Page 74 of Cruel Promise
What will he do if he finds me? I can’t wait to find out.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I begin the frantic search for my shoes. I don’t see them anyway, but manage to spot my phone.
On shaking limbs, I force myself to get up and retrieve it. My entire body is sore, like one big bruise has taken up residence on every inch of skin I possess. Grabbing my cell, I swipe my thumb over the screen. Nothing. I do it again.
Dammit. It’s dead.
Voices in the hall freeze me where I stand. I strain my ears. More than one and all male by the sounds of it. Every muscle in me locks up.
Footsteps move closer to the door. Shit. My fingers tighten around my phone, clenching it as if it’s my last lifeline.
What do I do?
I scan the room, searching for something, anything, I can use as a weapon but there’s nothing.
Footsteps pause on the other side of the door. The knob twists. I watch in horror as it turns three quarters of the way before stopping, almost like whoever stands on the other side knows I’m waiting.
On silent hinges, the door swings open to reveal Austin Holt. PacNorth’s star soccer player. Head of Zeta Pi fraternity. And the man I know will soon haunt my nightmares.
“You’re up.” His blue eyes take in my disheveled appearance, and he smirks. “We need to talk.”
Gabriel
“Mamá? Pops?”I call out, stepping through the door.
No answer, not that it surprises me. I ignore the lack of response and step further into my childhood home. The house is quiet. Still. But I don’t let it deter me.
There’s this oppressive sense of loss that hangs heavy in the air and settles on my shoulders like a physical weight. One I’ve learned I cannot escape so long as I am here.
I hate it.
This used to be home. My haven. Now, it’s nothing more than the tomb that holds a collection of broken memories. Ones I am desperate to forget.
Being here makes my muscles tighten in anticipation. Like another bomb is about to drop. Only this time, I have some measure of warning. Too bad knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, it makes matters worse. They know exactly what they’re doing and have made it clear, they don’t care.
Pictures line the walls, an eclectic collage my mother put together over the years while I was growing up, but more striking than the images themselves are the gaps interspersed throughout them. The faded shapes where picture frames once stood but have long since been removed.
My fingers trail over one particular gap. My brother’s and my first steps. We were just under a year old and stood in our front yard, excited grins on our faces at what we’d just accomplished. Even with it gone, I can see the image in my head as though Mom never took it down.
I drag my hand further along the wall, trailing around the frames that still hold photographs of friends and relatives through the years until I reach the spot in the center that once served as the focal point of our family gallery. It held my parents’ wedding photo but now it’s empty, the paint darker here having been protected from the sun. I shake my head. It’s been like this for months, but I still can’t get used to it. It’s like the soul of the house died. Right along with any love our family had for one another.
There are more empty spots than there are filled. Anything with Carlos was removed after his death. Family portraits. His school pictures. Following that, Mom took down pictures of me. Seeing my face became too much for her. A constant reminder of the son she lost. I used to wish we didn’t share a face. That he’d never been my twin.
Now, I just don’t care.
She should have taken all the photographs down. It’d look less… I don’t know, depressing, maybe, if she had.
I drop my helmet on the entryway table, ready to get this over with, and cut through the foyer on my way to the kitchen. Despite not getting an answer when I first arrived, I know my parents are home. They’re the ones who scheduled this bullshit meeting today, after all.
Dad’s leaning against the kitchen counter when I step into the room, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. No surprise there. The man hasn’t been sober in months.
Mom sits at the dining room table, claiming the seat furthest from him with a glass of wine in front of her. Wonderful.
They knew their son was showing up and both decided alcohol was the best way to deal with it.
Neither of them looks at the other and only Dad bothers to acknowledge me, offering a small nod of his head before he indicates the thick envelope resting atop the kitchen island, my name written in thick black marker across the top of it.
Tension sits heavily in the room. I’ve only just walked in and already it threatens to suffocate me. How long have they been sitting here like this?
