Into This River I Drown - By Tj Klune Page 0,52

he’ll go to Little House and I need to return anyway to make sure no one else is there.

I pull up the driveway at almost two in the morning. Big House still stands. My mom’s little car is parked out front. I know the Trio’s vehicles are parked in back. The house is dark, no movement. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. I stop in front of the house, consider knocking on the door and waking them up, but then decide against it. Much, I’m sure, can be seen on my face at the moment, and I haven’t had time to process any of it. I put the truck in drive and head toward Little House.

The lights catch a flash, like animal eyes, on the roof.

Cal.

I release a trembling breath and grip the steering wheel, trying to ignore the

overwhelming relief I feel at finding him safe and sound. With so much else screaming through my head, I can’t even begin to understand why I feel such relief, or why I have to stop myself from tearing out of the Ford and demanding he stand before me so I can make sure he is okay. This is something I don’t yet comprehend, but it seems to be growing stronger.

I switch off the truck and open the door. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I lock it behind me. I glance up at him; his body is tense, his dark eyes bright with something I can’t quite make out. He seems rigid. His gaze follows me as I move to the ladder. I take a deep breath and start climbing. I look up when I get halfway. He’s not there, waiting to pull me up with him. I sigh and climb the rest of the way.

He’s perched at the edge of the roof, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. If he got them from the house, then they are my father’s old clothes. The muscles of his arms strain against the sleeves of his shirt. The red stubble on his head and face looks dark in the starlight. I walk the few steps it takes to reach him, unsure if I should touch him in some way. Surely he’s aware of my presence. I decide against it and sit down on the roof, a few feet away. I’m suddenly very, very tired. I have to be up in a few hours.

We sit in silence for a while. Then, in a deep-throated grumble tinged with anger, he says, “Where were you?”

“Looking for you. Where did you go?”

He doesn’t look at me. “A thread called to me. I had to follow it to make sure I did my duty. When I returned, you were gone.” This last comes out as a harsh accusation.

I’m getting angry. “When I woke up, you were gone,” I snap. “I thought you’d gone away. What was I supposed to do?”

“I have a job to do, Benji,” he snaps. “Even if I am here for you, that doesn’t mean I can neglect my other duties.”

“I never asked you to. I was just… worried. I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“I am fine,” Cal says stiffly. “Except for when I returned. You were not here and I could not find your thread. I panicked. There is still a lot I can’t remember about the day you called, or even the time before. I don’t know why I can see certain things and not see others, why I can remember pieces but not the whole.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I feel so ashamed.

“Do you know what I did, Benji? Do you want to know what I did when I could not find you?”

“What?”

He finally turns to look at me. Much is said in that look, but I can’t decipher any of it. “I prayed,” he says. “I prayed for the first time since I’ve been here. And you know what response I received?”

“No.”

“None. I didn’t receive a response. It was like no one heard me. It was like my Father wasn’t listening. I prayed as hard as I could, asking for help to find you. And no one answered my prayer. It feels like I’m being tested. Or being punished, but I don’t know why. I can’t remember why. I can’t remember what I did. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. All I know is I prayed and he didn’t answer. When I was watching Roseland from above, I would pray and he