Page 35 of Where Daisies Breathe
“Thanks.” She slumps down into a chair. “How did everything go yesterday?”
“Okay, I guess.” I pull out a chair and take a seat across from her. “I made it up the mountain, so that’s a plus. But it was hard and it kind of triggered some old memories that weren’t very pleasant.”
“I’m sorry, Aves.” She sets the cup of coffee down then rests her arms on the table. “Did you find anything out about Trystan?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I want to find out what that key goes to, but I’m not sure where to start.”
She rubs her lips together, contemplating. “Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I push to my feet to get it from my bag. When I return, she has her phone out. I hand her the key, then sit down. “What’re you doing with it?”
She examines it before typing something into her phone. “I’m searching for the brand and number on it. It might at least tell us what kind of lock it goes to.”
I fold my arms on top of the table. “That’s a good idea.”
She smiles, but it swiftly fades. “It says it goes to a lock on a specific type of gate.”
“What kind of gate?” I ask. She extends her arm across the table and urges me to take her phone. When I do, my breath catches in my throat. A photo is displayed on the screen of a metal gate, similar to the kind that borders the house in thewoods, at least from what I could tell from the top of the cliff. “I think I’ve seen this gate before.”
“It’s a pretty common kind of gate.” She takes a sip of her coffee and sets the mug back down. “But if you know of a gate like that, then I bet that key goes to it.”
She’s probably right, which means my parents probably own that house in the woods.
Although I took the key from my mother’s bedroom, Trystan was the one looking for it. He was on the phone when he came into my room, so could that mean he was speaking to my mother? If so, does that mean that my mother had something to do with the day in the woods?
Could she have that much darkness inside her?
With everything I’ve remembered lately, I think I know she can. And that makes me wonder what other awful things she’s capable of.
17
AVA
Before I leave with Ellis, I tell Clara some of what’s been going on. It’s challenging to get some of the words out, but ultimately, I’m glad I confided in her. She’s worried, though, more than she already was, and I feel terrible about that. I also feel awful about having to tell her about Bailey acting weird this morning. She’s uneasy about this, so I make sure to stress that she can leave any time she wants. She tells me she’s going to stay, but I wonder if that might change once she’s sat on the information I’ve told her. Part of me selfishly wants her here, but the other part of me wants her to leave this town that’s crammed with dangerous secrets that seem to be leaking out of everything lately.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” I double check as I collect my bag and phone, preparing to head outside where Ellis is parked in the driveway, waiting for me. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to?—”
She holds up her hand. “I’m going to stay here. I’m not about to bail on my friend. Besides, Bailey needs someone to keep an eye on him while you’re gone.” She smiles, but it’s a bit forced. “I’m going to carry my pepper spray with me, though.”
“Good idea. And that reminds me I need to grab mine.” I hurry back to my room to get mine and shove it in my bag.
Ellis texts me then to see if I’m headed out. I give Bailey a few pets, say goodbye to Clara, and step outside, trying my best to ignore the shadows of the trees looming in the distance, whispering to me that they’re watching me.
“How much blood is required for this test?” I ask Ellis as I sit in a room at a doctor’s office that’s located on the edge of town.
After Ellis picked me up, we drove here to meet up with Owen. Ellis looks exhausted with circles shadowing under his eyes, and his hair is sticking up as if he spent the night stressfully yanking his fingers through the strands. His shirt is wrinkled, and his jawline is scruffy.
“I don’t think it takes a lot of time,” Ellis replies. He’s sitting in a chair across from where I’m seated, and he has his phone out. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and grey slacks. He glances up at me with his brows drawn together. “Shit, do you not do well with needles?”
“Not really.” I squirm in the cold leather chair, the fluorescent light stinging against my eyes. The walls are a bright pink that clashes with the lighting, and the air reeks of lemon-scented cleaner. “That probably seems weird considering how many times I’ve been poked with a needle.”
“It’s not weird. That could be why you hate them.” He stuffs his phone into his pocket and leans forward to rest his arms on his knee. “You can hold my hand if you want.” For the first time since we were teenagers, I think he’s teasing me.
I arch my brow at him. “I feel like you’re teasing me.”
“Sort of.” A trace of a smile materializes on his lips. “But you can still hold my hand if you want.” He grows serious. “I know you have a hard time getting touched by people, but it could help to channel your energy elsewhere.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe not. But I want to try to move past my issues with being touched, and this could be the first step. It’s small and feels necessary.
