Page 5 of Where Daisies Breathe (Star Meadows #2)

AVA

O nce Clara and I finish eating breakfast, Clara calls her mom to get her to book us a place to stay.

I venture into the bathroom to take a shower and to give Clara some privacy.

My reflection in the mirror is a sign of how exhausted and stressed I am.

My eyes are sunken in with prominent dark circles shadowing underneath them, and my skin is as pale as the snow that coats the fields in the wintertime.

That bruise that was on my arm is darkening, the one I’m pretty sure might be from someone injecting me with drugs.

I look like a ghost from my past, and I loathe it.

I need to eat and stop drinking—I need a clear head.

And I need a plan on how to get into my mother’s house undetected so Clara and I can retrieve our belongings.

Once I’m showered and dressed, I exit the bathroom with a trail of steam following me.

Clara offers me a small, cautious smile as I walk into the room. “Good news. My mom is getting us a place that’s not too far away from here.”

“That’s good. Thanks for having her do that.” I sit down on the bed. “We need to find a way to get our stuff out of my mother’s house without crossing paths with her.”

She mulls this over while raveling a strand of her hair around her finger. “What about Jason? Would he stay there? I don’t want you to have to run into him again either.”

I shake my head. “I’m sure he’s staying at his parents’ house.”

“That’s good. How are you feeling about seeing him again?” She shakes her head. “Never mind. That’s a dumb question.”

“No, it’s not…” I waver with my lips smashed together. “I honestly don’t know.” Scared? Pissed off? Worried?

The latter stems from this odd feeling festering in my stomach, that Jason had something to do with that girl’s death—the one that was found in the park yesterday.

How did he know so much about her death?

It doesn’t make sense, since he allegedly just arrived in town.

But how could I think the man I was married to killed a girl?

I lived with him for years, and never thought he was a killer…

That’s not entirely accurate. There were times, in the darkness of our house, where I believed he might force me to take my final breath.

There were times when his fingers wrapped around my throat, where his knuckles slammed against my bones with too much aching force, when he shoved me with his brutal strength with too much force.

He didn’t kill me, though, so that means something… right?

I’m not convinced it is, and that’s more horrifying than anything I’ve experienced. Could I have lived my life with a man capable of doing things that have haunted my mind for years? Things I couldn’t see but felt?

“What’re you thinking about?” Clara asks, her voice drifting through my haunting thoughts.

“Just some stuff about Jason,” I mumble without much forethought. “Like how odd he was acting yesterday.”

“That wasn’t normal for him?” she questions dubiously as she takes a sip of her coffee.

“No and yes.” I debate how much to tell her. “I think it was odd he knew so much about that girl’s death when she was barely found, and he supposedly just got into town.”

A crease forms between her brows. “Are you implying that you think…” Her brows raise. “That you think he killed her?” she whispers the last part.

Do I?

That’s insane…

And yet…

His fingers wrap around my throat, squeezing my windpipe.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

He’s going to kill me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper shakily.

“Holy shit,” Clara breathes out as she reclines back on the sofa and absentmindedly pets Bailey, who’s lying beside her. “That’s a big accusation. Not that I’m saying you’re wrong, but…” She dazes off at the floor, lost in thought.

“It could be a wrong accusation,” I feel the need to say.

Her gaze lifts to mine.

Silence passes between us.

“But what if you’re not wrong?” She slants forward, her gaze intense. “He seems angry and intense. Plus, he acted like you should just obey him because he snapped his stupid little fingers. Not that I’m saying that makes him capable of murder, but I feel like it could be signs that he could be.”

“From what I’ve heard and read, killers are calm and calculated.

At least a lot of infamous psychopaths are.

” I stare down at my hands. “But some are angry and unstable and…” I close my eyes.

“He acted as if I should obey because I used to do that all the time.” I squeeze my eyelids shut tighter as tears burn in my eyes.

The air is silent, still, unlike my racing heart.

“Do what I say, Ava. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Without me, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“You can’t do anything right.”

He’s right.

He has to be because it’s what everyone else says about me.

Except for Clover and Ellis, but they don't exist in my life anymore.

Because one is dead, and the other I ran away from. And I never should’ve done that. I never should’ve run away from Ellis.

Weight presses against the cavity of my chest as memories crush me. But then warmth erases the sensations as Clara wraps her arms around me and pulls me away from the darkness of my mind and toward the light of reality.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she says as she hugs me. “You’re so strong, Aves. You really are.”

I open my eyes, and the sunlight trickling through the window burns against my retinas. “No, I’m not. If I were, I’d have left him a long time ago.”

“I think we both know it’s way more complicated than that. And you survived. That makes you brave. You’re no longer with him, and you’re starting over. You’re so strong.”

Have I survived? Most days I feel like I’m living inside a locked room where all my secrets are smothering me.

But I let some of them out last night—I set them free.

So maybe I am surviving now.

I suck in a gradual breath and let it out before hugging her back. “Thank you for everything.”

“Always,” she replies, reminding me so much of Clover in that moment.

When she pulls away, I hurry and wipe a few tears away that have managed to escape my eyes.

“I’m so exhausted,” I tell her as she sits back down on the sofa.

“Me, too.” She glances at the time on the clock that’s perched on the nightstand. “We still have hours before we can go to that place. We should take a nap.” She wavers. “Unless you want to go get our stuff?”

I dither. More than likely, my mother will be home this early. Later, she might have something going on.

“Let’s get some rest and then we’ll figure out how to do that… I’m hoping my mother might have something going on tonight and we can go to the house while she’s gone.”

She crosses her fingers. “Fingers crossed.”

There were times in my life when I questioned if I was the problem in my family. That perhaps my parents were right, and I was the defective one. But I’m starting to realize that’s not the cause.

I’m not defective.

I've just been brainwashed to believe I am.