Page 110 of Eight Years Gone

She nodded again, accelerating when the light turned green, taking them into the exclusive development they’d once called home.

Jagger whistled quietly through his teeth as they passed several massive houses nestled on manicured lawns. “Everything looks pretty similar except for the trees. They’re so much taller.”

“Mm-hmm,” she responded, gripping the steering wheel tighter the closer they came to 1022 Sheraton Way.

Then she slowed, growing sick as she navigated the sharp curve in the road, flashing back to the desperate, hopeless moments when she’d nearly let her Audi fly over the hill.

“Sheraton Way,” Jagger said when she turned down the next street—their street.

Moments later, she pulled into the driveway, parking where she always had in the big circular space.

Killing the engine, she stared at the rambling stone and glass house as Jagger did, then got out before she could change her mind.

“Grace,” Jagger called as he shut his door.

Ignoring him, hurrying up the walkway, she got the key ready, shoving it into the lock.

“Gracie, wait.” Jagger stopped her with a tug on her arm before she could open the door. “You’re shaking.”

Her heart was also thundering in her chest. “What are we doing? What am I doing? Why are we here?”

He shook his head as he shrugged. “My guess is you’re searching for some peace.”

“There’s nothing peaceful about this place.”

“There was a lot of good that happened here, Grace.”

She knew that Jagger was right, but all she could remember were the worst moments of her past: the police knocking on the door to tell her she’d lost her brother, lashing out at her father—slapping him and spewing her hateful words as her life fell apart. “There was also a lot of bad. Let’s just go inside.”

He nodded, pushing open the door so she could step in first.

Immediately she stopped, blinking her shock as she glanced around the entryway, realizing everything looked exactly the same.

Her eyes stopped on the large mirror across the room—hers and Jagger’s images reflecting back at them. They were eight years older. Everything had changed. But not here.

“Damn, this is weird.”

“Yes,” she said, heading for the grand staircase—the same route she’d taken her last night in the house.

She stopped in her bedroom doorway, surprised again that her space was exactly as it had been before the doorbell rang and nothing had ever been the same.

Some of hers and Jagger’s neatly folded clothes sat on top of the dresser; boxes packed and labeled for Syracuse were tucked in the corner; her pictures and art still decorated the walls.

“It’s frozen in time,” Jagger said as he stepped up behind her.

She glanced toward the spot where an eight-by-ten picture frame had once been—the one now in her dad’s condo on the fireplace. “I’d grabbed my stuff while he stood right here. I went to your room next, then I left. I slapped him across the face and told him he was dead to me.”

“That was one awful night, Grace. This house is more than that.”

“But that’s all I can remember.”

He took her hand, tugging her into her room, stopping by her pretty white desk. “We studied here. You made me believe I could be something while we sat in these chairs. I started falling in love with you right here, Grace.”

She blinked back tears as she thought of a cocky teenage boy grinning his sexy grins while he constantly tipped back in his seat.

“And that bed. How many nights did we lie there, talking and dreaming about our future?”

“Too many to count.”

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