Graveminder

Chapter 10

BYRON THOUGHT ABOUT THE THINGS HE OUGHT TO TELL REBEKKAH, about the things he wanted to tell her, and the fact that none of what he had to say was what she needed to hear tonight. They sat in the dark, listening to the insects and frogs and being as careful as they always were when they were trying not to talk. Even sitting beside her made him realize that he’d lied to himself when he’d said he had changed.

Almost three years had passed since she asked him not to call her anymore. He’d tried several relationships, and then he’d told himself that he wasn’t meant to fall in love. He’d pretended that—like his need to return to Claysville—his need to be with Rebekkah was something he could outrun. The difference, of course, was that when he gave in and went to Claysville, it hadn’t run from him. Rebekkah would run by morning if she wasn’t grieving. She still might.

Tonight she’d let down her defenses, though. She leaned her head on his shoulder. The adrenaline and grief that had held her upright seemed to fail her all at once. She slouched down—shoulders drooped, one hand falling limp into her lap—like a marionette with cut strings. The dim porch light hid the pallor of her skin, and the messy knot she’d twisted her hair into hid how long it was these days. In all, though, she didn’t look much different than she had three years ago when she’d walked away from him: she was fit enough that he figured she still ran or swam regularly. Or both. Rebekkah had always buried stress with exercise and emotion with flight. Among other things.

“Byron?” she said sleepily.

“I’m right here.” He didn’t add that he always would be if she wasn’t so damn difficult or that he hadn’t ever pushed her away when she wanted him there. That was Rebekkah’s area of expertise, pulling him to her and then shoving him away when she realized that she actually wanted him there. He sighed, feeling guilty contemplating those things when she was feeling vulnerable but knowing full well that once she wasn’t feeling lost, she’d be off and running.

“Bek?”

“I wish it was a bad dream, B,” she whispered. “Why do they all keep dying and leaving me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Even with a lifetime of being surrounded by the grieving he hadn’t found any better answer. There wasn’t one: people died, and it hurt. No words could truly ease that ache. Byron wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her while tears slid down her cheeks.

She didn’t pull away, but she did turn her head to look at the slowly lightening sky.

They sat there for several minutes watching the night end. She had her feet curled up under her, and one hand clutched the chain of the swing as if she were a small child afraid of falling. The afghan was tucked around her, adding to her vulnerable appearance.

And he felt like a jackass for wanting to tell her the things that she always tried to keep unspoken between them. The problem with Rebekkah was that there wasn’t ever a good time to talk. She only let her walls down when she was hurt, and when she wasn’t hurt she ran—either literally or by chasing emotions away with sex. He used to think that there would be a time when the sex wasn’t an excuse to run from intimacy, but she’d disabused him of that notion the last time he’d seen her. Carefully keeping his own emotions in check, he said, “You’ll sleep better in a bed than out here on the swing. Come on.”

For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but instead she said, “I know.”

As she stood, he wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, and she whispered, “Will you stay?”

When he frowned, she hastily added, “Not like ... not with me, just in the house. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want to be alone here. The guest beds are probably made up.”

Instead of calling her out on the lie she was trying to sell, he opened the door. “Sure. It’s probably easier. I had planned to pick you up for the service.”

She stopped and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

But she didn’t move. One foot was on the step into the house; the other was still on the porch.

“Bek?”

Her lips parted, and she leaned toward him and said, “Tonight doesn’t have to count. Right?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her question. “I don’t know.”

She pulled him to her almost desperately, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a cry or an apology she whispered as she wrapped herself around him. The screen door hit him as he let go of it to hold her tighter to him. A part of him—a very insistent part—wanted to ignore her grief and the inevitable this-is-a-mistake that morning would bring. Another more responsible part knew she would be running by morning and he would be kicking himself for ending up back where they always were if he did that.

They stepped into the house, and the door snapped shut with a bang. Rebekkah pulled back. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t—” She stopped, shook her head, and all but ran up the stairs.

He followed. If he were a different sort of man, he wouldn’t let things end there, or maybe if she were a different sort of person, but he knew them both well enough to know that what she was inviting him to do was take the responsibility for the choice out of her hands so later she could blame him.

Not this time.

It was difficult for either of them to have any sort of resolve where the other was concerned. They both claimed they did, but inevitably his decision not to repeat the same pattern and her insistence that they were just friends failed. Over the years, they’d avoided talking by ending up in bed, and they’d ended fights in bed, but they’d always circled back to Rebekkah’s running and his deciding he was a fool for thinking this time was going to be different.

But here I am.

The difference was that this time he was standing outside her room, not in it.

At the top of the stairs, he asked, “Are you sleeping in your old room?”

She paused. “I can stay in Maylene’s room, so you ... that way you have a bed, too, or ... I could sleep in Ella’s—in the other room so ... you—”

“No.” He put a hand on her forearm. “You don’t need to sleep in Maylene’s room or in Ella’s room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to ... I’m okay. I mean ... I’m not , but—”

“It’s fine.” Gently he put a hand on either side of her face and looked at her. “You need to get some sleep.”

Indecision flickered in her expression, but after a moment, she nodded and went into her room. She pushed the door partway closed, but it was still open enough that he could follow. He considered it. In the past, he would’ve. She needed him, and he had repeatedly told himself that need was enough. With any other woman, it was all he wanted.

With Amity, it is enough, but Bek is not Amity.

Resolutely Byron pulled her door shut and went back downstairs. He sat on the sofa for a minute, lowered his head to his hands, and thought about everything that they needed to talk about, about all the things that were a mess, about the reasons that he wasn’t going to go right back upstairs.

He couldn’t sleep in Ella’s old room. She had been gone a long time, but sometimes he didn’t think Rebekkah would ever truly her let go. In death, Ella stood between them in a way she never would have in life. That, like so many other topics, wasn’t something Rebekkah was willing to discuss. Of course, there were also plenty of topics he was grateful not to discuss tonight. He was dreading telling Rebekkah that Maylene was murdered—and that Chris seemed unwilling to investigate it.

Byron thought about the homeless girl he’d seen lingering at the house yesterday afternoon and again tonight. She was young, a teenager, and too slight to have inflicted the injuries he’d seen on Maylene. He wondered if she traveled with someone, maybe a man. Byron checked the windows and doors again, but saw no sign of intrusion. Probably just hungry , he decided . She’d known that the house was empty, and when a person has no home, finding an empty house is surely tempting. He made a mental note to suggest that Chris talk to the girl. Maybe she’d seen something. Even if she hadn’t, letting her wander around alone in town without resources was a sure way to turn her into a criminal. Claysville took care of its own. Whether she had been born here or not, she was here now, so she’d need looking after. Which I should’ve thought of earlier. Right now, he suspected that the worst she was guilty of was theft of milk from Maylene’s porch. If she had nowhere to go, no food, and no family, there would be more serious problems in time.