Breaking Even (Sterling Shore 5)

Every time there’s a sound, I fight hard not to squeal. This is by far the creepiest thing I’ve ever done, and I have no idea why we’re here.

“I didn’t think this through,” he says nervously, looking down to the towel still attached to my waist and his jacket that is trying to swallow me whole. “We can do this tomorrow.”

This isn’t exactly cemetery-after-dark attire, but I have a feeling this has something to do with his mother. There’s no other reason we would be here. He’s never said that she was dead, but I assumed she was either dead or out of the picture. Tria finally explained that she died a long time ago, but she didn’t elaborate because I shut her down. Given our destination, I could have easily assumed it’s the former of the two even without knowing.

Tria offered to tell me everything she knew about him, but I refused. I was hurting at the time, and there wasn’t anything that I wanted to know from anyone else. I just wanted Rye to tell me. Now... Maybe I should have let her tell me what she knew.

I have a feeling he’ll never do whatever he wants to if we leave now. So, putting aside my fear of dark cemeteries, I take his hand and point the beam of my flashlight toward the gate.

“I’m ready when you are,” I say, not looking at him.

He starts walking, keeping my hand in his, but then he stops abruptly and turns before he crushes his lips to mine, soaking me in as though he’s seeking courage. I think.

I don’t know what he needs, but I try to give him whatever it is.

“Come on,” he murmurs against my lips, his body still tense as he rethreads our fingers together and leads the way.

Dark, scary, and quiet enough to make every unseen rustle of motion sound ominous—it’s like a scene from every horror movie ever made. But I trek on, following close to him as he navigates the way.

He only gets tenser the deeper we go, and I keep waiting on a wolf to howl at the moon right about now. Fortunately, no such thing happens—mostly because wolves aren’t native to this area.

When he stops, I stop, too, and he pulls me beside him as he shines his light on a tombstone.

Marie Jenna Clanton

Loving Mother and Wife...

He’s brought me to his mother’s grave. But... why?

“I don’t know why I felt like I had to explain this here, but for some reason... it just seemed easier to do it this way.” He kneels and moves aside the dried flowers that rest on her grave. For some odd reason, there’s a coffee cup next to the tombstone.

“They’ve apparently not cleaned up yet,” he mutters to himself, but I don’t question him.

“This is my mother,” he finally says after a suffocating amount of silence.

What am I supposed to say? I don’t want to ask what happened. She died several years ago, according to the date on the tombstone and Tria, so condolences would seem contrived. I don’t know what to do. Nothing seems sufficient, so I just stand quietly and wait.

“It’s no secret that she died. But there are only a few people in Sterling Shore that know all the details, and not just parts of them. Six to be exact. My old therapist, my father’s therapist, my father, Wren, Ethan, and me. Now you’ll be the seventh.”

He snorts derisively before adding, “Usually the number seven is considered lucky. Sorry I’m about to ruin that for you. And honestly, you’re the only one who

is going to know the entire story besides me—all that I can manage to divulge.”

He goes quiet again, as though this is actually painful for him to do. I start to tell him we can do this some other time, but he breaks the silence again before I can.

“She died when I was almost eleven. She was sick—very sick. Since no one knew she was sick until after she died, she was never diagnosed properly. Theories have spawned over the years, but it’s nothing more than conjecture based on her symptoms. You’d be surprised at how many mental illnesses carry different aspects of her symptoms. Everything from severe depression to bipolar disorder to schizophrenia have been mentioned. But no one can say definitively what she suffered from.”

Now I really don’t know what to say. None of this is making sense, even though I appreciate him opening up to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say lamely, leaning over to kiss his arm.

“I was the one who found her,” he says suddenly, ignoring my pathetic attempt to comfort him as his body almost trembles. “She went to the bathroom, climbed into the tub, and she used a knife from the kitchen to open her veins.”

Oh dear God. My heart, head, and stomach all constrict and roil in unison. He found his mother dead when he was a kid?

“Rye, I—”

“I remember falling,” he says, interrupting me again, saying the words in a rush like he’s trying to get it out while he can. So I hold back anything I want to say to comfort him as he continues.