Page 128 of Wanted

That makes me cry harder.

Until I hear a warm voice.

“It’s okay.”

A hand on my back slowly rubs up and down. The move is so comforting that it reminds me of when my mother—my real mother, would hold and sing to me until I fell asleep.

I couldn’t have been more than four years old.

“How about some lunch?” Ms. Elsie’s voice cracks through my memory. When I don’t reply, she tells me, “It was hard work convincing your mate to give me some alone time with you. Don’t make me look like I failed.”

There’s such a comforting, grandmotherly tone in her voice that my heart aches.

Slowly, I wipe away the tears and turn to face her.

“That’s it.” She moves to the side of the bed, lowering herself to where Chance once sat.

“No,” I say, some part of my right mind still functioning because I know it’s rude to have an elder sitting on the floor while I lie in the bed.

“Please,” I say, patting the bed and moving over to give her space to sit. It takes all of my energy to just sit upright. The movement is so draining that I plop my back against the headboard and push out a long sigh, once I’m in the seated position.

“That’s better,” Ms. Elsie says as she brings the tray that Chance left behind over my lap.

I take one look and then turn my head away from both Ms. Elsie and the food.

“You’re going to waste away if you don’t eat. You’ve already lost weight.”

“Good,” I say. “My sister can’t eat. I shouldn’t either.”

“Emery,” she chides. “Your sister wouldn’t want you behaving this way.”

I swallow down the nasty reply that comes to mind.

Instead, I turn and tell her, “She should want me to behave this way.”

I don’t bother hiding the tears that start to fall again.

“She should want me to starve until I waste away into nothing. Maybe if I’d done this sooner, she’d still be alive. Maybe if I wasn’t her sister, she would’ve found her way, away from the people who killed her. The same people I told her over and over were just looking out for us.”

I cover my face to hide the shame that courses through me.

Ms. Elsie doesn’t cower away from my anger or my pain, though. She moves the tray of food and then pulls me into her arms. I should pull away. I don’t deserve the sympathy, but her hold is strong.

Besides her strength, it’s comforting. To be wrapped up in her warmth. It’s as if she’s touching the deep, black, cold hole that opened up inside of me the moment I found Ashley’s pendant among those ashes.

But then I remember that I shouldn’t allow myself this relief from the pain. I pull away and wipe away the tears. I try to harden my face against the sympathy in Ms. Elsie’s expression, but it’s no use. I’m certain she can read the disgust, self-loathing, and pain.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. In lieu of words, she takes my hand into hers and begins stroking it with her free hand.

“Neither of you deserved what happened to you.” Her voice is soft and consoling and filled with warmth. “Ashley didn’t deserve to be treated the way she was.” She pauses and looks me in the eye. “And neither did you.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong, but the words don’t make it past my lips.

“Your sister,” she says as she readjusts the tray and brings a spoonful of soup to my lips. “…would want you to eat.”

Another tear slips free, but I slowly open my mouth. I take slow tentative bites of the piece of chicken and carrot in my mouth before swallowing.

Because I know Ms. Elsie won’t leave until I finish at least half of the bowl, I allow her to serve me another spoonful. And then another.

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