Page 23 of Dove
"I have a list. It consists of him fucking things up and leaving when we need him most. Let's figure out where to put our shit."
His grin melts into something warmer and he shakes his head. "There are three bedrooms upstairs. One master and two smaller ones."
And then he takes off, his suitcase in one hand and mine in the other, his feet pounding the bare floor as he races for the stairs at the other end of the room.
I shriek and take off after him, working to shelter the birdcage in my arms as I sprint for the stairs myself, already knowing that I'm not going to catch him. He's too tall and too strong for that, and I've raced him enough times to know his long legs will eat up those stairs like they're nothing.
But I'll die before I stop trying to catch him.
"Where the fuck are you going?" I huff. "Can't you walk like a normal person?"
"Not right now!" he shouts over his shoulder. "There's only one room up there worth having, and the first one up there gets it!"
He jumps and hits the stairs already climbing, and I shout in anger and force myself to run faster, legs pumping and breath burning in my lungs as my bird cage starts to slip, its inhabitants flapping like they're trying to fly as the air rushes past them.
Like they're trying to give me the wings they know I want.
I get to the to of the stairs in time to look to my right and see Cameron dashing into a doorway, and I turn to follow him, half desperate and half laughing. The cage is slipping in my fingers and my legs are dead and this is so ridiculous that I want to laugh at it all.
And yet I have a haunting, terrible feeling that I can't let Cameron be alone in any room in this house, because the ghosts he left here might come get him.
"Fuck," I mutter.
When the fuck did I get so grim?
I skid through the door and find myself in what has to be the master bedroom. It's a large room with windows along one full wall, and though there's nothing in here–no bed, no dresser–it's big enough to hold a bed bigger than my own. And it's got a bathroom attached to it, which no guest room in this town would ever have.
This was a nice house, once.
Before Bear let it fall to pieces.
I mean I guess it's not his fault, technically. This place has been standing empty since Cam moved to our house when he was seven. Since his mom up and disappeared and Bear decided it would be easier to find a new wife than stay and take care of his son on his own. So that's twelve years of this house sitting here empty and alone. No family to paint its walls or clean its counters, no children to run laughing through its hallways.
No one to remind it that it has any value.
I turn to find Cameron standing in the corner staring up at the ceiling.
Which is... odd.
I walk toward him slowly, wondering what the fuck he's doing. Remembering something? Thinking? Having some sort of mental breakdown?
"Cam?" I ask quietly, almost scared to interrupt him.
I mean, what do you do when someone's having a psychotic break? Is it safe to talk to them, or are you supposed to let them come out of it on their own, like a sleepwalker?
He jerks and looks at me, then looks back up at the ceiling, and I follow his gaze to find a trapdoor up there. One of those that leads into the attic, if you can get to it.
There's an attic door in thebedroom?
"Attic?" I asked, still hesitant. Cameron has always been serious and sometimes even morose, a shy kid who always preferred being by himself to having too many friends. But I've never seen him as serious as he is right now. His cheeks are hollowed out and dark shadows sit under his eyes–marks that weren't there until we set foot in this house. That haunted look is back in his eyes and I swear he's several shades paler now than he was outside.
This house is doing something to him, and I don't like it.
I reach out and slip my hand into his, fingers curling around his longer ones and squeezing. "Cameron?" I ask. "Talk to me."
The tension melts out of his shoulders at my touch, and I watch him take a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes don't leave the attic door, but he squeezes my hand and his face comes back to life. His lips lose the tight, stressed look they had moments ago and he works his jaw once, then twice.
When he looks at me, I can see that he's not completely normal, but his eyes hold more of my Cameron than they did before. He makes a face, bringing his expression to life again, and then gestures to the door above us.
