He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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1:41 PM
When Bill's eyes meet mine, and I see the plea for understanding—and caution—in them, my stomach bottoms out.
"Ember, this is Middlebridge. Family, friends, the law—it's all tangled. You already know this. The force has its way of doing things. Their own code. And it's not the lawful one."
Bill isn't suggesting what I think he is. No way. He can't be.
Macy leans in, her voice urgent but hushed. "You can't drag us into this, Ember. The shop, Dad, me—we're in their fucking sights already. You know how they are. There are a thousand code violations we're covering up every fucking hour. You can't say anything about what we're telling you, not a fucking word—"
Bill places a hand on Macy's shoulder. She swallows, glaring at the table. Then, turning back to me, his eyes search mine.
"Are you hearing what I'm saying?"
A chill runs up my spine, sickening me. "It's Steven." My head shakes. "It's his dad? His dad's hurting him?"
Macy's voice breaks through. "You keep this to yourself, Ember."
"Mace, ease up, would you?"
Mr. Scott. The man tasked with protecting, with serving. The one who'd bandaged our cut knees when we got back from the park. A reputable officer of the law. The implications of what that means for anyone who dares to care are overwhelming.
This town is the loneliest place on earth.
I get up, nauseous, leaving my coffee behind.
"Ember, you can't say anything." Macy is pushing her father out to get to me. "Ember, fuck, I'm so serious. You can't—"
"Mace, it's okay."
The hospital's sterile corridors blur past as I leave.
How many times in the last month has Greyson come home, his injuries explained away as accidents and scuffles? How many times have I accepted lies?
Greyson pointed his finger at Bill. I believed him.
As I break out of the hospital's suffocating halls, the hot air under the sun wraps around my neck. In the lot ahead, my eyes narrow right in on the sight of a sea-green SUV, parked and unassuming.
A pang of guilt strikes me as I realize Michael's here. Adio, his chest pain, our work at the fence, my pretty morning in the sun. Wiped away by a few badges and unfired guns.
I get into Pat's eggplant-coloured Ford Taurus, and slide behind the wheel, the familiar interior melting in the sun's heat, burning. The engine roars to life under me. I pull out of the lot, the hospital receding in the rear-view mirror. Greyson himself, receding.
The drive is a blur. I navigate on autopilot.
But then I'm at the police station without really knowing how I got here and there's a living, breathing anger boiling under my skin, flushing me red all over.
