Credence
: Chapter 4

I sling the saddle over the bench in the barn, not caring if that’s where I’m supposed to put it or not.

He won’t keep me here if I don’t want to stay, will he?

Whether or not he intends to, actually scares me less than knowing he can. I came here thinking I was a guest and him having power it wouldn’t even occur to him to use.

Well, it did, I guess. Maybe he thinks he can get rent out of me.

Or maybe he thinks me being a woman makes me a good cook? I’m not.

I exit the stable and head for the house, taking a shortcut through the attached shop and walking toward the door that will take me right into the kitchen.

I shake my head at myself. I can’t go home.

And I don’t want to go back to Brynmor. God, the idea of seeing anyone I know… I close my eyes. Or smelling that house.

I can’t face it. The stark white walls. Sitting in classrooms crowded with people I don’t know how to talk to.

My stomach turns, and I stop, leaning my forehead into something hanging from the ceiling in the shop. I wrap my arm around a punching bag and close my eyes.

I can’t go home.

I grip the leather, clenching it in my fist, and everything—my new reality—starts sinking in.

It doesn’t matter where I go—how I change my surroundings or run from all the places and people I don’t want to see. I’m still me. Running, leaving, hiding…

There’s no escape.

As liquid heat spreads down my arm I fist my palm and hit the bag, my hand barely denting the leather. I do it again and again, my pathetic little punches growing harder, because I’m fucked up and tired and confused… I don’t know how to feel better.

I suck in air through my teeth, finally rearing back and swinging my fist into the bag. The chains creak as it tries to swing, but I still have my other arm wrapped around it.

Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.

I grit my teeth, a sudden burst of energy flooding me, and I release the bag, step back, and swing again, planting my right fist into the bag.

At least until I see you laugh. The anger warms my body, and I throw another punch. Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.

I slam my fist again.

And again.

I growl. “We’ll be snowed in in eight,” I mock his words to me in a whisper.

I shove my fist into the bag two more times and then step back, swinging my back leg into the bag once. Then twice. And again.

And then I just let him leave and didn’t say anything, even when he instructed me on how he likes his damn bacon cooked. I mean, if someone is doing something nice for you—you know, like cooking breakfast—you don’t balk at how it’s cooked. You eat it.

God, I wish I had some vegan bacon to really make his day. Amusement pulls at my lips, but I force it back.

I keep hitting and kicking the bag, a light sweat grazing my brow as I think of all the things I could’ve responded with. Why does it bug me so much I didn’t get the last word?

Why do I let everything go and never say anything?

I throw my fist into the bag and someone is suddenly there, holding it from the other side.

“Hi,” Noah says, peering around the bag at me.

He looks amused, and I halt, standing up straight. Was he watching me? Was I talking to myself?

His eyes crinkle a little more, and I see a self-satisfied grin peek out. “Don’t stop,” he tells me.

The dark blue T-shirt sets off the color of his eyes, and the same baseball cap holds his hair back where it sits backward on his head. He and his father look a lot alike.

I drop my eyes and back off, breathing hard. The muscles in my stomach burn.

But he keeps egging me on. “Come on.” He pats the bag where my last punch landed. “He can piss off a saint. Why do you think I hung this punching bag up in the first place?”

I press my lips together, still not moving.

He sighs and stands up straight. “Okay. Are you making breakfast, then?”

I dig in my eyebrows, unable to stop myself, and twist my body, swinging my leg with full force into the punching bag. He shoves himself away from the bag just before my foot lands and stands back wide-eyed with his palms up. I watch the bag swing back and forth.

I wasn’t trying to hit him. It would’ve just been a happy coincidence.

But my legs still feel charged, and I almost wish my uncle would walk in right now, so I could ask him to hold the bag instead.

I’m angry.

I’m actually angry.

And it feels good.

I’m still here.

Noah breaks into a chuckle and comes forward, hooking an arm around my neck. “You’ve got spunk.”

I’m too spent to pull away and let him lead me around, walking us both into the house.

“Come on. Help me make breakfast,” he says.

I place the third plate on the table and drop a fork and butter knife next to it, moving to the cabinet to put that fourth plate away.

“No, no,” Noah says, kicking the fridge closed and dumping the butter and jam on the table. “Put the fourth plate down. Kaleb can show up anytime.”

I glance at the table and then turn back to the cabinet, slipping the extra plate back inside. “Kaleb has a plate on the table.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Yes, she is,” Jake suddenly says, walking into the kitchen.

He heads for the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of juice and places it in the center of the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee before he sits.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.

Moving to the sink, I rinse off the knife and spatula Noah just finished with.

“You didn’t have dinner,” Jake points outs. “Sit.”

“I’m not hungry.”

And before he says anything else, I stroll out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back, and the farther I go away from them, the more I brace myself for a confrontation.

But he doesn’t chase after me.

He lets me go, and in a moment, I’m in my room, closing the door behind me.

The truth is I’m starving.

Pangs hit my stomach, and the scrambled eggs I made—while Noah was busy burning the bacon—looked amazing.

Luckily Noah didn’t press for much conversation while we were cooking, but if I eat with them, I’ll have to talk to them. I’ll wait until they’re back outside and then scrounge up something.

The green light on my phone flashes from where it lays on the bed, and I walk over and pick it up.

Unlocking the phone, I see my home screen with my email and social media apps, all dog-eared with dozens of notifications. Twitter alone has ninety-nine plus alerts.

A knot tightens in my stomach.

I rarely even use Facebook, Twitter seemed an efficient way to follow the news, and I got Instagram due to peer pressure to keep up with bunk-mates from summer camps whom I no longer remember.

My thumb hovers over Twitter, and I know I shouldn’t look. I’m not ready to face things.

But I tap the app on my screen anyway, the notification feed updating.

Condolences for your loss… says one person.

I scroll through the notifications, some of them direct tweets of sympathies and some of them where I’m tagged in the conversation.

Brave girl. Stay strong, writes RowdyRed.

And another directly to me. How does a mother decide to abandon her child for her husband? I’m so sorry. You deserved better.

Shut up! comes someone else’s response to that tweet. You have no idea what they were going through…

I scan tweet after tweet, and it doesn’t take long for me to lose what little interest I had in checking my DMs.

People yelling at me, because they can’t yell at my parents. People yelling at each other in conversation.

Suicide is self-murder. Murder is the gravest of sins.

Your body belongs to God. Taking your life away from him is stealing!

At least your mother made her contribution to the world, writes one asshole, captioning a nearly nude picture of my mother from one of her earlier films.

I close my eyes and don’t open them again until I’ve scrolled past.

And it just gets uglier as they carry on their conversation, either oblivious or too callous to care that I’m being tagged in everything they say.

She hasn’t even made a statement. I think she has like Asperger’s or something.

Yeah, have you seen pictures of her? It’s like emotion doesn’t register.

And then ‘Deep State’ Tom chimes in with his gem of wisdom: Asperger’s is the modern-day pussy’s excuse for what we called back in my day being a cold bitch.

I’m not cold.

And, of course, others are worried about my father’s unfinished projects: Who’s finishing the Sun Hunter trilogy with de Haas gone now?

I feel like I should say something. One tweet or whatever, even though I don’t think it’s important for these people to hear me, but I feel compelled to remind them that a human is here, and I…

I shake my head, closing my eyes again.

I don’t want them to think I didn’t love my parents.

Even though I’m not sure I did.

I swallow and start typing out a tweet.

Thank you for all the support, everyone, as I…

As I what? Mourn their loss? I stop, my fingers hovering over the letters before I backspace and delete what I wrote.

I try again. Thank you for the thoughts and prayers during this difficult…

Nope. Delete. Everything I write feels insincere. I’m not emotional, especially publicly.

I wish I could express myself. I wish this were easier. I wish I was different and…

I wish… I type.

But nothing comes.

I hesitate a moment, the urge to speak there but not the courage, and I discard the draft, closing out the app.

Pressing my thumb to the Twitter icon, I drag it to the trash and do the same with my Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and email. Going into the app store, I uninstall each one, cutting myself off. I want to speak, but I’m not ready to deal with the response to whatever I say, so I take away the torture. The accounts still exist, just not my immediate access to them.

Plugging my phone back into the charger and far away from my person, I spend the next hour unpacking my suitcases and re-arranging the room, despite myself. I never actually decided I would stay, but I know I’m not leaving today, and I need something to do that keeps me away from them.

Underthings in the top drawer, then night clothes, workout clothes, and T-shirts. I hang up everything else—jackets, blouses, shirts, pants, jeans… Left to right, dark to light.

I arrange all of my shoes on the floor of the closet, knowing my heels won’t see the light of day here, but I expected as much. No one to dress for sounds fine to me.

I stick the few magazines and books I’d brought on the empty built-in bookshelf and set my make-up cases, hair dryer, and irons neatly next to the desk and then walk my shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom. I set my soaps on the edge of the tub before pulling out my toothbrush and swiping some toothpaste across the bristles.

Finishing my teeth, I secure my toothbrush back inside its travel tube and take that and my toothpaste back into my bedroom, setting them both on the bedside table. I always kept my toothbrush in my bathroom back home, but only because I was the only one to use the bathroom.

But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.

I brush out my hair, pull it up into a ponytail, and then look around the neat bedroom for something. Anything.

I don’t want to leave the room, and I might be repacking tomorrow, but if nothing else, at least I didn’t think about my parents while I was unpacking. Or while I was mad at Jake earlier.

Blowing out a breath, I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, and head downstairs. A drill whirs from the shop, and I hear a pounding in the front of the house, so I head outside, knowing I don’t know shit about building motorcycles.

Jake stands off to my left, planting his arm against the house and hammering a piece of siding.

“Can I help?” I ask reluctantly.

But I don’t look him in the eye.

He stops hammering, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look over at me.

“Come and hold this,” he instructs.

I step down off the porch.

Treading through the grass, I approach his side and fit my hands next to his, taking over holding the board for him. He points a nail at the board and pounds that one in before adding two more.

He reaches down to pick up another piece of wood, and I follow his lead, helping him, but then I catch sight of something on his waist. His T-shirt is tucked back into his back pocket again, and I try to make out the tattoo.

My Mexico. It’s in dark blue script, an arch over his left hip, on the side of his torso, just above his jeans line.

I hold the next board for him as he puts a nail into the center, and then I spot another hammer in the nearby toolbox and take it out with a nail from the coffee can.

I place the point on the wood and Jake taps the space about an inch over from where I have it. “Right there,” he instructs and swipes his hand up, showing the line of nails on all the previous boards. “Follow the pattern.”

I nod, moving the nail. I tap, tap, tap, aware of his eyes on me.

“Here, like this,” he says and reaches toward me.

But I pull the hammer and nail away, seeing him immediately back off.

Putting it back in place, I hammer the nail into the house, accidently hitting the edge and bending the piece of metal. I clench my teeth and dig out the nail, replacing it with another and trying again.

He’s still staring at me.

“I won’t learn anything if you don’t give me a chance,” I tell him.

He moves, a hint of humor in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”

We continue working in silence, both of us lifting board after board, pounding nail after nail. My pace quickens, and he watches me less and less, probably because I’m not slowing him down anymore, although this is a two-person job. Why wasn’t Noah helping him? He’s in the garage, but this would’ve moved a lot faster than trying to do it alone.

Noah’s words from this morning come back to me, and the meaning behind them finally hits me now, hours later.

They don’t get along, do they?

And I almost smile a little. I suddenly feel a slight measure of camaraderie with Noah.

Jake picks up a board, and I take my end, both of us fitting it right underneath the previous piece of siding, but as I slide my hand down its length for a better hold, something sharp digs into my skin, and I hiss.

I drop my end of the board and bring my hand up, seeing a long, thick piece of wood imbedded into my palm.

Wincing, I gently tug at the half still sticking out, increasing the force when it doesn’t budge. A sting shoots through my hand, and I need more light.

But before I can turn around to head into the house, Jake takes my hand and inspects the splinter.

I try to pull away. “I got it.”

But he ignores me.

Focusing on my hand, he presses down on my skin where the sliver is embedded, holding it in place before he snaps it in half, breaking off the slack.

I jerk, sucking in air between my teeth.

“Who taught you to shoot?” he asks, poking at the rest of the splinter. “I can’t imagine Hannes taking up any outdoor activity that didn’t include a yacht or a golf cart.”

I shoot my eyes up to his face. That’s two digs today.

Jake’s eyes flash to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say something. “You’re not sad at the mention of him.”

It’s an observation, not a question.

My shoulders tense, a little self-conscious, because I know what he expects.

I’m not acting right, and he’s noticed.

I look away, hearing the faint, high-pitched sounds of motorcycle engines growing closer. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He digs his thumb under the splinter, trying to push it up and out, and I try to yank my hand away. “Stop that.”

But he tightens his hold and pulls my hand back to him. “Stop moving.”

While he keeps working the splinter, trying to push it out, I hear the buzz of engines grow louder and spot a team of dirt bikes speeding up the gravel driveway. About five guys crowd the area behind my uncle’s truck and pull to a stop, pulling off helmets and chuckling to each other. They’re all dressed in colorful attire, looking very Motocross. Or Supercross or whatever it is they do here.

Noah trots out of the shop and approaches one of the guys. “Hey, man.”

They shake hands, and he continues wiping the grease off his fingers as he walks around the bikes, taking a look at what the guys are driving.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he greets another. “Did you run today?”

They talk, and Jake tightens his hold on my hand before spinning around and pulling me after him into the shop.

Heading over to a workbench, he flips on a lamp and holds my palm under it to get a better view.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What?”

I turn my eyes on him.

“The taunt about your dad,” he explains, still inspecting my splinter. “I’m a prick. I’m sure I screwed up my own kids ten different ways to Sunday, so I have no room to talk.”

I turn my head, seeing Noah make the rounds to his friends, one of them still straddling his bike and lighting a cigarette. He peers over at me.

“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Jake says softly.

I look back to him.

“Complicated,” he explains. “Tough to read. And even if I could read you, I’m not sure I can be a comfort to you.” He gives a weak smirk. “I’m not upset by their deaths, Tiernan, but I am sorry you are.”

I turn my eyes away again, toward the guys outside. “I’m not upset.”

The guy in Noah’s group of friends with the frat boy haircut and crystal eyes is still staring at me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he smokes. Is that Kaleb?

I feel Jake’s eyes on me, too.

“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I state again before he has the chance to keep going.

But pain slices though my hand like a spider bite, and I hiss, meeting his eyes again.

What the hell? That hurt!

But as I glare up at him, the splinter is forgotten, and I stop breathing for a moment.

Warmth spreads up my neck as his gaze hovers down on mine, hard and angry, but… kind of puzzled, too. Like he’s trying to figure me out.

His eyes aren’t blue. I thought they were. Like Noah’s. They’re green. Like summer grass.

A breeze blows through the open doors of the shop, the chatter and laughter outside miles away as a wisp of my hair, loose from the ponytail, blows across my lips.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and I stop breathing, everything getting warm.

A trickle of sweat glides down his neck, and the hair on my arms stands on end, aware of his naked chest.

We’re too close.

I…

I swallow, my mouth sandy and dry.

He finally blinks a few times, and then he brings the palm of my hand up to his lips, the warmth of his mouth trying to suck the wood from my hand.

My mouth falls open a little as his teeth gnaw and tease the splinter, and my skin is sucked and tickled.

My fingertips graze the scruff on his cheek.

I can do that. I don’t need your help.

But I can’t manage to say it out loud.

“Oh, shit,” I hear someone say outside.

Pulling my attention away from my uncle, I look outside to see Noah checking out someone’s bike.

The magazine cover turns his eyes on me again. “Who’s that?” he asks Noah.

Noah follows his gaze and sees me but ignores him.

“Stay away from the local guys, you understand?” Jake tells me.

I look up at him.

He continues, “If you get a boyfriend, you won’t be able to see him once we’re snowed in anyway. Besides, they’re not your type.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m telling you they’re not your type,” he shoots back. “I will let you know when one is.”

What a Neanderthal. For Christ’s sake.

I keep quiet, no desire to argue with him. I’m not looking for a guy, but I can take care of myself. His sons grew up with him in their faces. I’m used to making my own decisions.

“They’re bored,” he tells me. “And when you’re bored, you only want two things, and beer doesn’t last forever.”

So they’re different from other guys my age, how? I know what teenagers are into. I know what men want from women. I’m not a fragile rose petal.

His teeth work my palm, and flutters hit my stomach.

I look up at him, the fact that I now live with three healthy, semi-young males, all of who are also part of the “local guys” he’s warning me about.

“You don’t get bored up here during the winter?” I taunt, dropping my voice to just between us. “When the beer runs out?”

His eyes tighten at the corners, getting my meaning. Are he and his sons any different? Will there be more naked women hanging out around the bathroom?

He finally gets hold of the splinter and pulls it out, but I don’t look away, even as it stings.

He lowers my hand, rubbing his thumb over the small wound.

“It’s fine.” I pull it away, wiping whatever little blood was there.

“Are you sorry you came?” he asks me.

Surprisingly, I’m not taken off guard by the question. Probably because I wouldn’t be scared to be rude if the truth was in the negative.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

I’m not happy, but I wouldn’t be happy at home or at Brynmor or probably anywhere. I didn’t expect to be happy coming here, so it doesn’t matter.

I look out of the shop, all of the guys revving their engines and turning their bikes around to leave. Noah backs away, obviously not joining them.

“Do you like being here?” Jake presses.

“I don’t know,” I tell him again.

“Where would you rather be?”

I don’t know. Why does he want to know? I don’t…

I finally meet his eyes, chewing the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t want to be…” I trail off, trying to replace the words. “I don’t want to be…”

But the sentence comes out sounding complete. Like that’s my answer. I don’t want to be.

His eyes turn guarded as he looks at me.

“I don’t want to be anywhere,” I quickly say.

I might’ve had some misperceptions about what to expect here, but I at least thought three single men wouldn’t desire a lot of touchy-feely conversation. This guy seems to want to connect, and it’s aggravating me.

I turn and start to walk out of the shop, just as the dirt bikes are all speeding away.

“Make some sandwiches, please,” Jake calls after me. “Just put them in the fridge to grab and go. Doesn’t matter what kind. We’re not picky.”

We’re not picky.

I walk into the house, head for the kitchen, and yank open both fridge doors. Then I pull open the crisper and freezer drawers below as I take stock of everything I have to work with.

He’s keeping me busy. I should be grateful. And he’s giving me a chore where I don’t have to talk to anyone. I like to cook. I can listen to music and be left alone.

And sandwiches aren’t hard.

I tap my fingers on the door handle as I hold open the fridge. I don’t know. He just rubs me the wrong way, like he’s enjoying his guardianship a little too much. My parents wouldn’t have cared if I’d had orgies in my bedroom as long as nothing wound up on Snapchat.

This guy, though…

Already he’s flexing his dominance. Mind you, I have no interest in orgies—or men right now, anyway—but I’ve been raising myself for years, and now I have to downshift. It’s too much to ask. I may only be seventeen, but that’s only on paper.

Why the hell does he want lunch now anyway? Breakfast was an hour ago.

And at that, my stomach growls. I falter a moment, holding my hand to my stomach.

I didn’t eat breakfast.

Or anything since the berries at breakfast yesterday.

Pulling out lunch meat, the condiments, and some lettuce, I get busy, building some sandwiches, taking bites of one to get something into me, and then I cut them diagonally and place the triangles onto a large plate. I replace the Saran wrap in a drawer on the island and wrap up the tray, setting it in the fridge.

Not sure if that’s their lunch, but that’s all they’re getting out of me. I’ll see if he needs me to run into town for anything. I could use a drive.

But just as I go to close the refrigerator door, I see a drop of water hit the glass just above the crisper drawer. Bending down, I put my hand in a small puddle of water.

It’s leaking.

Peering into the back of the fridge, I try to gauge where it’s coming from and see the motor frosted over and caked with ice.

I stand up straight and chew the corner of my mouth. Should I tell him? I’m sure he knows.

Spotting their iPad on the counter, I grab it and turn it on. A password prompt comes up, and right away I enter “nomercy,” hazarding a guess. It immediately unlocks.

Heading to YouTube, I check the model of the refrigerator and bring up some videos. Over the next hour, I empty the refrigerator and work it away from the wall, putting all of my weight into pulling it out and unplugging the power. Then, I swipe some tools from the shop and get to work following the video’s directions, chipping away and unthawing the motor, repairing the leak in the tube, and reassembling everything. I’m not sure if it will work, or how mad he’ll be if I made it worse, but that’s a perk of being rich. I’ll buy him a new one.

I stop twisting the screwdriver, realization hitting all of a sudden. Can I buy him a new one? I mean, minors can’t inherit money. Their guardians have power of attorney until they’re of age.

So technically, my inheritance is completely in his hands. Unless my parents put something into a trust, which their lawyer might’ve had the foresight to do, but…

Should I be worried? The money never mattered, but that’s only because I always had it. I talk a big talk, but if I can’t pay for college, then that changes things. Did my parents trust him with me and my well-being, or…was there just not anyone else? I don’t know if I can trust him, but I definitely didn’t trust them to do what was right for me. This guy has my future in his grip.

For the next ten weeks anyway.

Despite the kick up of my pulse, I forge ahead—lost in thought—and refasten the motor cover and reach behind the appliance, plugging it back in. The motor gently purrs and cool air starts to breathe back into the machine. So far so good.

“You did that?” I hear someone ask.

I turn my head, seeing Noah standing at the island, shirt off, sweaty, and out of breath, as he looks at the video on the iPad I have propped up on the counter.

Looking over to where the leak was, he sees it’s now dry.

“Good job,” he says. “We’ve been meaning to get on that.”

I turn back around, but not before I take another quick glance, noticing his torso and arms are completely clean of any tattoos. I don’t know why that strikes me as off. Maybe since his father has one, I thought he would.

Getting busy, I reload all of the food into the fridge, faintly hearing some kind of machine running outside and guessing it must be Jake.

“So, when do you turn eighteen?” Noah asks.

I don’t stop as he just leans against the island, watching me.

“November first.”

“You gonna leave then?”

I glance at him, taking a moment to realize what he means.

I don’t have to stay now. Didn’t his father tell him he gave me a choice on the phone?

“I would leave,” he offers. “I would leave in a heartbeat. You’re here, and you don’t have to be. I have to be here, but I don’t want to be.”

“It’s as good a place as any,” I reply softly, placing some condiments back onto the door shelf.

“Why?”

“Because you’re still you, no matter where you go,” I retort.

I stop and look up at him, his sweaty hair falling in his eyes and his hat hanging from his fingers. He still looks puzzled.

“There are just as many happy people in Cleveland as there are in Paris,” I explain. “And just as many sad ones.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be sad on a beach.”

I snort, smiling despite myself. I laugh a little, but I quickly turn away, pushing the amusement down.

But in a moment, he’s at my side, putting the A.1. and Heinz sauce on the rack on the door.

He stares down at me, and my stomach dips.

“You have a pretty smile, cuz,” he tells me. “If you stay, I’ll make you smile some more.”

Oh, geez. Isn’t he charming?

Ignoring him, I finish reloading everything, not even caring that nothing is organized. He laughs under his breath and helps me—both of us getting the job done in a few minutes.

Jake walks in and heads for the fridge, and I move out of the way, letting him in.

I gather the tools I used and start to walk away to put them back in the shop where I found them, but I hear my uncle’s gruff voice.

“Where’s the sausage?” he asks.

I turn toward him, seeing him sift through all the shelves, nothing where he left it now.

“There was mold growing on it,” I tell him.

I threw it away, along with a few other things.

But he just looks at me, and I steel my spine. “It can be cut off,” he says.

Cut off?

Gross. There are levels of decay. The mold just makes it easier to see the really bad parts.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he gripes, moving things out of the way, appearing to look for something else. “Everything’s rearranged.”

“Dad—”

Noah tries to step in, but his father just stands up straight and looks at his son.

“And where the hell did you go?” Jake asks.

He had left earlier. Was he not supposed to?

But Noah’s jaw just tenses, and instead of answering, he shakes his head and leaves. I don’t know if I envy Noah or what. He doesn’t get along with his father, either, but at least he has his attention.

I drop my eyes and tap the iPad screen, closing out YouTube and the refrigerator repair video I used.

“Look,” Jake says, turned toward me and his voice lower now. “Don’t go above and beyond, okay? We run a well-oiled machine here, so just do what I ask. Reorganizing the refrigerator or cabinets or decorating—anything like that—is not necessary. Or really appreciated, to be honest. If you need ideas for chores, I can give you plenty.”

I nod.

And I set the tools on the counter and leave the kitchen.

That night—hours into a thunderstorm that had been raging since after dinner—I snap awake, every muscle in my body tight and hot. I clench the sheets at my side, my chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, and sweat dripping down my neck.

I gasp, trying to breathe, but I can’t fucking move. I try to swallow, but it takes four times before I’m able to wet my dry throat.

I roll my eyes around the room, fear lingering in my brain, but I’m not sure why as I take inventory of my surroundings.

The room is dark, the storm still rocking against my windows, and I hear the drops pummel the deck outside my room.

Slowly, I stretch out my fingers, prying my hands off the sheets, and I sit up, wincing at the ache in my shoulders and neck from being locked up too long.

Did I dream? I close my eyes, the tears I don’t remember crying seeping out and joining the ones already wetting my face.

I don’t remember anything, but I must’ve been crying or screaming, because my throat is burning and my knuckles ache from clenching my fists. I quickly glance at my door, relieved to see it’s still closed. Thank God I wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone.

I throw off the covers and walk to the chest of drawers to retrieve my phone.

When I was a kid, I had terrible episodes of screaming and crying—absolute midnight mania—where I’d wake up and carry on, but I was completely asleep. They said it was night terrors, and when it was over—when Mirai or whatever nanny soothed me back to the sleep—I never remembered anything. I only knew it happened, because my muscles would be drained, my throat would be dry, and I’d wake up with my eyes burning from the tears.

I pick up my phone and turn it on.

1:15 a.m. Tears prick my throat, but I push them down.

It was always somewhere around 1:15 a.m. my parents had said. Some kind of internal clock thing.

But my night terrors ended. I haven’t had one since…fourth grade, maybe?

I drop my phone back onto the dresser, propping my elbows on top and holding my head in my hands.

I’m an adult. I’m alone.

I glance at the door again. I don’t want them to hear me screaming like some nutcase.

I finally notice a sting on my arm and look down to see three, red half-moons on my forearm, and I instantly know what they are, the memory coming back like it was yesterday.

I’d clawed myself in my sleep.

The bag of candy still sits on my dresser, and I shoot out my arm, swiping the bag off the dresser and into the garbage can off to the side. What the hell was I doing in my sleep? How could I not wake up? What happens if I’m alone in L.A. or when I go off to college, and I have to have a roommate?

I shouldn’t be alone.

But I’m not sure I should stay here with them. My parents’ death could be triggering it.

Or it could be something else.