Page 39 of Before We Came

As I stand in front of the fridge, filling a glass of water, my mind flashes back to us standing here on Christmas Eve. I relax my jaw to keep from clenching it. The way she looked when I called her a good girl gives me a rush. She tried to play it off like she didn’t notice, but I saw her blown-out pupils and the way her lips parted. I know exactly how it affects her. Thinking about Bridget earning more praises from my lips makes my dick twitch.The fuck is wrong with me?

When I climb the stairs and turn the corner to her room, I almost drop the glass. She’s standing there in a baggy crop top and boyshorts with a frothy toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. I try to keep my eyes above sea level, but she’s got the most grabbable ass I’ve ever seen, and it only brings back more memories from the hotel. I want to sink my teeth in it.

She looks at me and raises her chin. “Sup.” Then goes back to brushing her teeth again. She’s oblivious to what this is doing to me. She wouldn’t be standing there so carelessly if she knew the thoughts running through my head. Her head tilts back to keep from drooling toothpaste, and she pads back into the attached bathroom. I curse under my breath and definitely don’t peek around the door to check out her ass as she leans down to spit into the sink.

When she walks out, my gaze settles on her thighs and then I notice it: the birthmark. Peeking out is a sexy sideways heart-shaped birthmark on the inside of her thigh. How did I miss this the other night? I have to remind myself this isn’t a dream, not only because she’s currently climbing under the covers looking hot as fuck but because that mark reminds me it’s her. It’s hard to believe I’ve been given a second chance to have someone as wonderful as her back in my life again.

Before she closes her eyes, I make her drink the entire glass of water and then refill it again before setting it on her nightstand. By the time I get back, she’s sleeping. I carefully untangle her hair from the messy bun and study her face again. I let myself stare at her for as long as I want, taking her in and getting my fill. When it’s time for me to go, I run my fingers through her soft chestnut hair and lean down to whisper, “Good night,” pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Night, Lonan,” she says on a breath, her eyes still closed.

I need to go home and clear my head—both of them.

Evidence Item #160

Submitting Agent: Tim Rollins

Case Number: NF-2000-PR-0856478

Item #: 160

Description of Enclosed Evidence: Journal, 2001

Victim’s Name: Bridget Lynn Hayes

Suspect’s Full Name: Julianne Katheryn Fournier

March 3, 2001

All of our neighbors keep fawning over Birdie. I’m so tired of hearing about it. As if I don’t know what she looks like. But not one person has commented on my new designer coat. Well, I’m certainly not going to let them fill her head up with false compliments. If that’s what she thinks, she’s got another thing coming. Elizabeth needs someone to keep her humble, and who better to do it than her mother? It’s only fair I prepare her for life.

FIFTEEN

It’s Hayes family dinner night, it happens every Sunday. Tonight, I get to cook, it feels like forever since I’ve been able to make any food for myself, or others, and it’s long overdue. Cooking gives me a sense of control that I’ve been fiercely craving since moving here; without it, my life is unbalanced. Cooking grounds me.

Fresh seafood is hard to come by, so instead, I found a great cut of meat for Beef Wellington with fingerling garlic potatoes. I’m in my element.

My family has been doing everything for me, giving me a place to live and being patient with my state of mind after “coming home.” I’m caught between feeling thankful and suffocated. But in this moment, I’m happy. I’m cooking, and everyone is in good spirits.

Mom, Dad, and I are hanging out in the kitchen, enjoying a few glasses of wine, and I’m listening to stories of Lonan and Jack, when they were young hellions. Fleetwood Mac is playing softly on the stereo in the other room. I drizzle olive oil over the potatoes and take in a deep, satisfied breath.

“So, then what happened?” I ask.

“After we saw their arms, we about died!” Dad laughs.

Jack walks into the room. “Oh god, please tell me we’re not telling her the tattoo story.”

“You should have seen them, Birdie—they were hideous! I love my boys, but neither one of them is an artist. On their eighteenth birthdays, we took each of them to a tattoo parlor so they could cover them up,” Lori adds. “Luckily, they had three years to figure out what they wanted to get.”

Audrey laughs, she’s heard this story before.

I turn to Jack. “Sooo, what did you get?”

He rolls up his sleeve to show a tattoo of five trees in a row. It’s a tad faded but it still looks crisp on the edges.

“When we would go up north in the summer, Lonan and I would take out the boat and spend a lot of time out on the lake fishing. There were these five trees along the lakeshore, one for each of us—that included Lonan. It seemed fitting.” He points to the fifth tree in the line. “This one is yours. We always gave you the smallest tree because you were the smallest.”

I admire it a little longer. “I like it.”

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