Follow Me Always (Follow Me 3)

“Since we only have one hotel in the tiny downtown area of Liberty, I assume you’re staying there.”

“You assume correctly.”

I start the engine and pull out of the long driveway. It’s a twenty-minute drive into town. “Why didn’t you rent a car?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to get here. I’ll rent one tomorrow.”

I nod.

“Tell me something about your childhood,” he says.

“Is this a two-way street?” I ask.

“Sure. You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something. Except I get to choose what I tell you.”

“Is it a two-way street?” I ask again.

“Sure. You choose what to tell me. I know about the cornfield. You know about my trips to the food pantry. That’s all we know about each other’s childhoods.”

“Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “My mom used to make my clothes when I was little. I never wore anything store-bought until I was in high school.”

“I see.”

“Now, you go.”

“I did get to wear store-bought clothes,” he says, “but they were never new. We got them from thrift stores, and when I grew out of them, Ben wore them. He got the shorter end of the stick. While they were never brand-new, at least they were new to me.”

My heart wells up. I never wore anything used. My clothes may have been hand-sewn, but they were always new.

“Your turn,” he says.

“I… I did well in school.”

“I assume that. Dig deeper, Skye.”

“That’s deep. I was one of the brainy kids. The brainy kid in handmade clothes.” I’m not being fair. A lot of the kids I grew up with wore handsewn clothes. It’s a rural thing. It wasn’t a big deal, and I was never bullied for it.

“Skye—”

“Your turn.”

“Fine.” He draws in a breath. “My father drank. A lot.”

I raise my eyebrows. “He did? He seems fine now.”

“He’s a recovering alcoholic. Did you notice he didn’t drink that night at dinner?”

“No, I didn’t.” Because I was more concerned with making a good impression on Bobby and Ben and watching Kathy.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Wait, wait, wait… You can’t just throw that one out there and then say it’s my turn. You need to elaborate.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. My parents aren’t alcoholics. They’ve been pretty happily married since…”

“Since when?”

A lump forms in my stomach. I never think about that awful time. I’ve put it in the past. But maybe…just maybe… Braden threw out something and then didn’t explain it. I could easily do the same, but I came home for a reason. To figure things out.

And maybe what I’m about to say is part of the key.

“When I was little, about seven or eight, my father went away for a while right before harvest. My mother spent a lot of time crying, and I spent a lot of time trying to get her attention. He came back around Christmastime. Mom stopped crying then, but things were weird for a while.”

“Where did he go?” Braden asks.

I sigh. “I don’t know. They never talked about it. I have my suspicions, of course. He was probably having an affair.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“Why else would a husband leave and a wife cry all the time?”

“Have you asked your mom?”

“Yeah. I asked both of them. All they say is it’s in the past and it’s nothing for me to worry about.”

“When was the last time you asked?”

I wrinkle my forehead. “The year I started high school, I think. They had a big fight about… I can’t even remember what. My dad stormed out, and I relived that day when my dad had left before. I asked my mom about it, and again she just said everything was fine and I didn’t need to worry.”

“And you haven’t asked since then?”

“Nope. Why continue asking when they won’t tell me?”

“That doesn’t sound like the Skye I know.”

I cock my head. No, it doesn’t. I’ve been hammering Braden for the truth about Addie and him since we met.

Why did I stop asking my mom about that time? Since I have no answer, I say, “Your turn.”

He chuckles. “I kept you going for longer than I thought I would.”

“Your turn,” I say again.

“All right. My father set our house on fire when he was drunk once. My mother…”

Shit. His mother. The mother he won’t talk about. “What? What about your mother?”

“She was badly burned.”

“Oh my God. Did she…”

“No, she didn’t die. Not at that time, anyway.”

His response puzzles me. “Your father… He didn’t…do it on purpose, did he?”

He shakes his head. “It was an accident. A drunken accident. But insurance wouldn’t pay because they called it arson, and my father couldn’t prove he hadn’t set the fire on purpose, so he lost the house. Then, my mother’s medical bills were so outrageous…”

“And that’s how you ended up going to the food pantry.”

He nods. “My mother always wore a scarf over her face to hide the scarring.”