Thicker Than Water (19 page)

No. Thank god. Nicole.

I sigh and lean my head against the seat back.

I’ve been sitting in the car too long. My parents probably know I’m out here. They probably know I was up to no good.

My heart is beating against my ribcage, looking for escape.

I need a story. I need a plan. Just in case.

Before I can think of one, the front door swings open, and Matt is standing there, illuminated by the light from the living room. I’m surprised he’s here—it’s after eleven, and he promised to take the girls for ice cream. He’s got another beer in his hands, and he frowns at me. Any story I might have come up with dies in my throat.

He glances behind him, then closes the front door. “Are you okay?” he mouths.

Sheepishly, I nod, then climb out of the car.

He waits for me on the front steps. “Why were you sitting in the car?” he asks quietly. There’s no suspicion in his voice—it’s a genuine question.

At least I don’t have to lie. “Texting Nicole. Why are you still here?”

He shrugs. “Mom offered to keep the girls overnight so Ali can get a good night’s sleep. Dad just fell asleep on SportsCenter. I was getting ready to leave.”

I stare up at him, his hair shining in the porch light. He’s not the most handsome of my brothers, but he’s the most honest and reliable. I feel bad for teasing him earlier—he’s a great husband to Alison.

He’s a great brother, too. If not for him, I never would have escaped the man in the street.

I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tight.

“Whoa.” He rocks back a little before catching me and returning the hug. “What’s this for?”

“For being a good brother.” To my surprise, my voice is thick with tears. Too much emotion has filled the night. I press my face to his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. “Charlotte—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But I don’t let him go.

“You’re not making a good case for
nothing
, you know.” He keeps holding on, though.

After a moment, his voice is quieter. “Did something happen?”

Too much
. But I can’t say that. I shake my head.

“Do you want me to get Mom?”

I laugh a little, and draw back. There’s a damp spot on his shoulder. “No. That’s quite all right.”

“Do you want me to go get you some chocolate ice cream?”

I mock gasp at him. “Mom would kill you, offering to get me something full of sugar.”

He shrugs and gives me a quiet smile. “I know it would cheer Ali up.”

“I’m okay. Just—it’s been a long day.”

He leans back against the porch railing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The entire evening replays in my head. There is absolutely no way I can explain any of it—especially since I was supposed to be twenty minutes in the opposite direction, babysitting for a family from church.

I look away. “No.” Then I glance back. “Thanks, though.”

He offers a conspiratorial smile, then glances at the cast iron double rocker on the porch. “Do you want to sit and rock?”

I grin. “Okay.”

When we’re seated, he kicks at the floor boards, and we swing forcefully. He used to do this when I was little, and he had to babysit for all of us. Ben and Danny would try to kill each other in the front yard, and Matt would propel me back and forth on the rocker while he played some stupid hand-held video game.

Sometimes he wouldn’t pay attention and I’d go flying, but for the most part, it’s one of my favorite memories.

I study him. “I can’t believe you’re going to have another baby.”

He takes another drink from his bottle. “I’m aiming for two more. Got to one-up Dad.”

I snort with laughter. “Is Alison in on that plan?”

“Oh yeah. She’d have sixteen kids if I’d let her. Even when she’s puking at three in the morning, she’s telling me how she can’t wait to meet the next one.”

He feels the same way. I can hear it in his voice. That makes me smile.

He gives the swing another shove. We weigh a lot more than we once did, and the rocker shifts and scrapes against the porch floorboards.

“Do you ever worry about your job?” I ask him quietly. “Having all those kids?”

He studies his bottle for a good long while, and I don’t think he’s going to answer me. It’s not the kind of question I’ve ever asked Matt. He’s not a talker, not about his feelings. He’ll express emotion by talking about someone else.

“All the time,” he finally says. “Sometimes I don’t understand how life can be so thrilling and so terrifying, all at once.” He glances at me. “Every baby is another one to worry about, you know?”

I nod.

He drains the bottle, then stops the rocker so he can set it on the floor. Once it’s out of the way, he gives us another push. “It’s like last week, when that kid was carrying you out of the woods. I’ve never shot someone, Char, but I knew what he’d done—and I thought he’d done something to you . . .”

He’s talking about Thomas. I hold my breath.

His voice has grown too tight to continue. He has to take a breath. “And then to run into him today—to hear him talk to Ali—” He stops again and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have hit him the first time. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone the way I did that day. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never done
anything
like that before. It’s just a job, you know? But with him—what he did to his own mother.... I don’t know what it would take for someone to do that. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath or a schizophrenic or just a
bad kid
, but to strangle his own mother, and then to see him with you . . .” He lets out a long breath, then picks up his bottle again. “I’m about to need another one of these.”

That guilt I felt in the car has tripled. Here he’s unloading all this familial concern, and an hour ago I was making out with the very guy he’s worried about. “Want me to get you another beer?” My voice is hollow, but I can’t say anything else.

Matt smiles, but it’s wan. “Nah. I’ve got to drive home.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have hit that kid last week. I’ve never lost it like that. I’m lucky he didn’t press charges.”

I swallow.

Matt looks at me, and his voice is deadly serious. “But today—if he’d put his hands on Ali or the girls, I would have done it again.”

Thomas wouldn’t hurt them.
I want to say it. The need to defend him is almost causing me physical pain. He’s had numerous opportunities to hurt me, and he’s never given me a moment’s concern that he would.

I stare out at the darkened yard. I can’t say a word.

Matt is looking at me. “What’s wrong, Char?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Secret boyfriend?”

I whip my head around so fast I almost fall off the rocker.

Matt’s eyes go wide with surprise, but then he laughs. “Good for you, kid.” He pauses, then loses the smile. “Unless he did something to you.”

“No,” I croak. I’m shaking my head so fast it might fall off. “He’s very nice.”

“Good.” He musses my hair, which usually makes me nuts, but right this second, it barely registers. “I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. You deserve to have some fun. I don’t know how you put up with Mom’s meddling.” He grimaces. “Or Grandma. God.”

I let out a breath. “You mean they make you nuts, too?”

“Nah, I keep having babies so the oldest-son shrine in Mom’s room is still intact.” He gives me a nudge when he sees my scowl. “But I’m not an idiot. I hear the way they talk to you.” He pauses. “I caught the little comment about the dinner dishes.”

I don’t know what to say. My emotions are all over the place, and this conversation isn’t helping.

Matt thinks I have a secret boyfriend! He’s right, but—OMG!

And he noticed that I was pissed about the dinner dishes?!

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We should have helped you. You sprained your ankle last week, and we all just sat there.”

I’m staring at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

“Ha ha. You’re hilarious.” He chucks me on the chin. “Just because someone tells you to do something, you don’t have to listen. Say no. Ask for help.”

“Yeah, okay, like you guys would—”

“I will.” He puts out a hand. “Deal?”

I shake his hand before my brain catches up. “Deal? What’s the deal?”

He smiles. “I’ll help you with the dishes next time if you don’t kill me for putting the girls to bed on the floor of your room.”

“Matthew! They wake up at five in the morning!”

He mock flinches like I’m going to hit him. “They begged. They were so cute. They kept whispering that they were going to be like big girls now. I couldn’t say no.”

When he puts it like that, I can’t even be mad. “You are such a softie.”

“Shh,” he says. “Let’s keep that between you and me.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
dream of Thomas.

It’s a good dream.

He’s in bed with me, and I’m whispering at him to be quiet, that we’ll wake the girls.

In response, he presses his lips to mine, a kiss to silence me. His body is heavy and warm against me, his hands sliding beneath my T-shirt to stroke across my abdomen. I’m wearing less than I was in the car, just an old shirt and some booty shorts, and he makes a low sound in his throat when he discovers I’m not wearing a bra.

“
Shh
,” I whisper. Then his thumb brushes over my nipple, and I gasp and arch into him.

His mouth moves to my neck. He laughs, a low rumble against my skin. “
Shh
yourself.”

He’s going to wake the girls. I put my hand over his mouth.

He responds by sliding his hand along my thigh to skim beneath the edge of the shorts. I nearly cry out, but he’s quick, and a hand goes over
my
mouth.

“Hush, Charlotte,” he whispers. “We have to be quiet. We have an audience.” Dark eyes twinkle in the night. I can’t see anything but those eyes. They fill my vision. Everything else is sensation. He’s on top of me now, pressing his body into mine. My shirt has vanished, and his has too, impossibly removed in this dream world. His hips thrust against mine until I’m making small gasps against his hand. My entire body is flushed, wanting him closer, wanting all of him.

He pushes my hair back from my face and kisses me again. He tastes like brown sugar and strawberries. My legs slide against his, and I wish the shorts would disappear like my shirt. I want to feel his hands everywhere. Heat pools in my belly.

His hand slides up my abdomen to cup my breast, then travels higher. He strokes a finger over my throat.

“What can I do to you?” he whispers.

“Anything,” I breathe.

He laughs. His thumb brushes my jaw. Fingers trail through my hair, tracing a line down my shoulders. His legs nudge my own apart, and I almost cry out when I feel him more closely pressed against me.

“Hush,” he says again. We’re both slick with sweat. His mouth closes over mine, his hands holding my face, so gentle, so tender.

Then his hands travel lower. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m almost moaning with the anticipation of it. His fingers move so slowly, trailing down over my chin, sliding along my neck. Then tightening.

His thumbs are over my trachea, putting just enough pressure there. I can’t breathe. His body is still moving against mine, his lips kissing my eyelids. He must not realize. I struggle a little, grabbing his wrists.

He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens. Too tight.

This is deliberate.

His eyes still twinkle. That’s all I can see. Eyes. Darkness.

Fear floods my body, chasing all the heat away. I fight him, pulling at his arms now. I can’t cry out. Air can’t make it into my lungs.

I thrash against him, but he’s too strong. His body pins mine. His hands grip harder.

“You said I could do anything,” he whispers.

Stars float above my bed. Shooting stars. Fireworks. I wrench my head back and forth. His nails dig in. My skin tears. Now all I see is red. Blood. I can’t feel my body. My arms flail.

Something sparks and crashes.

Someone screams.

And then I’m gasping. Choking. Someone is shaking me.

“Charlotte!” It’s my mother. “Charlotte, wake up!”

I sit up in bed. She’s sitting beside me, clutching my shoulders. The girls are crying.

Suddenly, I’m crying too. Huge, racking sobs. The nightmare won’t let go of me. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to turn my head.

Mom puts a hand against my cheek. Why hasn’t she turned on the light? I can barely see anything. “Charlotte. Charlotte. Did you check your levels before you went to bed?”

Nightmares are a symptom of insulin shock. I nod quickly and stutter through the tears. “Yes. Yes. I d-did. I’m fine.” But I’m not fine. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. “C-c-can’t you turn on the light?”

“You broke the light. Girls, that’s enough.” She turns her head and calls out into the hall. “Phil? Phil, can you turn on the hall light?”

He doesn’t. Danny’s voice carries up from downstairs. “Dad, get down here. The front door is open. What the hell is going on?”

My heart stops. I reach up a hand to touch my neck, and it comes away wet.

Sweat. It has to be sweat. From the nightmare.

“I need a light,” I say. My voice is thready with panic. “Turn on the light. Right now. Mom, turn on the light.”

“Okay, Charlotte, just calm down.” Her voice is the patient-yet-exasperated tone she usually saves for the girls when they’re being ridiculous. “I’ll turn on the hall light.”

She leaves my side, and I want to pull her back. Instead, I grab for the girls and pull them into bed with me, hugging them to my chest and inhaling their little-girl sweetness.

The hall light flares. I wince and turn my head away.

“Char-char,” whispers Lexi. “You bleeding.”

Mom reappears in the doorway, and she gasps. Her hands go over her mouth. “Charlotte. Oh, Charlotte.” She turns to yell down the stairs. “Phil, we need to call nine-one-one.”

That mocking voice echoes in my head.
You said I could do anything.

I gently disentangle myself from the girls. I move toward my closet mirror in a trance. Suddenly this feels like the dream, and everything before feels like reality.

Thank god the only light comes from the hall. That’s bad enough. My hair is a wild mess of tangles. My face is white, like I’ve seen a ghost. Smudges of blood are everywhere: on my cheeks, on my shirt, on my thighs.

And on my neck are six long tears, like fingernails grabbed and pulled their way through the flesh.

Someone sobs.

It’s me.

Danny appears in my doorway. He takes one look at me. “What the fuck.”

The girls gasp. Mom hauls him out into the hallway, then rushes to my side. She wraps her arm around me. “Charlotte. What happened? Was someone in your room?”

I can’t stop shaking. I collapse against her. My knees won’t hold me, and she helps me to the carpet.

Dad replaces Danny in the doorway. “There’s an ambulance coming,” he says. His voice is fierce. “Did you see him, Charlotte? Did you get a look at him?”

I’m nodding. I’m crying. “I thought—I thought I was dreaming. I thought—”

Mom strokes my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “It’s okay. Do you know who it was?”

I burst into a round of fresh sobs. “Yes. I do.”

Dad kneels in front of me. He touches my shoulder, and he’s so gentle that I throw myself into his arms. He’ll keep me safe. I know he will.

“Who?” he says quietly.

“Thomas Bellweather.”