Page 92 of Pieces of Ash
“You think Mosier killed him,” Ashley murmurs, her body falling limply back to the sofa. Her head falls forward, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “Oh my god. Mosier killed him. Mosier killed him…”
Gus says, “We’ve been working with someone at the FBI who’s taken a great interest in the case. Special Agent Simmons. Jock called him today, and he’s flying up here tonight from Langley. Jock already went to go pick him up at the airport. That’s why I Uber’d here. We’ll put him up at our place for tonight and bring him here tomorrow. We need to figure out what comes next.”
“Good,” I say, grateful there’s a plan in the works. “Whatever you need, I’m in.”
Gus looks at Ashley, moving around the coffee table to sit beside her, to gather her into his arms as she cries. And althougha part of me wants to be the person comforting her, I know that I have a much more important job ahead—to protect her from whatever is coming.
So, while Gus rubs her back and lets her cry, I head out to the barn to clean and load my gun.
I’m not letting anyone hurt her.
Even if I have to protect her with my life.
Day #32 of THE NEW YOU!
Crazy.
I am crazy.
It all started that night at the table. Damon’s head in the beet soup and a look from Anders that I could have missed if I hadn’t raised my eyes to his.
But I did raise my eyes.
And he did capture my heart with that look.
And it became almost a game.
At first, it was all so overwhelming—to feel connected to someone again. My heart would thunder every time we were in the same room together. I would hold my breath. My whole body would BUZZ, like I was ALIVE.
I remember this old game, Operation, that Mam and Tad bought me at a tag sale when I was a kid. You’d put a metalpincher around a body organ and try to extract it without making a buzzer go off.
Our game is kind of like that, but this game is called Attraction. Him to me. Me to him. Like magnets. And if we’re caught—if we make the buzzer go off—we’re both cooked, and we lose the game. So we’re quiet. We’ve learned to be quiet, to be careful, to be…flawlessin our silent extraction of feelings.
We can’t talk.
We can’t touch.
We can only look.
And I have become very good at looking.
In fact, Tig—who was once such a loud, brash bitch—has become an EXPERT at looking.
He has 100 looks when something is funny. Another 100 for frustration. 1,000 for sadness. 10,000 for anger. Glances. Smiles. The many moods of his mouth and seasons of his eyes. I have learned them all this year. I know every nuance of his face, every twitch, every crease, the manifestation of every possible emotion you can imagine painted on the canvas of his face.
I have unlocked them, studied them, and memorized them.
I live for them.
I live for him.
The days he is away are my purgatory. The days he is here are my heaven and my hell. Because I want so much more. But I can’t live without what I have.
Today was a regular day.
Anders left early for Albany. M and Damon went to Newark.
No one was supposed to be back for three days. Thank God. A little peace.
