room.

I release an exhale but don’t budge even after I hear the front door slam shut. I wait it out, not wanting to get caught.

My fingers are clenched at my sides.

My fingernails are stabbing into my flesh.

But I barely feel the pain through the rage screaming through me, that lightning begging to be released.

And I’m going to release it.

Trystan thinks I’m weak.

And I am.

But I won’t be anymore.

Because that fucking key is in my bag in the car, and I’m going to find out what it goes to.

Just like I’m going to take him down, and everyone else who’s hurt me.

I may have been weak before, but I was alone before—I was scared, and so damn broken.

But last night when I told Ellis what I knew, I started to heal myself. And I’m going to continue to do it until I can barely feel the pain of my past anymore.

“Come on,” I tell Clara as I push the closet door open.

I stumble out and she does too. Then she drags her fingers through her hair as she peers around the room.

“He was looking for a key?” she asks, glancing at me.

I nod. “Yep. I think it’s the one I took from my mother’s room the other night. And it’s currently in my bag in the car.”

She stares at me with a trace of pity in her eyes. I don’t blame her. What Trystan said about me was cruel but partly true.

“I need to talk to Ellis in person,” I explain as I start shoving the rest of my stuff into the bag. “Do you mind if I drop you at that rental and then head over to his hotel?” I stuff a shirt into my bag, focusing on the movements to distract my brain from the fury howling inside me.

“Ava,” Clara says. “I want to help with… Well, whatever is going on.”

I shake my head, strands of my hair falling into my eyes. “I don’t want you getting mixed up in this—it’s dangerous.” Although I don’t even know what this is yet.

But I can feel the remnants of pain, and that’s enough of a warning.

I zip up my bag, then stand up. She’s facing me with her arms crossed.

“No more doing this alone,” she insists. “We already talked about this.”

She’s right. But still…

“I know… Can you just watch Bailey for a bit while I talk to Ellis first?” I force down the lump welling in my throat. “It’s what I need right now.”

I hate saying the word need . I hate needing anything from anyone.

She takes one look at my expression and nods. “All right, bestie, if that’s what you need me to do, then okay.”

Her words are so wonderful.

And for a moment, it’s like I’m talking to Clover’s ghost.