The Darkest Part (9 page)

The judge didn’t even give me probation for the accident that caused my mother’s death. I guess if they were going to charge anyone, it would’ve been the deer. But he escaped. Allegedly. Still, I’m sure if I’m caught pulling this shit now, he’ll question his ruling. Maybe he’ll be harder on me this time around.

Bringing out my phone, I start to Google “punishment for grave robbing” when I hear someone clear their throat. I look up and see Sam.

My heart vaults in my chest, and I swallow. She’s beautiful. Her hair has been recently dyed; no more blond roots. A heavy fall of long black layers covers one shoulder, and a wide streak of turquoise has been added to the middle of her bangs, which are now trimmed just above her eyes. The neck of her tee reveals a glimpse of tatted stars. She’s wearing her tiny diamond nose ring again, and her tight T-shirt and skinny jeans reveal all her curves.

Fuck.

“You look good,” I say, pushing my phone into my pocket.

I swear I see her blush, just the slightest tinge of pink dusting her cheeks. “Uh, thanks. I thought it’d be better to look somewhat decent if I’m going to travel. Well”—she looks herself over, smiling—“
my
decent, anyway.”

My mouth stretches into a grin. The fact that we’re smiling in such a sad environment doesn’t go unnoticed. But for two people who’ve had life kick the shit out of them, I suppose this place is as comfortable as any.

Sam’s gaze finds the mausoleum, and her smile falls. She hikes her backpack higher on her shoulder and starts toward it.

I step in front of her, and she looks up. “Are you sure?” I ask. I want her to change her mind. I want her not to be suffering from whatever it is she’s suffering from. Delusions, voices, psychosis, are what the gossips are saying. I want them to be wrong. But I can’t help wondering whose voice is telling her to do this.

I don’t want to admit whose I think it is.

Her gloss-coated lips press together, and she nods. “I am. It’s what he wanted.”

A small sense of relief washes over me that she at least used the past tense this time. I can work with that. “All right.” I step aside. “Let’s become felons.”

Breaking into a mausoleum is a lot harder than I thought. I guess it would’ve been easier to walk into my dad’s house and just steal the damn key. But I don’t ever want to go back in there—not ever.

With a groan, the wooden door gives and flies open. The crowbar slips, and the sharp edge catches my palm. The tool clatters to the granite floor. “Shit.” Holding my hand, I squeeze my wrist as red oozes past the surface of the broken skin.

“Damn, are you all right?” Sam lowers her head to inspect the wound, holding her hair back.

I pump my hand a couple of times. “Yeah. I’ll wrap it later.”

“Oh,” she says, swinging her black backpack in front of her. Then she digs through and pulls out a tiny shirt. One of hers.

“No. It’s fine.”

“Stop. It’s just a shirt.” She reaches for my hand. “Let me see.”

As her fingers graze the top of my hand and around the edges of my palm, I try to keep my thoughts pure. I’m standing next to my brother’s freakin’ ashes, for shit’s sake. But Sam’s delicate touch triggers heat, want, feeling. And something painful.

“I’ll do it,” I say, taking the tee from her hands.

She releases it and steps back, as if she’s ashamed of her own actions. Or maybe she just remembered that she hates me. Either way, I finish dressing the cut with the tiny scrap of white tee while she looks around, as if making sure we’re still alone. Then she steps into the granite enclosure.

Filling my lungs with warm air, I roll my shoulders back and follow her inside.

The noticeable dip in temperature sends my defenses up, and the staleness sucks every bit of air back out of my lungs. I’d say it feels like a crypt in here, but that’s not even funny to me. And when my eyes land on the wall with my mother’s engraved name, disturbing images that have haunted my dreams bang against my vision, stealing all light from the room.

“Holden?”

Sam’s voice is distant and dark. Dark as the void trying to pull me under.

I blink, then drag my gaze across the small room until I find her face. Ashen and worried. “I’m fine,” I say, even though she didn’t ask. “Let’s hurry. Probably not a good idea to make it our hang out.”

She wrings her hands, like she’s again having second thoughts, and walks over to the slab holding Tyler’s urn. My stomach knots. I hate that my brother—all six feet of him; all of everything he was in life—can fit in such a small container.

Sam lugs her backpack to the floor and dives in, coming up with a jade and silver satin-covered box. “Will you help me?”

I want to tell her that I already have, that I’ve already committed a major felony for her—but I don’t. Tamping down the unease roiling in my stomach, I command my feet to move until I’m beside her, then I lift the urn from the slab. The top is easy enough to open, and when Sam nods, I pour—with trembling hands—half of my brother’s remains into her box.

I feel like I should ask for forgiveness. But I’ll save that for later.

Sam silently watches the ashes fill the small box. Then, “I couldn’t speak at his funeral.”

I know this, because when I finally worked up the courage to go back into the church—steering clear of my father’s pissed off glare—she wasn’t there. After she ran away from me, she didn’t come back. “You could say something now,” I offer.

For a minute, it looks like she’s debating it. “No,” she says, and her gaze flicks to mine. “Not here.” She leaves her statement unfinished, but I get what she’s saying. She wants to say her final goodbye on the road, in her own way. Away from this hollow shell.

After we make sure everything looks untouched, like no grave robbers or unhinged girlfriends have busted into the place, I seal the door back up. Then I follow Sam out of the graveyard. I follow her after she tells me goodbye. And when she thinks she’s being slick . . .

I follow her.

Sam

My nervous system is about to shut down. I know it is. I suddenly regret not taking Dr. Hartman up on her offer for anxiety meds.

I’d be chewing those bitches like Gummy Bears right now.

The train station is loud and dirty, and smells like rotten eggs and farts. I’m told that’s just the smell of the paper mill coming downwind, but I’m not so sure I believe that. This place is filthy. And I swear people are staring at me. Like they know I’m carrying my stolen boyfriend in my pack.

I keep peeking over my shoulder, waiting for Mr. Marks or the cops to come barreling in. I switch seats again, not sitting in one place longer than five minutes. Maybe if I keep moving around time will go by faster, and my train will be ready to board.

Checking my phone again, I curse. I still have fifteen minutes.

I left early this morning by cab. The note I wrote my mother sits on the kitchen counter by the coffee maker. Last night, I almost told her. I’d curled up with her on the couch while she was reading one of her mystery novels (she loves them almost more than she loves watching
Law and Order
), and I just laid my head in her lap. Like I used to do when I was a kid.

To my relief, she didn’t ask me what was wrong. I mean, what’s not wrong with my life? She just ran her fingers through my hair and continued to read. Before I went to bed, she actually commented on my hair, saying that it looked good. And then smiled.

She always hated my hairstyles before. But she thinks I’m doing better. That the medications are helping, and that I’m returning to the Sam she loves. I almost blurted my plans right then, but I couldn’t bear to see the relief and hope in her eyes shattered.

The note explains that Dr. Hartman’s encouragement (damn right I blamed it on her) helped me realize that I needed a change, an adventure, to get out and discover my independence. I let her know I’d have my phone on at all times. And I’d keep her posted on my “adventure.”

Hopefully she’ll see this as a good thing, like I’m just doing what Dr. Hartman suggested and trying to find myself.

I move to another seat, where I have a direct view of the tracks, and tuck my backpack between my feet. I can feel Tyler’s picture box against my Converse. The jade one I’d given him the day we left for college—that now holds his remains instead of our memories. I’d made one last-minute stop before meeting Holden at the cemetery yesterday. Tyler’s room.

Taking the chance that Amber would be more understanding (women often are), I waited until Mr. Marks left for work, then apologized to her for upsetting him, as I’m sure my request had. Then I told her that I would work up to telling him how sorry I was, but he had always intimated me.

She was more sympathetic than I thought she’d be, saying that her fiancé doesn’t know the boom of his own voice. Then she let me into Tyler’s room. I just needed to see it one last time.

Everything from his residence hall apartment had been moved there, mostly still in boxes, and nothing else had changed since the day he left for college. I knew what I was looking for, I just didn’t know where to start. But with luck, I quickly found both things. Like I was meant to.

As I stare down at my pack, a sliver of doubt wedges its way into my thoughts, making me question . . . everything.

But, Tyler
is
able to tell me what he wants. They are his ashes, and his wishes should be honored. As long as Tyler is strong enough to materialize near me, as long as I’m anchoring him on this plane, he can go on his trip. I won’t feel guilty for giving him this.

With my conscious in check, and my nerves slightly more under control, I pull out a paperback to get lost in.

A distorted voice blares over the speaker system, announcing it’s time to board the train, and I quickly slip my novel into the zipper compartment of my pack and then thread it over my shoulder. My stomach’s tossing with nausea (probably should’ve skipped the donut), and my chest flutters with heart palpitations.

Once I get seated on the train, I’ll feel better. Safe. No turning back. I force my feet to keep moving. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything alone.

And I’m scared shitless.

But then I remember that I’m not alone. Tyler’s with me. And this is the trip we were meant to take together. I’m
not
alone.

Before I step onto the platform, someone shouts my name. Oh, no.
No no no no
.

“Sam!” Holden calls again.

I turn around and watch as he marches toward me, a deep scowl etched between his brows. Crap. Glancing back at the train, I wonder if I can make a run for it. But he’d just follow me. I need to set him straight now.

“I thought we had a deal?” he says, once he’s right before me, looking down with anger flashing in his blue eyes.

“Sucks when someone backs out on you, doesn’t it?” I immediately regret my words. This isn’t about Holden and me, or anything to do with our past. I was over that a long time ago. I just can’t help throwing it in his face. I never got the chance to speak my mind, and it’s like we’re picking up right where we left off.

He drives a hand, now bandaged with gauze, through his dark tousled hair and pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, working the studded half ring. His nervous habit. “I’m not letting you go off by yourself.”

I shrug. “It’s not really your call. I’m a grown ass woman who can do what she wants, and this trip has nothing to do with you.”

Hurt and anger and maybe even a bit of desperation swirls in his eyes. “He’s my brother. It has everything to do with me.”

Shit. “That’s not what I meant.” I sigh, and look down at my black Converse. They’re dirty and scuffed, and one’s ripped down the side. I’ve had them forever, and Tyler hated them. “It’s just . . . this was
our
trip. I need to do it—” I break off, not sure how to explain this to him. “Look. I’m a smart cookie.”

“I know that.”

“I can take care of myself, and what’s more, I
need
to do this on my own.”

He shakes his head. “No way. I get what you’re saying, and if there was a way without me losing sleep, worrying about you being abducted and traded on the black market, or attacked by gangbangers—”

“Where do you get
that?
”

“Listen to me!”

My head snaps back. He’s serious.

He blows out a heavy breath. “I’m all for women’s lib and all that shit, but I don’t care. The world is still fucking dangerous. You’re young and beautiful . . . and there’re just too many bad things that could happen.”

I press my lips together, trying to ignore the heat that splashes the back of my neck at hearing him say I’m beautiful. Bastard.

The overhead speaker announces the last boarding call.

“Shit, Holden—” I look back at the train, desperate to be on it.

“You’re not getting on that train.”

He says it like a dare, and that just makes me want to be on the train all the more. “You can’t stop me.”

His eyebrows hike. “If you take one step toward it, I will throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of this station.”

I flinch. Granted I haven’t really spoken to him in years, but he’s far bolder than I remember. And, he’s bluffing. I glance around, hoping Tyler will appear and confirm that his brother is full of crap. Only it’s morning, and Tyler’s been having trouble materializing this early.