I hear Parker’s truck door slam behind me as I turn to face my house, and that’s when I freeze. The humidity manifests into a bone-chilling draft, casing my skin in goosebumps and causing my legs to tremble.
His body heat is hardly enough to warm me as he moves in beside me on the front lawn. “What is that?”
My eyes are wide and rooted to my front porch.
It’s a hamster cage.
A squeak of disbelief passes through my lips, and my feet take over, carrying me across the yard until I’m standing above a black wire cage, housing a chunky hamster, brindle and cream. My heart lurches when I spot the note attached with a piece of tape, billowing in the breeze.
No.
Please, no.
Parker comes up behind me as I pluck the note off the cage with shaky fingers. “What the fuck? Is that…?”
His words scatter as my eyes scan the small paper square.
We’re storytellers, you and me.
My story has come to an end, but yours is just beginning.
I know you’ll take good care of Nutmeg.
She doesn’t like her booties, but she loves the sun.
—Amelia
A sob rips through me.
Parker catches me when my knees buckle, and I fall against his chest, stunned and sucker-punched. This can’t be. This can’t be.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, his arms wrapping me up in a tight hold. One arm releases me to fish through his pockets, and then his voice mingles with my grief, my wails of incredulity. “I need to report a possible death. A suicide, I think. I don’t fucking know…”
His words trail off as I sink into a dark hole, my face and tears buried in his chest, and Parker’s fierce grip around my waist is the only thing that keeps me from drowning in the abyss. I weep and wilt while he strokes my hair, his nails gently dragging along my scalp, trying to melt the ice that is settling into my bones.
We’re storytellers, you and me.
Oh, Amelia.
If only she knew… she had so many stories left to tell.
—TWENTY-EIGHT—
Finality has a particular way of making you see every small, precious thing. It opens your eyes with a newfound appreciation for everything that is present and tangible.
My heartbeat even sounds louder, more alive.
Pressing my fingertips to my breastbone, I revel in the thrumming vibrations.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
West eyes me on our parents’ sofa, his fingers linked around his drawn-up knee as he faces me. My palms curl around the hot mug of tea I’ve been nursing since dinner ended. I turn to him, perched cross-legged on my favorite ugly couch. “I had a nightmare last night and couldn’t fall back to sleep.”
It’s been forty-eight hours since Claudia Marks found her daughter, Amelia, swinging lifeless in the greenhouse, tethered to the rafters, hanging dead amongst the lively, cheerful crops and geraniums. By the time the police showed up to my house for questioning, the discovery had already been made.
I’m glad she found her.
Apparently, Claudia Marks is a well-known fashion designer with a sprawling waterfront mansion in Lake Geneva, so Amelia’s death has been headline news, while making the rounds on social media. I had no idea.
I’m realizing there was so much I never knew about the young girl who spoke in riddles and rhymes, who had a troubled mind but a good heart. The fact that I didn’t take the time to get to know her better haunts me.
Sipping at the tea, I spare my brother a glance. His ice blue eyes are narrowed at me in consideration. “What?”
“Are you seeing that guy?”
My grip on the mug tightens. West came by that night after I texted him about Amelia, and Parker was still there. There was a bit of uncomfortable tension between the two men, likely because of my brother’s loyalty to Shane, and also because, well, Parker’s people skills aren’t entirely impressive.
Parker put some distance between us when West showed up, but I understood. And even though there wasn’t any obvious PDA, the fact that Parker was alone at my house not doing work or projects, painted a fairly clear picture of implication.
Shifting on the couch, I look away from his probing, brotherly stare. “I’m not sure, West. It’s still new.”
I suppose that’s true enough. Maybe I’m downplaying it because it doesn’t feel new—it feels raw, intense, visceral. It feels like it was always meant to be; like it’s always been.
But we haven’t discussed titles or exclusivity, so I have no idea what Parker is thinking or feeling. All I know is what he’s shown me, and that’s his smile, his secrets, his first kiss, his effort, his trust. It’s the way he held me on my front lawn beneath sad stars and jaded moonlight, providing a quiet comfort I desperately needed in that moment. He stroked my hair, rubbed my back, silent, and yet his solace reverberated through me in remedying waves.
He spoke with the police officer who showed up for questioning, he helped me carry Nutmeg into the house, filling her little water bottle attached to the grates, and then he sat with me on the couch, my head on his shoulder, tracing invisible designs on my bare shoulder with his index finger until my brother stopped by.
So, yes, I suppose I’m seeing him.
I’m finally, truly seeing him.
West makes a sighing sound that reeks of disapproval. “Just be careful, Mel.”
“I’m always careful,” I say, expecting this reaction from him, but feeling irritated, nonetheless. “You know I wouldn’t jump into anything lightly.”
“I’m just not sure I trust the guy. He’s kind of a dick, and he’s so different from…” His words eclipse as he shifts his gaze over my shoulder. “Never mind.”
“From whom? Charlie?”
Silence.
“You can say his name, West. The only thing worse than being reminded that he's gone is pretending that he never existed.”
West’s crystal eyes flicker blue and melancholy as they find their way back to mine. “Yes. He’s different from Charlie. A lot different.”
“Different means different—it doesn’t mean worse. And honestly, you should be happy for me. I’m trying here. I’m trying to move on and start over,” I explain, my tone gentle but firm. “You don’t even know him.”
“Do you?”
My words clip before they leave my mouth when Mom and Dad saunter into the living room with two pieces of homemade cheesecake. I stretch my legs and straighten, placing the ceramic mug etched with elves and snowflakes onto the side table beside me. Mom loves her Christmas mugs, even in July.
“Mellie, my little Jelly Belly,” Dad sing-songs as he approaches with the dessert plate, grinning wide.
I simultaneously cringe and smile at the childish nickname, reaching for the plate. Mom hands the other piece to West. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“There’s nothin’ that Ma’s cheesecake can’t fix.”
Oh, how I wish that were true.
The tines of my fork dig into the delicacy while our parents seat themselves on the opposite loveseat, Dad’s broad arm draping around our petite mother with that same affection he’s always shown her.
Shamefully, that affection was the primary reason I stayed away for so many long, lonely months after Charlie passed—I couldn’t handle witnessing everything I’d lost.