Page 127 of Everything Under the Sun

“I’ll try not to hurt her,” he agreed.

The tick in my brain had stopped ticking a long time ago because it had become a vociferous pounding in my ears. My jaw had stopped grinding and the bones in my fingers had relaxed because I had already made up my mind. Everything had been set in motion; everything was waiting for the moment of truth, when Mark Porter would seal his own fate.

The jewelry fell to the ground; gold and silver and gemstones reflected the moonlight stark against the black soil. Mark Porter struggled as the crushing weight of my arm snared his neck, crushed the side of his body against me; the heavy weight and bulk of Mark’s backpack attempted to topple him in the opposite direction, but I held him in place. The jangling of the chain attached to his pants was muffled in my ears, like the swish of our clothes rubbing against one another, the stomping of our boots heavy and chaotic against the ground, the wild rustling of dead leaves being tossed about beneath our fighting steps—all muffled by the sound of swift retribution, the fire pumping through my goddamned veins, the pounding…the pounding…the pounding…

Forgive me…

Mark’s thrashing body slackened; his hands relaxed and tightened on my arm crushed against his windpipe; his eyes opened and closed in his bloated, purplish head; the choking and gasping and spitting quieted.

Grinding my teeth, pain shot through my face; I gripped tighter; my breathing became deeper, faster, louder with every exhale, and each time I sucked in the humid night air it stung my lungs. Through clenched eyes I should’ve seen blackness, but through them the only shade I saw was red.

Relaxed and tightened. Opened and closed.

Red. Crimson Red. Murderous Blood Red.

And then black—everything went black.

Silent.

Motionless.

Lifeless.

I was on the ground with Mark Porter’s body still pressed against me, my arm tight around his throat. On the edges of my sight I saw Mark’s tongue hanging from his mouth. His eyes were open, empty, glossed over. The smell of urine rose up in my nose. And sweat. And rancid breath.

I felt the heat from the ground coming up to meet me, pushing its way from the back of my legs and my bottom, spreading throughout every limb, filling every pore and line in my skin. Heat. But it was not the heat of summer; it was the heat of damnation, another demon I had let in, and this time I knew it would stay with me forever.

The pounding in my brain reduced to a tick once more, then to a soft murmuring, like a faint voice reminding me of my transgression, haunting me. How could it both mock and pity me? But it did—and it loved me and forsake me, laughed at me and wept for me.

I cried out, and heaved the dead man into the leaves. Tears shot from my eyes. I tried to stand up, but my legs were too heavy, my mind too heavy to will them, and I fell back to my knees against the hot, desecrated ground. And I wailed into the night, teeth clenching, fists clutching, until my body fell forward, and my hands ground against the earth. I vomited and then wiped my mouth with the bandanna that once held the jewelry. Then I wiped the tears from my face with the bottom of my palm.

I sat there, staring up into the sky, seeing only the scattering of stars above me, but no moon for the trees.

THAIS

An hour had passed since Atticus left me alone in the cabin. I was beyond the point of worry. I paced the floors from one room to the next, but always found myself back in the kitchen where the window overlooked the backyard. Any second now I thought I might see his shadow before him, but I saw only the shadows of the trees crisscrossing the grass. I became desperate to see his face, to know that he was still there, still alive, that I hadn’t been left alone in the world without him. Oh, to be alone in any world without him…

The gun I no longer held in the back of my pants—it was in my hand. Waiting. Ready. For what, I did not know, but Atticus would have wanted me to be ready, I told myself. Atticus would have wanted me to be…

Why am I thinking of him in past tense?

I placed the gun on the windowsill and opened the back door, and just as I was shoving my feet down into the oversized hiking boots, hell-bent on setting out to find him, I glimpsed a moving shadow.

I stopped.

I sucked in a sharp breath; my heart filled with relief and pain—I was so happy to see that Atticus was alive.

But why did he look like that? Why was he staring at the ground, his arms heavy at his sides, his boots no longer moving over the grass toward me inside the cabin waiting for him?

Atticus stood on the fringes of the trees. I got the distinct feeling he did not know I was watching, that he was not only oblivious to me, but to everything around him.

Suddenly, even the sound of my breath quieted; the world went silent, unmoving and dead. With realization, I felt my lashes sweep my face; my bowed fingers relaxed and slowly uncurled from my hands. Raising my eyes from the floor, I looked at Atticus once more before closing the door to leave him with his thoughts. I wanted to go to him; I wanted to know the truth I already knew, but I could not. He wouldn’t have seen me if I stood in front of him.

With a heavy heart, I stepped out of the boots. Taking up the dinner plate we’d used as a candle tray, I carried it down the hallway, four tiny flames lighting the dark passage, casting an orange glow against the walls. I placed the candles on the floor near the mattress. The window was open, and I was thankful for what little breeze that pushed through it. Stepping out of my pants, I stood by the window in my T-shirt and panties, looking out at the black trees in the front yard. I thought about the skeleton on the front porch, the mother and son buried on the side of the cabin. Will that become us one day? Will that man in the rocking chair with his peaceful view of where his wife and son used to play, one day be Atticus? Will he bury me in my own grave and drape a ribbon around my marker?

I laid down on the mattress and drew my knees up, hugging my arms against my chest, and I laid there for a long time staring toward the open window, feeling the warm breeze on my face. And I never moved; not when I became uncomfortable and needed to readjust; not when I wanted to go back through the kitchen and make sure Atticus was still outside; and not when I finally, after another hour, heard the back door opening and Atticus’ boots moving over the hardwood floor in the living room.

All became quiet again.

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