I flinched, my heart slamming against my ribs as I returned to the present.
“Coming!” I called breathlessly.
Turning from the screens, I grabbed the duffel and hurried out of the room. The bag was heavier than I expected. Or maybe it was the weight of the woman’s face burned into my memory.
Because I knew her.
I just didn’t know how.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Henry
It felt damn good to change clothes. And to put on some pants.
I’d been in the same sweat-soaked, bloodstained t-shirt for over twenty-four hours. While I’d endured far worse during my military days, slipping into a clean t-shirt and sweats made me feel halfway human again.
I tried helping Ariana clean up after we ate, more to prove I wasn’t a complete invalid than any noble gesture, but she shot me a look sharp enough to skin a man.
“If you want that ankle to heal,” she began, pressing a fresh ice pack into my hand, “you need to stay off it.”
Knowing I wouldn’t win with her, I limped out of the kitchen and headed for the couch like a scolded child, muttering something about overbearing nurses under my breath. With nothing to distract me but the hum of the wind outside and the faint clinking of dishes in the sink, I found myself regretting not installing a television. At the time, the quiet suited me. It was why I held onto this house filled with horrible memories.
Now the silence felt suffocating.
Especially with Ariana so close and that almost kiss still hanging in the air between us.
So I made a detour to the library.
I inhaled the scent of old pages, hundreds of memories from my childhood rushing back. My mother loved books. Would spend hours reading to Spencer and me when we were young. Before my father sucked all the joy from her.
Even after he was gone, I hated reading. It reminded me too much of her. Of how I failed to protect them.
But as I glanced around this room full of books that used to be the bedroom I shared with my younger brother, I wasn’t thinking of them like I normally did whenever I stepped foot in here.
I thought ofher.
Ariana.
I moved toward the bookshelves, running my fingers along the myriad of books, each one bringing forward another childhood memory.
Charlotte’s Web, where my mother would do a different voice for each of the animals at Zuckerman’s farm, my favorite being Templeton, the rat.
The Count of Monte Cristo, where she always left off at the worst cliffhangers, but promised to pick it up again tomorrow.
Pride and Prejudice, where she refused to give in to our whining when we complained about reading that one. We wanted pirates and sword fights, not “stories about kissing.”
And yet, the more she read, the more I ended up rooting for Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. Because under all that posturing, there was truth. Tension. The slow unraveling of pride and pain.
I could relate to that now.
I continued along the shelves, memory after memory coming forward, until a book on the side table by the reading chair caught my attention. I reached for it, my curiosity piqued about what book Ariana had been reading.
Rebecca.
I flipped to the bookmarked page and skimmed a few lines. The unnamed narrator, naïve and self-effacing, constantly second-guessing herself as she stepped into a world she didn’t fully understand. Haunted by the woman who came before her.
Ariana wasn’t quite that girl. She had more bite. But there was a similar uncertainty in the way she moved through this place, skirting around my presence. A woman caught in a story that started before she knew she’d eventually have a starring role.
