That’s what was bothering me about the linoleum floor. I’d seen it before. Now that I’ve uncovered the memory, it all rushes forward.
I was fourteen and angry with my dad for not letting me work more for him. He’d only give me simple jobs. Play jobs, really. I knew they weren’t real and it drove me crazy. So I did what I could to find out what he was doing. I’d hide in his office, in his closet, anywhere. I was small and limber enough from dance I could get myself in tight spaces and stay there for hours.
I would also hide in the trunk of his car whenever he’d go somewhere and lie to me about it. It was easy to pull the trunk release and let myself out when he got wherever he was going. Then I’d sneak around and find out what he was doing. In my brain, I justified it and I loved doing it. Yet another facet of my stupid teenage rebellion.
I’d been to Sylas’ house once before that afternoon. I didn’t know why Dad came here. He’d park and then I’d wait for him to get out of the car, but he would just sit with the engine off and then drive away. He stopped once and got out, but he was back so fast I barely had time to hop back in the trunk and pull it shut.
That day I’d pretended I was sick so I could stay home from school. I did that a lot and my mother never questioned it. She was far too busy shopping and getting her nails done and gossiping on the phone all the time. Dad was home for most of the day, but I heard him on the phone and knew he was going somewhere in the afternoon.
I got in the trunk and rode until the car stopped. I waited for the sound of Dad getting out and it happened a few minutes later.
Popping the trunk, I slipped out and shut it as quietly as I could. I was in a residential neighborhood, but parked in the driveway of what looked like an abandoned house.
I searched and found Dad walking between the houses. He’d taught me how to follow someone without being seen and I employed all of those skills, darting behind cars and bushes to make sure he didn’t see me.
Finally, he stopped just beyond one house. It looked like all the others and I wondered what my dad was doing here. Who was he following?
I crept closer and closer and watched as Dad looked into the one of the windows. He froze and then he was running, yanking open a side door. I rushed to see what was going on and pulled myself up on a windowsill.
Blood. A woman. My father.
Dad, cradling a woman who was covered in blood.
I was frozen until there was the sound of a beeping school bus. Dad kissed the dead woman’s forehead, in a place clean of blood and then bolted out the door again.
His front was covered in blood. It was so bright against his white shirt. Like paint.
I nearly tripped over myself to run back to the car. And then I did, falling. I wasn’t thinking about getting caught. Just getting away from the horrible scene. The woman’s eyes were blue and open and staring off into space. Something horrible happened in that house to that beautiful woman.
Someone picked me up and carried me back to the car and put me in. And then I blacked out.
I’m violently sucked back into the present by Sylas shaking me so hard my teeth knock against each other.
“What the hell are you talking about?!” He’s screaming at me and I don’t know what to say.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I say, over and over and over. He finally stops shaking me and gets out of bed, shoving me aside.
“What the fuck are you telling me right now?” he yells, raging around the room like he’s a trapped beast and needs to get out.
“I’m telling you that I was there. My father was there. And that’s all I know.” How is it possible we were all there on that day? And how is it possible that my brain locked up that memory for this long and I’m only now remembering it?
“I can’t fucking believe this. Can’t fucking believe it,” he says and the leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
I’m unable to move. My lungs are hesitant to draw breath. It’s just too much work. I hear the front door slam again and I know I should chase after him, but moving is definitely not in the cards right now.
I’m absolutely still. Now I know what Sylas went through. My brain is still working, but my body refuses to respond. I struggle to flex my fingers and finally get them to wiggle. Then I work on my toes, legs and then arms. What seems like hours later, I slide my feet over the edge of the bed and stand. I need to find him.
I ignore the fact that I’m barely dressed in a pair of thin shorts, a tank top and no bra. I don’t even grab shoes as I leave the bedroom and walk out of the front door. He can’t have gone far, because the keys to the cars are still in the skull by the door.
My bare feet slap against the wooden floor of the hallway then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s the middle of the night and everything is quiet. Not even a car alarm. I look left and right and listen hard. Nothing.
I have to find him. I choose to go left and start walking as fast as I can. The uneven sidewalk bites into my bare feet and I know they’re going to be bloody soon. I go fast, running, and I start calling his name.
“Sylas!” I scream. Someone is probably going to call the cops, but I don’t give a shit. I have to find him. I get to the end of the street and look right and left again. Maybe I should try another direction.
And then I see him. He’s standing against the corner of a building, head bowed and his shoulders shaking. Oh thank God.
“Sylas!” I scream, running across the road and reaching him.
“Go the fuck away, Saige. Go away,” he says, but there’s no strength in his words. He’s breaking again. We both are.
“Come home, Sylas. Come home with me. We don’t have to talk about anymore. Come home with me, babe.” The endearment comes out without me even thinking about it. He lifts his head and swallows before nodding.
I throw myself at him, putting my arms around his neck. He hesitates for a moment before he hugs me back. Thank God. Thank God.
We walk back together and I realize how cut up my feet are. He’s also barefoot and just in a pair of boxer briefs. We’re lucky it’s the middle of the night so no one can see us like this.
We don’t exchange any words as we enter the apartment building again and go back upstairs. I shut and lock the door behind me and turn to face Sylas.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I shouldn’t have hurt you like that. I just… you brought it all back to me and I got lost in that day for a moment. I just can’t believe you were there.” So was my father. And he never told me. I know he probably did it to protect me, but it didn’t work. The memory surfaced anyway and now I have to deal with something from my past that now feels as fresh as a knife wound.
Sylas wipes his eyes and then holds out his arms.
“I’m sorry I freaked out. I’m so sorry,” I hold him tight and then we go back to the bedroom. He sets me on the bed and then sees my feet.
“Hold on,” he says, going to the bathroom. With gentle care, he gets a washcloth and carefully wipes my feet before slathering them with antibiotic cream and putting a clean pair of socks on them.
“Talk to me,” he says, sitting back on the bed. “Or don’t. Whatever you want to do.” He seems to be overcompensating now for running out earlier. I want to tell him he doesn’t need to, but my words are stuck in my mouth.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say. I’m trying to put the pieces together and I have so many questions I can’t answer. Why was Dad at the house? Why did he run away? Why wouldn’t he call the police? Why would he let Sylas discover the body? Why, why, why?
My father is the only one who can answer these questions and tomorrow (technically today) I’m getting answers. Once and for all.
“I know,” Sylas says. “What are the chances?”