Page 72 of Eight Second Hearts

His eyes darken and he looks down in shame. “I’m broken. . .”

“You’re hurting,” I correct him. “You haven’t addressed your trauma and it’s eating you alive.” I stand up and move over to him, tilting his chin up until he looks at me. “You’re trying to fight back against something that you already won a long time ago, Tripp. You won’t get anything else from him. Tearing yourself up over that does nothing but prolong your pain.”

“How do I move past it?” he croaks. “I’m not a whole person anymore. Parts of me died in that house. Those parts aren’t ever coming back.”

“Forgive that little boy for what he had to do to survive.” I glance between them. “All three of you survived that house against all odds. I don’t even know the full extent what happened, but the picture is painted.” I take Tripp’s hand. “You are a good man, Tripp Savage.”

His face scrunches up. “How can you say that with the marks of my fingers around your neck?”

I sigh. “I worked halfway around the world with people who woke up screaming, thinking there were bombs dropping on us. Many of them would lunge for anyone trying to calm them down. War is a brutal thing, and those brave people were there, stuck in it, having signed up for something they had no idea about.” I straighten, my hand staying on his. “Most of them were kidscoming from bad situations to begin with, coming from poverty, and a lot of them thought that was the only choice they had. They were following orders, but it haunted them there and it followed them home.” I meet his eyes. “PTSD is like that. Trauma, especially in childhood, doesn’t go away just because you move out of that house. It doesn’t disappear just because he forgets who you are. Pushing those feelings inside a box?” I shake my head. “They only leak out the sides, Tripp. You have to face them. You have to give that little boy who grew up in the shadow of this family’s legacy the chance to heal.”

Tears trickle down his cheeks and he wipes at them roughly, as if he’s trying to hide them. This is a man used to repressing his emotions, who sought healing in a bottle instead of the support system he has. And now here I am, reaching out my hand with his marks on my neck.

“How did you get so smart?” he grunts, sniffing a little.

I smile gently at him. “I just know a thing or two about this.” When he tilts his head, I sigh. “Like you, I’m still trying to heal the little girl inside me. I grew up. . .well, I had a good life even if it was simple. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the city, just down the street from the Chinese food market my parents opened. Things were good. I had dreams about being a journalist. I was getting good grades.” I sigh. “And then when I turned fifteen, everything changed.”

Beau sits down on the couch beside Tripp and loops his arm around him. “What happened?” he asks me.

“My mom got sick. Cancer. It was fast, too. I worked at the store while my dad took her to hospital visits, but it didn’t matter. A year later, she died, and my dad was never the same.” I look away then, my own memories haunting me. “He started drinking, and at first, that’s all it was. He was sad. He was grieving. I understood. I was grieving, too, because I lost my mother, but Dad? He lost the love of his life. So, I worked at thestore. I kept it open after school as best as I could. And things were surviving. Until it became too much for me to handle. Six months after I took over, the store began to fail, and I knew we were going to lose it. The men in suits started showing up after I pleaded with my dad to wake up. He’d be drunk in the back room, raging at the shelves, wasting product we needed to survive. There were a few times where I caught him with a handful of pills. Once, I caught him with a noose around his neck. He didn’t stop drinking, but. . . the business got better after the men in suits conducted their business. He kept me out of it, and I didn’t ask. When I finally graduated high school, I took off and I didn’t look back.” I look at them. “I stayed away until last year, when I came home briefly while I was looking for a new job in the States. Being a war correspondent was what I needed before, but I grew out of the need to chase a high.” This time, it’s my tears that fall as I recall the memory. “I went over to have dinner with my dad. To celebrate that he’d been sober for a whole year. He was going to the meetings, got his token.” I laugh, but it doesn’t feel genuine. “He was so proud.”

Ram sits next to me and wraps me in his arms. “You don’t have to tell us.”

“I want to,” I admit, my eyes flicking to Tripp’s. If it can help him, I’d tell him everything. I’d share every memory with him of finding my dad passed out in a pool of his own vomit. I’d share how I’d had to go to the funeral home alone to collect the urn because Dad had been too drunk to come with me. Whatever it takes to show him that you can heal.

“While having dinner, the feds showed up. Arrested the both of us. I had to testify in court against him once they finally realized I didn’t know what was going on.” I straighten. “Apparently, my dad had been laundering money for The Crows. That’s how the store survived. Not because he got his shit together. My mom was a good person, a sweet person. And whenshe died, she took my dad’s good with her. Part of me was angry with her for a long time because of that.” I shake my head. “As if she could help that she got cancer.”

“The phone calls,” Ram murmurs.

I nod. “He calls all the time. I never answer. There’s nothing left to say.”

Tripp rubs his chest. “Fuck. It’s going to hurt, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” I admit, smiling at him. “But I promise, on the other side of that, it’s worth it.”

As if the world decided that was the perfect moment, the power cuts out, and we plunge into darkness.

“Don’t worry. There’s a generator,” Ram announced cheerfully. The power kicks back on. “See. What did I—” The power cuts again. “Well, shit.”

Chapter 43

Tripp

Shame fills me even as I stand outside in the cold with Ram and Beau trying to figure out why the goddamned generator isn’t running. The snow swirls around us, the blistering wind cutting through my jacket despite trying my best to keep it closed tight.

“The fucking thing ain’t been serviced,” Ram growls. “We’re not usually home right now.”

“Can you get it running?” I ask.

“Not with this fucking storm. I’d have to take the damn thing apart and it’s hardly a good time for that.” He shakes his head and blows on his fingers for warmth. “We got enough firewood in the house for a few days. We light the fireplace.”

“Is that gonna cut it?” Beau asks. “I don’t want her freezin’.”

Even in the face of the very real danger we’re dealing with, Beau’s first worry is for Indie. I don’t blame him. My own concern is the woman inside waiting for us, the one who we had to fight to keep from coming outside to help. She ain’t got the clothes for this kind of weather, nor is she used to it. It’s best she wait in the fading heat while we deal with the cold.

“It should keep the living room warm,” Ram says. “That’s the best we got for now. I gotta call Mom and see if she’s doing okay over there. Make sure her gen came on.”

I kick the generator in annoyance. Fucking waste of fifteen grand if you ask me.

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