Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (15 page)

I figured I could call it a monument. No one ever questioned art.

Gemma’s expression grew sympathetic. “The stain. Did it ever come out?”

Boy, she wasn’t pulling any punches this trip. All the times she’d come over, she
never talked about that spot. That stain. The one where my blood and urine had spilled
over the sides of the chair as Earl Walker sliced into me with the confidence and
precision of a surgeon.

“Intervention time, huh?” I asked, chafing under her scrutiny.

“No,” she said, rushing to placate me. “No, Charley. I’m not trying to control you
or take away even an ounce of your autonomy. I just want to try to get you to see
what you are doing and why.”

“I know why,” I said, my tone even, my voice dry. “I was there.”

“Okay. But do you understand
what
you are doing?” She looked around, indicating the stacks and stacks of boxes.

I drew in a deep ration of air, letting my irritation slide through unheeded, then
took my cup and headed for my bedroom, the only safe haven I had left at this point.
“You could take every single thing out of this room right now, and I would be fine
with it.” I waved my hand in the air. “Do you understand that? Peachy as a Georgia
plantation.”

“Do you mind if I test that theory?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

As I continued to my room, she walked toward Area 51. I paused and watched as she
took a box down and handed it to Uncle Bob. He stacked it on top of the wall Cookie
had been working on earlier. And the protective coating around my shell cracked. Just
barely. Just enough to cause a quake at the very base of my being.

I knew exactly what was underneath those boxes. If she took away many more of them,
the chair I’d been bound to would show through. The bloodstain in the carpet would
reappear. The truth would scream in my face. I felt the sting of metal sliding through
layers of skin and flesh. Nicking tendons. Severing nerves. Welding my teeth together
to keep from crying out.

“Charley?”

Uncle Bob said my name, and I realized I’d been standing there, staring at the mountain
of boxes for some time. I looked back embarrassed as everyone waited to see what I
would do. The pity in their eyes was almost too much.

“You know,” Cookie said, coming around the breakfast bar, “you are so strong and so
powerful, sometimes we forget—” She looked back at Amber, not wanting to give too
much away, then she continued, her voice softer. “—sometimes we forget that you’re
only human.”

“I won’t ask you to take a box away until you’re ready, Charley,” Gemma said, stepping
closer. “But we’ll take one box away from that spot every day until that time comes.”

It was so odd. I’d never been afraid of a chair before—or a stain in the carpet, for
that matter—but inanimate objects seemed to take on a life of their own lately. They
were beasts, their breaths echoing around me, their eyes watching my every move, waiting
for the opportune moment to strike. To cut into me again.

When Gemma spoke this time, her tone was so gentle, so unassuming, I had a hard time
holding up my wall. “But only if this is okay with you. Only if you’re comfortable.”

“And if I’m not?”

I wondered if it was wrong of me not to want to deal with anything beyond lethargy
at that moment in time. I’d just been robbed blind by a parking attendant, accosted
by a demon, manhandled by the son of Satan, and withheld vital information by a group
of nuns. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.

She put a hand on my arm. “Then we’ll be here until you are.”

After offering her an appreciative smile, a horrific thought hit me. “But not, like,
literally.”

An idea sparked in Gemma’s eyes. “Yes,” she said, her lips inching into a sly smile.
“Literally. We’re going to move in.”

“Oh, can we have a slumber party?” Amber asked.

Gemma beamed at her. “We most definitely can.”

Shit. This was going to suck. Until I let Gemma fondle my boxes, I’d never get any
peace.

“Fine, play with my boxes if it makes you feel better.”

“Oh, man,” Amber said. “We never get to have slumber parties.”

I cracked open another smile until Gemma, on a roll, said, “And I’d like you to do
one more thing.”

“Soak your contacts in lighter fluid?”

“Now you’re just being hostile. I’d like you to write a letter every day. One a day
to whoever comes to mind. It can be a different person every day, or the same person
throughout. But I want you to tell that person in the letter how you feel about him
or her and something general, like how you’re doing or what you did that day. Okay?”

I took another sip, then asked, “Are you going to read them?”

“Nope.” She crossed her arms in satisfaction. “They are for you and for you alone.”

“Can I write one to Uncle Bob telling him what a geek he is?”

“Hey,” he said, straightening when the attention landed on him. “What’d I do?”

I fought back a giggle. I guess if nobody read them, it’d be okay. I’d had enough
psychology to understand what she was doing, but if no one was going to see them,
then she’d never know if I wrote them or not. This was clearly a win–win.

“And I’ll know if you’ve written them or not, so don’t make a promise you don’t intend
to keep.”

Crap. “How will you know? I’m a really good liar.”

She laughed out loud at that. I bit back a retort. Mostly because Uncle Bob, Cookie,
and Amber laughed, too. W T F?

After announcing my chagrin with an expertly placed death stare, I asked, “You’ll
leave me alone if I do all this?”

“Are you asking if I’ll stop coming over and diving into your mountain of boxes?”
When I shrugged an acknowledgment, she said, “No. We will get through that mountain.”
She put an arm over my shoulders. “Together. All of us.” Everyone nodded in agreement.
“Every day, at least one of us will take a box down until you can watch us do it without
wincing.”

I frowned. “I didn’t wince.”

“You winced,” Uncle Bob said.

“I didn’t … Whatever.”

I was in a nightmare that consisted of well-meaning friends and family members who
deserved to be in a locked cell with an anaconda. Not for very long. Just long enough
to give them a few nightmares every night for the next month or so.

The thought made me happy.

Another knock sounded at the door, this one harder, more demanding.

“Really, guys?” I said, pounding over. Who else could they get to tag-team me?

Without putting a lot of thought into it, I swung open the door with the dramatic
flair of a silent screen actress.

What I saw on the other side—who I saw—stole my breath. Surprise rocketed through
my nervous system as I watched Reyes standing there in a fresh T-shirt and jeans,
casual as lemon pie, like he hadn’t just killed a man. Like he hadn’t just dragged
me across a warehouse and thrown me onto a cement floor. Like he hadn’t just disappeared
when I was trying to have a civilized conversation with him. Served me right.

He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes sparkling
in appreciation. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked.

His gaze wandered over me, his interest not subtle in the least. “How’s the kid?”

He had just fought a demon for me. He had just saved my life, yet he stood there like
he hadn’t a care in the world. I shook my head and said, “He’s okay. A little traumatized,
but he’s in good hands. He’s Deaf.”

“I know.”

“How?” I asked, surprised.

“I watched you talk to him for a while.”

I pressed my lips together, then said, “Stalker.”

“Nut.”

I gasped. “Neanderthal.”

“Fruitcake.”

“Ape.”

“Psychopath.”

Why did his entire repertoire of insults question my mental stability? I scowled up
at him and leaned in. “Demon.”

He wrapped a finger in the bottom of my shirt and pulled me closer. “Then that would
make you a slayer, wouldn’t it?” he asked, his voice like deep, rich velvet.

I breathed in the heat that spiraled around him. He gave me every ounce of attention
he had to offer, focused like a leopard focusing on his prey, just long enough to
cause a warmth to crack open and spill into my chest. Over my stomach. Between my
legs. Until, that is, he spotted Uncle Bob. His gaze glided past me to where Uncle
Bob sat.

In a rush of panic, I realized I still had a house full of unwanted guests. And one
of those unwanted guests was Uncle Bob, the man who put Reyes away for ten years for
a murder he didn’t commit. But it wasn’t Ubie’s fault. All evidence pointed to Reyes.
Earl Walker had made sure of it.

Maybe Reyes wouldn’t remember him.

I whirled around and gaped unappealingly. “Hey, guys. I want you to meet Reyes.”

Cookie dropped something, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Uncle Bob, hoping he
wouldn’t give himself away. Not that I had a snowball’s chance that Reyes had actually
forgotten the man responsible for his conviction, but even snowballs could dream.

Uncle Bob, clearly surprised to see him, fought his emotions a minute, trying to figure
out what to do before he made a decision. With a nod of acknowledgment toward Reyes,
he leaned over and shut Cookie’s jaw for her. She caught herself and smiled sheepishly.
However, he wasn’t close enough to Gemma to close hers without great discomfort. Amber
seemed a tad thunderstruck as well. She’d strolled around the wall of boxes and stared,
her eyes wide with wonder.

I was glad to know it wasn’t just me. Reyes seemed to affect every female within a
two-mile radius the same way.

But Uncle Bob was a different story. I felt a fire spark and flare inside Reyes. An
emotion I could refer to only as hatred. Unfortunately, he had every right to feel
animosity for a man who put him, an innocent man, in prison. And worse, Uncle Bob
had recently told me he knew in his heart Reyes was innocent. But there was nothing
he could do. Every ounce of evidence had pointed directly at Reyes. Surely Reyes couldn’t
blame him completely.

Uncle Bob had been sitting on a stool. His expression was one of regret and resignation.
He stood and walked forward, resembling John Wayne charging into battle, knowing he
wouldn’t survive.

“Maybe we should take this outside,” he said as he strode forward.

If what Uncle Bob just did, knowing what he now knew about Reyes, was not heroic,
I didn’t know what was.

Uncle Bob’s presence seemed to knock the self-assured wind out of Reyes. A thick cord
of tension stretched between them while a battle raged within him. A battle between
doing the right thing and doing what his upbringing—the one from the underworld—begged
him to do. I felt it twist and claw at his emotions. He was practically drooling to
get at Ubie. To rip him to shreds. Something that came as easily to him as breathing
did to me. But he held still. Too still. Possibly afraid to move. Afraid of what he’d
do.

After an epic battle, he tore his gaze off my uncle and dropped it back to mine. “I
just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, and I felt him withdraw inside himself,
as though he could dismiss Uncle Bob and everything that happened just like that.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Uncle Bob said, and I locked my jaw to keep it from coming
unhinged.

“I agree!” Amber shouted. When everyone turned and gawked at her, she ducked back
behind the boxes and said, “Sorry. That just kind of slipped out.”

I looked back and Reyes was smiling at her. A sweet, understanding gesture that took
my breath away. His anger ebbed instantly, the shock of it like a splash of cold water
on a hot summer day.

Realizing how rude I’d been, I said, “Reyes, I don’t think you’ve been officially
introduced to anyone.” I turned to the people who had ambushed me, trying not to hold
it against them. “This is my sister, Gemma; my uncle Bob; and Cookie.”

“And me,” a tiny voice said from beyond.

“And somewhere behind that wall is Cookie’s daughter Amber,” I said with a chuckle.

He didn’t unfold his arms but offered them each a nod in turn.

Uncle Bob elbowed Gemma. She snapped to attention and cleared her throat. “It’s nice
to meet you,” she said.

When Reyes’s gaze landed on her again, he frowned in thought. Then recognition flitted
across his face.

She read him easily. “Yes,” she said, holding out her hand for a shake. “We’ve met,
just not officially.” Gemma was with me the very first time I saw Reyes. When we were
in high school and Reyes was being abused by Earl Walker, the man he thought was his
father.

After a tense moment where I wondered if he was going to reject her offer outright,
he took her hand into his. I didn’t miss the soft gasp that rushed through her lips
when he did so. Not that I could blame her.

Cookie had yet to fully recover. He tilted his head in greeting as though tipping
an invisible hat.

The smile that stole across her face was the stuff of legend. Or, well, Rice Krispie
treats: soft, sweet, and on the verge of melting into a lump of sticky goo. She offered
him a breathy hi, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to chuckle. Not because
I was worried about embarrassing her. Embarrassing her was one of my main goals in
life. Right behind designing wedgie-free boxer shorts.

No, I’d been hit with another emotion. As afraid as I was to leave Uncle Bob and Reyes
in such close proximity, I stepped over to the wall of boxes and looked behind them
at Amber.

“Sweetheart?” I said, wondering what was going on.

The emotion pouring out of her was so strong, so palpable, I was having trouble concentrating
on anything beyond it. Reyes had to feel it, too. I looked back. He was eyeing me
with concern.

“Amber, are you okay?” I asked.

She was sitting at my desk with her face down, her long dark hair an impenetrable
curtain of waves. “I’m okay,” she said, keeping her face hidden.