The victim’s proverbial murder tree is starting to sprout limbs.
17
Book of Drew
Lakin: Then
Being alone with Drew was like being the only woman in the world. When he looked at you—when he looked at me—it was as if life up until that point had been an illusion, a deception. Some buried time capsule just waiting for the lid to be ripped off to reveal the real world and all its wonders.
I was awake.
Alive.
Vibrant and beautiful.
He looked right into me; he saw that spark we call a soul. Who I always had been, but was only just discovering with him.
In my youth, I had believed I was content to be second best. That was my place. Amber was the star, and I carved out a quiet corner for myself to exist. And I was happy, or rather, I was content. I didn’t know any differently.
Now, I knew someone could love me best. I’d experienced what it felt like to be desired. We were secluded in our own shiny bubble. Sheltered from that lonely past. And as I stroked his cheek, loving the way his scruff felt against my fingers, the clash of smooth and coarse, I fell harder for him.
I felt brave.
“I love you,” I said. There was no shame in admitting this aloud. I trusted Drew with my deepest, darkest fears. My most intimate aspirations. I could trust him with my heart, too.
His eyes flicked over my features before he leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I know you do,” he said.
I swelled at his response. I dropped back against the blanket, the beach sand molding to my body. Curves that I had once felt self-conscious about on show in a bikini, but the way Drew’s gaze lingered on my flesh made me want to parade up and down the shore.
He leaned over me, blotting out the sun. He was my sun.
“What would you do for that love?” he asked, his finger trailing my thigh.
I shivered at his intimate touch. “Anything,” I said. “Everything.”
His smile stretched, br
ight eyes gleamed. Then he moved in closer, his lips brushing my ear. “Anything?”
As he pulled back, those shimmering eyes darkened. Raw, carnal want shone in the depths, and I felt his desire for me. He tipped my chin up, his finger curled beneath. “Would you kill for us?”
I believed I would—I would do whatever it took for us to be together. And in our world, where only we existed, this was acceptable.
I nodded against his hand. “Yes.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said, voice low. “You’re deranged.” He laughed, and I slapped his arm.
His hand slipped between my thighs then, sending a heated quiver up my legs, a deep ache pinching my sex. I squeezed my thighs against his hand. His mouth came down on mine, tasting me tenderly at first, then savagely, devouring what belonged to him.
His next whispered words tickled my earlobe as he pressed his mouth to the shell of my ear. Heated breath caressed my neck, the spray of ocean misted my legs.
It was perfect.
It was the last happy day I recall spending with Drew. Just a week before Chelsea showed up at his door. Before the attack.
This is the memory I try to keep sacred, untouched. I don’t take it out often, because I want to try to preserve the accuracy of it. I want to keep it unblemished. Unchanged.
And yet, somehow I’ve already managed to lose the words he whispered to me on the beach. No matter how hard I try to remember, to recall what he said…the blackness catches it, burning the memory at the edges like a Polaroid rapidly smoldering, the ashes chasing the flaming embers of my mind.