Fractured Things - Samantha Lovelock Page 0,41
illuminate the ground in front of me now, stretching my shadow grotesquely and pushing me farther from the edge of the road. The gravel behind me crunches as the vehicle pulls onto the shoulder and stops, engine idling.
“Stell?” Sunday’s head pokes out of the driver’s side window, her hair lifting in the breeze. At the sound of my best friend’s voice, my legs decide they’ve had enough of my shit for one day and give out, bringing me to my knees in front of the Range Rover. My hands fold like broken wings into my now-hollow chest, and I hunch forward painfully as the harsh sobs tear through me like wildfire. Sunday’s out of the SUV in seconds and right beside me on the ground, draping herself over my back and wrapping me in her arms like she’s trying to absorb some of the pain wracking my body.
“Stella, what happened? Can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt?” Her last question prompts a horrible burble of sick laughter to erupt from my raw throat.
“Yeah, you could say that.” The acid dripping from my voice has her pulling back like I smacked her and lifting her eyebrows in surprise.
Do not bite at your best friend, dumbass. This isn’t about her, and you’re gonna need her to get through it.
“Sun, I’m sorry,” I wipe my snotty nose on the sleeve of my sweater and grab her hand with my free one, squeezing tightly.
“You’re going to tell me exactly what the hell happened, but let’s get away from the road. All we need is some drunk asshole careening around that last turn and flattening us like pancakes.” Her hand squeezes mine back, and as she gets to her feet, she pulls me up with her and leads me to the passenger side of the Rover. Once we’re both inside, she makes no move to drive and instead sits quietly, waiting for me to speak.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask suspiciously, remembering that I didn’t have my phone, so I couldn’t have called or texted her in my stumbling stupor.
“Poe called me.”
“Of course he did.” My heavy sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed and prompts a confused look to settle over my friend’s features.
“He said you needed me and told me you’d left his place on foot,” she pauses, chewing the inside of her cheek. “He sounded awful. Like somebody died.”
Turning to face her wide-eyed expression, my shoulders sag in resignation, knowing I have to tell her the story of how Poe crushed my heart and broke my trust, and then set fire to the pieces.
“That’s because somebody did.”
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
I feel like lying down to hear whatever it is that has him looking so stricken is probably not the best option. The sheet clutched tightly in one hand, I use the other to push myself up and sit with my back against the headboard beside him.
“Okay, so tell me. Whatever it is can’t be worse than what Callum had to say.” My light chuckle meant to diffuse the heavy awkwardness rapidly building between us fades quickly when he lifts his head.
“It’s worse, Star, and I’m so sorry.”
His expression has my heart squeezing more than his words do, which is saying something because his words do a pretty damn good job on their own.
“Say it. Just say what you have to say.” I set my teeth, press my arms to my sides, locking the sheet under them, and leave my hands free to fist in my lap.
“After your grandparents passed away, your aunt started searching for Catherine again. It was quiet for years apparently—a few half-assed leads but nothing serious.” He draws a ragged breath. “Until two months ago.”
My eyes go saucer-like in shock.
“What do you mean, ‘until two months ago’?”
“Two months ago, Cecily got a new lead on Catherine. She also got one on you, but she couldn’t understand why one came from New York and the other from Georgia. Your aunt might be the only person who knew you existed, and she never considered you and your mother wouldn’t be together.” Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he gets to his feet and walks naked to the dresser. He pulls out a pair of torn and faded jeans and slides them on, not bothering with boxers. Still shirtless, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch me but hesitating.
“Cecily didn’t put much stock in the Georgia lead