When I was six, I’d seen kids at school with action figures, but I’d never had one. I had a gun. Not a toy gun. A real gun. The first time I shot it, the kickback knocked me off my feet. That mistake landed me in the trunk for five hours.
I approached the closet. My heart thumped harder in my chest and every muscle flexed.
I placed my hand on the iron handle and froze.
I didn’t move. No, I couldn’t move.
This was why I took time off. Because of shit like this. Hesitating because memories were being uprooted and messing with me.
I gritted my teeth and jerked on the closet door.
The distinct thud and clank of the accordion door opening sent cold shards of ice through me. I tried to block it out. But I was back there again, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes suffocating me, just like the dark hood over my head. I wanted so bad to take it off, and at the same time, I didn’t want to because then I’d know what he’d do to me.
I slammed my fist into the closet door.
Jesus. Get your head straight.
I peered into the closet at the kid-sized jacket hanging up along with a few pairs of pants, and on the floor was a pair of winter boots. I picked one up and turned it over to look at the sole. A yellow size-five sticker was on it—new boots.
I put it back and pulled the accordion door closed.
I moved down the hallway to the bedroom at the back of the cabin. The door was open, and the morning sun beamed through the window, staining the hardwood floors a yellowy orange.
But that’s not what drew my attention. It was the view from the window that caught my eye.
Her window.
The umbrella of large maple leaves concealed my house except for one spot—the room upstairs. My bedroom.
And the window was as naked as that fuckin’ rodent.
Blinds had never even been on my radar, considering there were more important things to do, like put up drywall on the interior walls and plumbing in the downstairs bathroom.
Not only that, but I was rarely here, and when I was here, I rarely slept. And if I did, I was awake long before sunrise. Usually drenched in sweat and having to stand in a cold shower until the nightmares slid from skin and down the drain into the sewers where they belonged.
I looked away from the window and did a quick scan of her bedroom. Bed was made, but it wouldn’t pass any sort of military inspection. Shit, it wouldn’t pass Hettie’s inspection. And I knew that because I’d moved into Hettie’s when I was sixteen after my dad was arrested. Maureen, my mother, had left after my brother died, so it had been Hettie’s or a group home.
My gaze shifted to the mound of crumpled orange-and-red plaid cotton, likely pajamas, strewn at the foot of the bed, along with the light pink T-shirt with a unicorn on the front, and black yoga pants she’d been wearing on her jog through my woods. If we’d left our clothes out, Hettie would make us do laundry for a month. Jaeg had done a lot of laundry.
I turned to the closet. The doors were ajar, as if she’d half-assedly pushed them closed on her way out of the bedroom in a rush. I opened them the rest of the way. There were several jackets, jeans, an oversized sweater that looked like it could be a dress, and a few tops. My hand stilled as my gaze hit the little black dress. It was short, probably midthigh, with a deep V-neck. My brain immediately pictured the material hugging her hips and over her tight ass. My cock twitched.
Christ, I didn’t need that image plastered in my head for all eternity.
I glanced down and saw the guitar case sitting on the floor at the back of the closet.
I reached in to grab the case’s busted handle and pulled it out. It was worn and dusty and had several dents as if it had been through a beating.
I flipped the case on its side, then crouched and unlatched the top flap before tossing it open.
My gaze hit the familiar laser engraving on the bottom.
Fuck.
It was her mother’s guitar.
I remember on her twelfth birthday she’d sat with her mom on the front porch watching the rain. Her mom looked like shit and was wrapped in a quilt and wearing a wool hat. Macayla had run inside and grabbed the guitar and tried to pass it to her, but her mom shook her head.
Macayla sat on the swing beside her and put the guitar across her lap. Then she played.