Page 56 of When I'm Gone
He didn’t know how to answer her. The scared protector inside him wanted to leave the table, run to his car, speed to Annie’s house, and pound on the door until someone answered. If there was blood or bruises or anything short of a completely healthy Annie standing behind that door, he didn’t know what he’d do. Probably something he’d regret in the morning.
“I ... I’m sorry, but I think I need to go.” Luke put his phone in his pocket and checked to make sure his keys were easily accessible.
“Oh no, are the kids okay?” Felicity grabbed her purse and put it over her shoulder like she was planning on joining him.
He shook his head. “It’s not the kids. It’s a friend. She’s ... she needs help.”
Felicity stilled and cocked her head. “A friend?”
Already standing, Luke realized his mistake seconds too late. “Yes, sorry, Natalie’s best friend. She said it’s an emergency. She wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t something serious.”
“Okay.” Felicity put her purse back up on her shoulder, sounding a little suspicious, but Luke didn’t have time to worry about perceptions. He took a step away from the table, feeling guilty.
“Thank you for meeting me here.” He gestured to the restaurant and her chair. “I’ve had a wonderful time. I’m sorry, but I swear this is life or death. Rain check on the movie?”
Felicity nodded, another clump of hair breaking free, by her ear this time. “It’s okay; it’ll be in theaters for a long time,” she said in a way that made Luke think she might never cash in that rain check.
“My treat next time, no arguments.”
“Oh, you mean a number three off the value menu?”
“Well, maybe not quite that fancy.” Luke tried to smile back, but his hand was already in his pocket, grasping at the phone.
“Drive safe.”
“You too.” Luke gave a little wave and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 22
Driving through the darkness, Luke had to fight back memories of the night his sister was born. Something about the way the headlights cut through the mist and the bite of the evening air blowing against his face as he drove with the windows down reminded him of that summer night.
One hour after begging her teenage son not to call for help, Abigail Richardson gave birth to a tiny baby girl. The baby was stillborn, blue, and so small she could fit easily in the dish towel Luke retrieved from the kitchen. Even as tiny and discolored as she was, Luke thought she looked like a miniature doll.
His mother asked Luke to hold the baby as she cleaned up the mess in the hallway, refusing his help. With the still baby in his arms, Luke imagined her alive, with chubby cheeks and all the smiles he’d never see. Then he closed his eyes and prayed. Prayed harder than he’d ever prayed.
“Please, God, let this be a bad dream; please let Violet live,” he begged. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued to pray that God could turn back the past four hours and he could do something to stop his father from hurting them, for good.
But Luke’s mother changed out of her blood-drenched clothes and crawled into bed, cradling baby Violet beside her. Luke begged her to go to the hospital. They’d had enough of these conversations for him to know she’d never give in.
He didn’t think to ask what was going to happen when the sun came up, how his mom was going to explain that she suddenly wasn’t pregnant anymore. In fact, he couldn’t think at all anymore. As soon as he turned off the light and closed the door to his mother’s room, Luke sprinted out the back door, his bare feet slapping on the cold concrete of the porch.
Twisted weeds filled his unkempt yard and poked at the soles of his feet, but he didn’t stop. He wanted to be away from the house and the horrors he’d witnessed. His baby sister was dead, and it was his fault. He couldn’t stop his father or convince his mother to let him get help. He was useless.
Luke reached the gate to Natalie’s backyard in three seconds flat. Squirming his finger through the crack between the gate and the fence post, he lifted the latch on the other side, impatient to be away from anything his father had ever touched. The only place he felt safe anymore was Natalie’s shed, old and metal, with a hole in the roof. Natalie’s dad had built a new shed when they moved in, but never took the time to pull apart the old one. When the kids took it over, Mr. Egart nailed a board on the roof and kept pretending he didn’t have time to get rid of the shed.
Painted white aluminum sheeting acted as a door and was kept shut by a piece of wire hooked over an old nail. It was hard to maneuver it in the dark and with his hands shaking so violently. Once the door opened, a gust of stale warm air hit him in the face, taking the chill out of the night breeze. It was the smell of safety, a place he’d go often to get away from the screaming in his house and his inability to do anything about it.
Natalie wasn’t there. He knew she wouldn’t be. She was asleep inside her house like any other sane person. Part of him had hoped she’d somehow be there. They could have some Twizzlers; she’d curl up against him and pat his chest, kiss the underside of his jaw, her breath smelling slightly of strawberry, and everything else would melt away.
After breaking the speed limit the whole way home, Luke pulled into Annie’s driveway, flicked off his headlights, and checked his phone for the umpteenth time. Annie hadn’t answered any of his phone calls or texts or sent a new one in forty minutes. There were two from Felicity: one thanking him for the night, and a second checking in to make sure everyone was okay. He’d have to answer those later. He couldn’t think beyond the dark windows of Annie’s house.
Should he be scared or angry? Both emotions were coursing through his veins, and which one would win out was still to be determined. To be safe he carefully typed 9-1-1 into his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. This time no one was going to die because he was afraid to call for help.
Turning the corner, he could tell the front door wasn’t closed all the way. The same way Mr. Egart found the Richardsons’ front door the morning after Violet’s birth, or at least that’s what Natalie told him.
Luke knocked lightly on the door, hoping Annie would pop out of the darkness and explain this was all a misunderstanding. He listened for footsteps or voices or anything. There was nothing but silence.
“Annie,” Luke whispered as he pushed open the door with an index finger. Crossing the threshold, something glittery crunched under his dress shoes. Squinting down, he tried to make out what was sparkling up at him. Glass. Long silver fragments littered the floor, like someone dropped a mirror from the second-floor hall. “Annie?” he called again. She’d never leave the house like this, sharp glass on the floor, front door open. Not voluntarily.
