Page 13 of Creeping Lily
“Then tell me—” I lean into the silence between us, daring him to fill it—“which way was it meant to be?”
I metthe Walkers when I was eight. Lincoln was eleven, Bentley fifteen. They welcomed me like I was something rare and precious—someone to be cared for, not discarded.
Lincoln taught me to ride a bike that summer. His hands steadied the handlebars, patient, until he stepped back and let me pedal on my own. Bentley waited twenty feet ahead, nodding in approval every time I made it without falling. The bike was pink, ribbons dangling from the handles, kept in the shed just for me each summer I came back.
When I mastered it, I’d race toward Lincoln, laugh spilling out of me as I threw myself into his arms. He’d catch me every time. Then I’d speed toward Bentley, who always stopped me no matter how fast I came at him.
Every summer blurred into the next—sunlight, laughter, care that felt endless. I thought it always would be. Losing it now is like losing a limb.
Bentley left the night it happened. They whisked him awaybefore anyone could ask questions. If it all came out, they’d lie for him. Money buys clean slates and disappearing acts.
Lincoln leaves now too—because staying here means slowly bleeding out on the inside.
Funny how quickly money can buy someone a whole new life.
Even if it costs someone else theirs.
7
LINCOLN
Ididn’t drink before that night. Didn’t need to.
Now the taste won’t leave me, cheap whiskey burned into the back of my throat, a slow self-destruction with every swallow. It’s the only thing strong enough to cut through the horror of what was done to her.
I stand outside her door too long. Long enough to feel like a coward. My hand hovers near the frame like I could keep the air from moving, stop myself from breathing her in. My chest aches with it—the sharp pull of her scent. Soap. Linen. Something fragile that shouldn’t keep company with the likes of blood and alcohol.
I’m afraid. No—terrified. Of what I’ll see when I go in. Of what’s left of her.
When I finally step inside, the air shifts. Heavy. Still.
She’s in the bed, a pale shape in the half-light. Sheets twisted around her legs, her hair spread across the pillow like dark ink. Her eyes are open.
They find me, but it’s not her.
Not the girl who laughed so hard she snorted. Not the girl who yelled at me when I let go of her bike too soon. Not the girlwho gave this house a heartbeat. What looks back at me now is hollow, scraped out, like someone stole her light and left nothing but shadows.
I can’t meet her eyes. My gaze drops to the floor, the walls, anywhere else. Guilt presses around my skull like iron, and I know if I move closer, if I see too much, I’ll break apart.
Her voice pulls me back.
“Lincoln.”
My name. Soft, torn at the edges. It cuts deeper than any blade.
I look up. Her voice is ruined, shredded, and when she says my name again, I can’t stop myself. The words slip out, weak and pitiful.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s nothing. Empty. But it’s all I’ve got.
Her lips move, slow but steady. “It’s not your fault.”
She says it like she believes it. Like she wants to hand me a rope to pull me out of this eternal pit of grief I’ve found myself in. But my hands won’t take it. They can’t. Because I know the truth.
I should’ve been here.
I should’ve been the wall they couldn’t break through.
