Page 28 of Never Leave, Never Lie

He could already imagine the look of disappointment, her eyes raised heavenward as if only divine intervention could knock some sense into him.

Solitude had always been Ian’s coping method of choice. Even as a child, he never threw a tantrum. Instead, he’d disappear into a closet or his treehouse and return later in a much better mood.

“I want you to keep him company until I come back,” he said. “There’s some stuff I have to do here first.”

“I haven’t seen my favorite son in too long, anyway.” She exhaled loudly on the other side of the line. “I’m so sorry,E. Are you okay?”

“No.” His voice broke. He wouldn’t be okay. Not until Alek was whole.

She clucked her tongue. “You guys will be okay. You’ll get through this together.”

She might not have said that had she known exactly what sort of ‘this’ they had to get through.

After ending the call, he went to the garage and returned to the front yard with a wheelbarrow filled with the items he needed to get the job done.

He scraped up all the bloody pine needles, using a shovel to dig up the top layer of soil that was stained red from Alek’s blood, then carted the wheelbarrow around the garage, dumping its contents in the burn pit they kept in a small clearing.

After that, he set to work cutting the fallen wisteria into manageable pieces. He already knew about the care of a wisteria plant. First, because he’d researched how to get rid of it. Then, because Alek had voiced his affection for the monster plant, and Ian had wanted to make sure he didn’t kill it inadvertently.

It would be perfectly fine to remove the bulk of the fallenwisteria as long as he left a small stump for it to grow back from. Wisteria was meant to be pruned back twice a year anyway—maybe not pruned this heavily, but Ian had no doubt that by the end of summer, it would be taller than him.

A half-hour later, Ian was done. It took another hour and nearly a dozen trips back and forth to the clearing to add the wisteria to the burn pile, which was now so tall, it was only a hair shorter than him. On the last trip, he raked up each and every flower and when he added it all to the pile like kindling, not even a single stray leaf was left behind.

Ian doused the pyre of wisteria with lighter fluid, lit a match, and stepped back, watching it go up in flames. A cloud of nearly opaque smoke billowed, stinging his eyes and nose as it ascended. He stood there a while, the heat of the blaze warming him pleasantly under the misty forest canopy and the rapidly cooling sweat that saturated his clothes.

Destroying the physical manifestation of what happened to Alek was cleansing, like by burning the evidence of Alek’s fall, Ian had erased some of the pain and panic from the day before. It wasn’t the first time Alek drove Ian to aggressive demoing or home improvement. The fact that the Victorian was in such good shape after only one year was a testament to exactly how aggravating Alek could be.

Ian examined the revelations of the past few days as he watched the fire. Alek’s confession that the one-night stands were all an act to weaponize jealousy really wasn’t all that surprising. When Alek was threatened, he reacted very much like a cornered predator, lashing out without considering the damage he’d cause.

Alek’s confession about how scared he was to be in love, and to have no guarantee that Ian would stay, also made sense for someone like him. Ian could only hope that one day Alek wouldfeel safe enough to tell him the whole story. Who left him with such debilitating abandonment issues?

By the time the wisteria and blood-soaked pine needles were reduced to smoldering ash, Ian had a plan.

16

ALEKSANDAR

BULGARIA. ELEVEN YEARS OLD.

Aleksandar did not stay long at his uncle’s workshop. The walk home through the forest was different now that it existed in a world in which Uncle Krasimir did not. The shadows were darker, the same gnarled knots and whorls on tree trunks that had always been there, now transformed into sinister faces.

When Aleksandar arrived home, he asked Ivet if his father was home. She looked down her nose at him like he was stupid, or maybe a bug crushed under her shoe.

“He’s still out of the country on business.”

Aleksandar did not argue. He lifted his chin. “And my mother?”

“With him.”

Ivet removed her apron, opened the closet door and hung it on the hook inside, then turned and left, presumably to the room she stayed in when Aleksandar’s parents were both out. Which was fine. Aleksandar preferred to be alone.

That night Aleksandar couldn’t sleep for a very long time and, when he finally did, he dreamed of his uncle. The ocean roared and stones clattered and waves crashed over his headwhile his uncle called his name from far away. When Aleksandar tried to swim towards the surface, his feet were trapped inside a quicksand of river rocks that knocked painfully against his ankles and threatened to swallow him whole. The waves finally pulled back, the rocks released him and he stood in the river over his uncle’s lifeless body, except it wasn’t lifeless anymore and Aleksandar was the one forcing his uncle under the water, his own arms the ones his uncle scratched at. Aleksandar screamed but only water came out, and then he woke up.

Aleksandar smelled smoke. He got out of bed and looked through the open window. In the distance, a fire burned, glowing like a rising sun trapped on the horizon. Aleksandar knew what was burning.

Everyone around his father, the presiding Finance Minister of Bulgaria, seemed to have very bad luck. There were falls from great heights and so many suicides that a national mental health emergency should have been declared, but fire was his father’s favorite, because it left nothing behind.

Uncle Krasimir’s estate, the piano, his clothes, the artwork, the furniture, and clocks. All of it was burning and Aleksandar’s heart burned like it was on fire too.

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