Page 121 of Lotus

I sniffle. “He’ll never forgive me.”

“I’ll talk to him. It will take time, but if I know anything, I know that hope is never lost.”

“He hates me.”

“No, Sydney, he loves you. That’s why it hurts.”

I’m forced to bite down on my bottom lip to keep it from quivering as I replay the look on Gabe’s face over and over andover. All I want to do is pass out and dream away the wreckage I’ve caused. “I think I should get some sleep. I’m emotionally drained.”

“I’m fatigued as well,” Oliver agrees with a sigh, standing from the couch when I slide off of him. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll have to run home and tend to Athena, but then I’ll join you in bed.”

A smile lifts at the thought of spending the night with him. “Okay.”

Oliver leans down to place a sweet kiss against my lips, lingering long enough that I feel the adoration, the emotion, his unconditional love for me. He moves a delicate wisp of hair from my forehead, his lips trailing up as his hands cradle my face. “You’ll get through this, Syd,” he whispers to my hairline, adamancy lacing his words. “You can survive anything. You’re the Queen of the Lotus.”

When he pulls back, his smile matches mine, his eyes showing me just how much he means that. I’m filled with a semblance of hope.

We file up the stairs, Oliver heading into the bathroom, and me lighting a few candles in my bedroom for ambiance, then collapsing onto my bed and burying myself beneath the sheets. I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes as the showerhead turns on, a calming backdrop to my turbulent mind. Tears and nostalgia mingle inside me, and I roll over, opening my nightstand drawer and pulling out the photographs from Lorna.

I focus on the ones of Gabe, trailing a finger along his happy, goofy grin, always the comedian—always the life of the party, even as a little kid. And then there’s poor Clem with no smile at all, her light snuffed out by the hands of an evil man.

It still doesn’t make any sense. How did I never notice Bradford hanging around the neighborhood, let alone assaulting my sister? And how did the police not uncover a single piece of evidence that tied him to our families?

God, I need to tell Oliver. I need to tell him tonight. The day is already ruined… might as well go out with a bang.

As my eyes scan the photographs, new tears sprouting to the surface, something unsettling catches my focus. I zero in on Clementine in the group photo, the day we playedCapture the Flagin the front yard. I study her stiff posture, her sullen expression… the man standing behind her with his hand curled around her bony hip.

I flip through more photos.

Oliver and I are blowing bubbles. In the background, Clem is sitting on his lap.

Flip, flip, flip.

He’s holding her hand.

He’s sitting beside her.

He’s standing beside her.

“You’re on my team, Clementine.”

She pouts, glancing my way. “Why can’t I be on your team, Syd?”

“Because Oliver and Sydney are always on the same team. You know this,” he tells her.

“Because I like him more than you!” I shout back, oblivious.

Oh,fuck.

Vomit climbs up my throat, and I roll off the bed, hurling into my bedside garbage can. “Oliver!” I shriek, crawling on my knees to grab the scattered photos between trembling fingers. He can’t hear me over the shower running, so I pull myself up, tripping as I race from the bedroom. “Oh, God…” I whimper as I approach the bathroom door. My fist raised, ready to start pounding, I cry out, “It’s Tra—”

A firm palm clamps around my mouth in a sickeningly familiar grip, yanking me to his chest and away from the bathroom. My eyes pop as terror courses through me, and I kick my leg out, just barely grazing the door with my toes as he drags me backwards toward my room. Screaming bloody murder against his hand, the sounds are muffled to almost nothing as I scratch at his arm and dig my heels into the carpet.

Heart pounding, blood pumping, thoughts scattered, he spins me around when we reach the bedroom, his large hand still held tightly over my mouth.

Our eyes lock, and I’ve never been more scared.

“You’ve always been a spirited one,Syd,” he sneers, his spit misting my face as my futile sobs meet his enclosed palm.

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