Page 33 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“One thing.” His two words hurl me into the past. I’m spiraling so fast that I feel dizzy.
“No.” I fold my arms, steadying myself. “I’m not playing that game anymore. Get out of the car. Let’s go.”
“One thing, kitty cat,” he repeats, then gives me a challenging stare. “Tell me one thing you’d change if you can go back in time. I’m not getting out of the car until you do.”
I cover my face with my hand and take a deep breath. For fuck’s sake. I drop my hand and say in all seriousness, “I’d go back and stop you from cutting your own hair. It looks ridiculous. Happy?”
He roars with laughter, and I hate it. I hate how his voice is so rich and familiar despite the decades that separated us. I hate how his joy melts the stiffness in my body. I hate how I want to curl into his arms like that cheerleader had.
He wipes tears from his eyes and then goes silent, still staring ahead through the windshield into a dark corner of the barn. His knuckles turn white on the wheel, and he mumbles, “I’d have left Snuggles to burn.”
My breath hitches. This is the first time he’s voluntarily acknowledged the fire since I confronted him a week ago.
Why?I want to ask. Why did you go? Why didn’t you stay? Why break my heart? Why, why, why? But he’s already shifted his attention to testing the dials on the car radio and I’m too stubborn to admit I’m hurting.
Some truths are better left buried.
“Come on, Leila,” he pleads. “You know that driving ourselves to the city will be more comfortable and convenient than an Uber. Arriving in a sexy car like this will strengthen my cover if I’m to get back in the good books with my old crew. I promise to drive carefully.” He makes some kind of weird sign of the cross, then kisses his fingers and salutes with a scout’s honor. “I promise and kinky swear and all that shit.”
“I think you mean pinky swear.”
“Do I?”
“You’re an idiot.” I scowl.
“You used to laugh at my jokes before.” He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. “Aw, hell yeah. Listen to that baby purr.”
He pumps the gas a few times until the ground quakes from the roaring engine. Then he puts it in reverse, places his arm across the backrest, and stares at me. I must have a few brain cells missing because I give a long-suffering sigh and mumble, “At least if we’re driving, I can bring more weapons.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Go to hell,” I return.
“You first.”
Those words.My lungs seize as I tumble further into our past, to where the thrill of acting like a villain was a drug so illicit that I still remember it with crystal clarity. We were in the courtyard, acting out the opening scene fromTombstone. My stuffed toys were the victims before the church. I was the bad cowboy shooting my way through town, putting holes in everyone from the old to the newlyweds. I don’t remember much about that game except those words and the thrill of being naughty, of shooting people just because I could.
But now... as I watch Zeke in the car, looking at me, waiting for me to move so he can reverse, I’m struck by a second part of that memory.
Before we started to play, I’d broken out in hives from the stress of keeping to the group home rules. I always made my bed perfectly. I always brushed my hair and teeth. I did my homework. I’d learned to hold shut my smart mouth. I did everything possible to be the perfect little girl someone would want to adopt, but no one did. My reputation for setting fires had spread to other homes. Every social worker in town knew about me.
They’d branded me a misfit despite my behavior. The realization that I’d never be good enough, that my reputation was inescapable, had caused the rash. My skin bled from scratching. Zeke had been annoyed—but not annoyed at me. He was defensive. Frustrated. He’d said, “Where’s my wildcat gone?” And then, “Let’s do something naughty just because it’s fun.”
They already thought I was a pyromaniac, and the thought of getting into more trouble made my hives worse. Zeke suggested we reenact theTombstoneopening scene with us being the bad guys. No one would actually get hurt, and I could let off steam.
Back then, I didn’t think much of our age gap. He was my best friend, and that was it. But now I see that five years between children is a lot, and I wonder... how many of our games were just him entertaining me, giving me something to enjoy? How much of our time together was he protecting me?
Zeke’s frown deepens as I stare at him. He opens his mouth. He’s going to say something about the fire. I can see it in his eyes. Hot, prickling panic engulfs me.
“I need more weapons,” I blurt. “Meet back here in an hour.”
I spin and walk back to the abbey, rubbing the center of my sternum, trying to calm my rabbiting heart as I finally realize it’s not just him I should be angry at for not talking over the past week. I’m afraid of learning why he left me.
Sixteen
Zeke
Killing an hour should be easy, but since I’m trying to quit smoking, I find myself walking on the edge of a razor blade, ready to tip into insanity at any moment. I’m already packed. Can’t smoke. We’ve already touched base with old city contacts and have planned our movements for when we arrive.
