Right outside the Paradise Hotel, or at least what’s left of it.
And Justin’s mother leaning on me as I haul her away from the smoking rubble.
I don’t even remember that.
That night was such a fucking haze. My gut’s in knots as I realize that in the rush of doing what needed to be done, I must’ve been the guy to notice the woman collapsed in the ruins was still alive, wheezing, her body blackened with soot.
I don’t get it.
Don’t understand why he’d save all this crap. Why he’d be taking pictures of us all these years without us knowing.
There’s something very wrong here, I’m realizing.
Something wrong inside Justin’s head.
More and more, I’m flipping through page after page, barely breathing.
Watching as the photos get better in quality but more obsessed, more strange. More of me and Warren on our lonely fishing trips, and visits to Jenna’s grave captured in black and white.
Then Doc, too, as he opened up The Menagerie, practically chronicling his integration into Heart’s Edge. Even a few secret shots of Leo back when he was Nine by night, concealed in the shadows, watching over the town from a distance, just a silhouette with an edge of moonlight glinting off his mask and hood.
Justin’s been everywhere.
Watching our lives.
Obsessing over us.
And hating us, because too many of these photos are scratched, slashed with ink.
Enough of them show an unstable rage.
Blame, in jagged scratches of red pen strokes that rip right through the paper.
Snarling, I sift through more, coming up on recent stuff.
Then I hit on a trend that terrifies the ever-loving fuck out of me.
I start seeing photos of Andrea.
My daughter, and goddamn if every goose pimple on my body doesn’t stand up. I recognize her gangly pre-teen lope, her crooked gap-toothed smile. More and more photos that seem to track her growth by the month, hearts circled around her face…until it’s not her face at all.
The photos are altered in this strange, fucked up collage.
My daughter’s punky clothing and knobby knees, but pasted over her face, it’s Jenna Ford’s.
Hundreds of cutouts of Jenna’s face, meticulously trimmed down and pasted over my daughter’s until Jenna lives again in these sick doctored photos.
They paint a clear picture.
One that makes me want to vomit.
Justin was obsessed with Jenna, even though he’d have been so young when she was alive she probably never noticed him as an awkward teenager.
Obsessed with all of us.
They call us saviors, heroes, but we didn’t save the woman he idolized.
Or his mother.
And now he’s transferred his warped obsession to my daughter.
Fuck isn’t strong enough a word.
I can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or freaked. If he’s willing to punish us by fire, if he can play the victim so easy that even I was fooled into taking him under my wing…
I don’t even want to think what he’d do to feed his obsession with Andrea.
I just know I’ve got to protect her.
And I’ve got no fucking time to lose.
19
Broken Pitch (Peace)
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Andrea looking so despondent.
I’m trying to practice backstage, but it’s hard when she’s dragging around looking like the apocalypse just hit.
I feel for her.
Truly.
Justin’s vanished, and she can’t do the safety presentation on her own. She needs someone official backing it up from the town fire crew.
“Hey,” I say, trying to catch her attention. “It’ll be all right. Blake will totally find him in time.”
“Yeah, sure.” She rolls her eyes, sighing heavily as she flops down on one of the benches backstage. “I should just give up now.”
“No way,” I say softly. “Listen, honey, if it comes right down to it, and he doesn’t make it back in time, I’ll wiggle into Blake’s coveralls and do it up there with you.”
“You don’t know it.” She smiles wryly. “But thanks for offering.”
“Plan B. Dead serious. I’ve been around enough showy fireworks and circuses to know how to give a spiel. Nobody’ll ever know.” I wink at her.
She stares right through me, letting out a deflated laugh.
There’s a tired maturity in Andrea’s smile that hurts to see.
She shouldn’t have to deal with this crap. She shouldn’t be so used to disappointment that she learns to accept it.
And when she stands, coming over to squeeze my shoulder, I decide I won’t let her.
Catching her hand, I grip it tight for a moment, before she pulls away.
“I’m gonna go find a bathroom, okay?” she says. “Yell if he ever shows up.”
“Will do,” I say, watching her straggle off before I bow over my guitar again.
She’s not the only one with jitters today. Playing at The Nest was a sliver of this crowd.
I try to shake off my nerves, losing myself in practice chords. That song about my gold-hearted desperado still rolls real easy off my tongue.
It’s now or never.
It seems especially fitting right now, when the whole town is honoring Blake and his friends. I guess they’ll all see the heroes of Heart’s Edge in the song, though I’m really just singing it for one very special man.