Nausea churned my stomach.
I half-crawled, half-ran to the door and collapsed on the porch, throwing up over the side.
Someone said I was screaming or I must have been in shock. I couldn’t make out the exact words. All I heard was the silence inside the house. The stench of blood clung to me.
I drew in one raspy breath after another. I’d never wash those images from my brain.
Never ever.
Chapter Eight
Shelby
Quickly, I wipe the tears off my cheeks. My heart aches for Logan, but he won’t respond well to pity. Still, I can’t help wrapping my arms around him and resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Willing him to understand how deep my love for him runs.
Whatever I expected was lurking in Logan’s past, this wasn’t it.
I’d do anything to take the hurt and painful memories away.
He absently runs his hand over my hair.
While we’re both quiet, my mind replays the story. I can’t imagine the horror of finding your parents like that. Especially his mother.
Oh my God.
No wonder Logan was so willing to rescue me the day we met.
And every other time.
Anxiety beats in my chest as painful pieces click into place. His need to rescue—to protect—probably comes from not being able to save his mom. The tragedy of it hurts.
My breath catches in my throat. I wrote a whole song about him being my White Knight.
Now that I know what he’s endured, that song almost feels like poking fun. Insensitive.
I should take White Knight out of my set list. Immediately.
“I’m so sorry, Logan,” I whisper in his ear. “I don’t know what to say.”
My words feel so inadequate.
He inhales a long, slow breath. “There isn’t much to say.”
I want to ask questions but don’t know where to start. Instead, I stroke my hand over his chest and cheek.
“You ended up at your aunt and uncle’s after that?”
“Yup.” He snorts. “Because of my petit larceny ‘record’ the cops briefly entertained the idea that I had killed my parents.”
What kind of monster thinks that of a kid? I jerk upright and stare at him. “What? How?”
“Easy answer and they wouldn’t have to do much investigating, I guess.” He shrugs. “Didn’t matter. My aunt shut that down fast. I was so out of it, I really didn’t care what they wanted to accuse me of.”
“It sounds like your aunt and uncle loved you and gave you a safe place to recover.”
“Yeah, after some time—and therapy that Aunt Em insisted on—I was happy.” His expression slips into the slightest frown. “At least for a little while.”
Chapter Nine
Rooster
Logan, 13 years old…
Hours after walking in on the brutal scene at home, the horrible scent still lingered in my nose and throat.
Would it ever go away?
Mom.
It seemed wrong to go on breathing, for my heart to keep beating.
How could she be gone? She’d driven me to school in the morning. We’d talked. She was so alive. We’d made a plan.
The police station was no more comforting than it had been the last time I’d visited. At least no one handcuffed me this time. They had taken pictures when I first arrived. And questioned me endlessly. When they realized I wasn’t going to say anything other than Uncle Boone’s phone number, they finally stopped.
“Where’s my sister?” The loud, menacing voice exploded through my fog. I recognized Uncle Boone’s deep rumble and craned my neck to get a glimpse of him through the wide glass window looking out into the rest of the police station.
The door flew open, hitting the back of the wall with a thud. Aunt Em rushed toward me, arms out wide. “Logan!”
Her gentle hands landed on my shoulders as she sank down on the small brown, nubby couch with me. She turned, scowling at the social worker who’d left me alone in this room.
“Why didn’t someone let him clean up? How could you leave him like this?” she demanded.
I glanced down, for the first time noticing the deep red blotches staining my boots, jeans, and shirt. I held my hands in front of me, more rust-colored stains flaking off my skin.
“Oh, honey.” Aunt Em hugged me tight. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
Nothing would ever be okay again.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother alone and afraid, at my father’s mercy as he—
Her face. Her face. Her face.
“It’s my fault,” I whispered in Aunt Em’s ear.
She hugged me even harder. “No, it’s not.”
I squirmed and tried to free myself but she kept her arms around me. “Yes. Dad didn’t like me playing football. They fought about it this morning before she dropped me off at practice.” I gasped and struggled to find the right words.
“None of this is your fault. Football isn’t a reason to do…this. You’re not responsible for any of it, Logan.” Her voice was firm and unwavering as she continued to try and reassure me.