He backs up more, scared, and I’m stumbling, step after step, and we’re falling back, and I can’t catch myself.
“You little shit…” my dad growls.
“Just leave her alone!” Damon cries out.
I look back, see us heading straight for the railing, and he’s not paying attention.
“Damon!” I beg.
He falls into me, our weight snapping the small wooden beam, and I fall backward, crying out and grappling for anything.
“Ah, oh, my God!” I hear my mother scream from below.
I catch the edge of the floor, losing my grip and spilling over, but a hand catches me, and I suck in air, bile rising up my throat as my legs dangle.
I look up, tears filling my eyes as Damon lies on his stomach, struggling to keep hold of me, but I feel so heavy, like I’m being pulled down. My father comes down and grabs for me, but Damon and I can’t hold, and I flail, slipping out of his fingers. His eyes meet mine, time freezes for a split second as we stare at each other, knowing I’m gone.
I slip, scream, and fall, his face the last thing I see before I see nothing at all.
I blinked my eyes awake, sweat coating my brow as warmth spilled through my bedroom window. The memory—the panic—still raced through my body as if I went over that treehouse edge yesterday.
That was the first time I recalled so many details my eight-year-old mind had buried away. He was so different. Rika was right.
I sat up in bed, wiping my eyes but still tired.
Tired of worry and hate and anger.
But also tired of feeling like I always lost.
That was my dilemma with Damon. That accident wasn’t his fault. I knew now that my father wasn’t upset with me or Damon that day. He’d discovered my mother and Mr. Torrance together and lost his temper.
Everything got out of hand, and Damon got scared. We were just kids. He didn’t mean to push me over. I knew that now.
But still…
I just never seemed to come out of anything with him unscathed, did I? In body or in mind.
Rising from the bed, I left my room, the house still silent as I walked down the stairs and into the ballroom. I fell asleep so early I missed dinner last night, and I needed some coffee, but I needed to stretch. I started my playlist and walked over to the wall, moving the curtain aside and lifting the first window to breathe in some fresh air.
But as I did, I stopped, hearing the rush of water outside.
A lot of water, and not like rain.
I thought he got rid of the fountain.
I couldn’t hear the workers anymore—no trucks or machinery. Did they bust a pipe or something? What was that sound?
Leaving the ballroom, I walked toward the front door, punching in the code Crane had given me and disarming the house.
I opened the door, the sound of water filling the air as I stepped outside.
Inching across the driveway in my bare feet, I held out my hands and went slow, careful for any equipment or cars.
But as I walked, I felt the draft and spray of what felt like waterfalls, and then suddenly, the pavement changed to something else under my toes, and I stopped. Dipping my foot out a little more, I felt water spill onto my feet and a granite floor underneath—no bowl or pool where the fountain was collecting. Simply a massive slab of ground. Maybe with drains?
I stepped in, my heart pounding as I held out my fingers, grazing
the towers of water around me.