Page 22 of Trust No Alpha
Thorne made a fire in his living room hearth and settled back to read. He was still tired from coming out of the Burn just that morning, and wanted a quiet evening. A long night’s sleep.
He opened his tablet and turned to his current book. But he couldn’t focus on the words.
He kept thinking about his walk that morning, and how as he passed by the Vandergale mansion on his way home, his eye caught the shape of a face in the high window on the west side of the house. At first he thought it a reflection. But as he came closer, he saw the profile of a young man. He recognized the blond son he’d seen years ago playing catch in the yard.
At a higher spot in the road, he could see the face a bit clearer.
The boy seemed to be gazing out the window and over the landscape.
Thorne had not wanted to be caught staring, so he’d lowered his head, but his eyes still peered upward and he thought he saw pain on the boy’s face, even from this distance, and such sadness that even his own heart, filled with sadness for so many years, could not quite comprehend it. This son could be no more than eighteen. He should be entering the first tier of Alpha adulthood, relishing in the throes of his first Burn. But the grief-stricken look he saw on that face had clutched at him. A pang of empathy knifed through him.
His throat went dry. His heart heaved like a heavy ball of lead in his chest.
He’d kept his pace. Followed the road. But all day he could not get the image of that boy out of his head.
Now, shaking his head to clear it, he forced himself to focus on the words before him. Soon his eyes grew heavy.
After a while, he took himself upstairs and to bed.
*
All night the snow filled the land. Quiet and white. Feathery and soft.
A fairy tale scene greeted Thorne when he woke near dawn.
Slowly, he went about his chores, peering out the windows every now and then to take in the ethereal beauty.
By nine, as usual, he set out for his walk. He wore snowshoes. Where he walked, the snow would have come up to his knees if he hadn’t stayed on top of it.
On the road it was a little better. Wet but clear except for ruffles of packed ice down the middle line. A few cars had come by after the plow. It wasn’t too icy, but the soles of his snowshoes had a good grip.
Thorne headed for mile marker one-fifteen three miles down. After he came upon it, he would circle it and head home. A six mile walk every day kept him in shape.
He wore his red scarf, black cap and red gloves. Beneath his black wool-lined coat, he had on jeans and a white sweater.
The air filled his lungs. Ice. Pine. Damp earth at the edges of the road where some of the snow was already starting to melt.
The Vandergale mansion dominated his vision as he strode west. Dark stone. Black windows. No lights. Not even a porch light glinted on the snow crystals of the front yard.
The mansion was silent. It felt abandoned, as if no life existed within.
Was everyone still asleep? Certainly Varian Vandergale, the owner of more corporations than he could count, kept to a strict schedule and regimen for himself and his boys.
But Thorne reminded himself he rarely saw life there. Cars came and went. Deliveries. Mail. But beyond that, he never saw boys running up and down the roads on bikes or skate boards. He never heard voices or laughter. Only that one time had he seen two of them playing catch in the yard.
Maybe they kept to a different schedule.
He sighed, remembering yesterday, and the sad face in the window. Would the boy be there again today?
Slowly, Thorne trudged through puddles and ice on the blacktop. When he was nearly past the house, he could not stop himself. He glanced behind and upward to the third story window reflecting the white day.
He saw nothing.
He remembered a few weeks ago when he’d seen construction workers busy on that side of the house. He hadn’t paid much attention, but now he realized the work had been happening on the third story. And right near the window where he’d seen the boy.
He walked a few more steps, looking back over his shoulder to see if the glare lessened as he came further into the house’s shadow.
Now he saw it. The faint glint of a face, and long light-colored hair. Instantly, the image vanished, as if the boy had ducked away.
