Split(44)

Work, picked up tile. Shyann was there.

The jump!

My dream, it really happened. My lips pull into a tiny smile despite the worry about my going dark. I dropped her off at home, came home to work on my carving, and—a flash of her in my kitchen sends me upright. I didn’t take her home. I brought her here.

“She was here.” Looking at the fixtures and . . . the feeling of her body in my arms, warm and so sad. I held her and she—

“Dammit!” I slam my fists into the mattress at my sides and wince as pain rockets through the right knuckle. What did she see?

I haven’t blacked out in front of anyone since I moved here. Had a few in juvie, but they were short and never drew any attention. I even went years without a single blackout; then I moved into a halfway house and they came back with a vengeance. I’d wake up to so much anger, people I’d hurt, they’d demand answers and I’d have no recollection of what happened. Eventually I ended up having to run.

I moved to different cities, kept to myself for as long as I could. The more I exposed myself to people, the worse the blackouts became. It wasn’t until I moved here that they let up.

The blackouts are back. And in front of Shyann of all people.

I search the surrounding area for evidence she’d been here, in my room, when a whiff of something pungent and foreign filters through my post-blackout fog. I try to follow the scent to find where it’s coming from and don’t have to go far. With two fingers, I lift the front of my shirt to my nose and cringe.

Perfume.

I was with a woman. Disgust rolls through my gut. Not again.

I jump up and dizziness washes over me. My stomach protests the movement but I push through it and head to the bathroom. I brace my hands on either side of the oval mirror above the sink and stare at my reflection. Most of my jaw is covered in scruff except for the spot on my neck, the scarred skin too damaged to grow hair. I run my fingertips along the puckered flesh and curse my condition.

It’s the thorn in my side, my cross to bear.

I rip my shirt off over my head and throw it in the shower so I can wash it. The smell of perfume always reminds me of my mother and I can’t risk another blackout this soon after coming to.

Pushing the lever to hot, I let the water work on my clothes while I shave. I lather up, wipe the steam from the mirror, and make the first few passes of the razor when something in the mirror catches my eye.

What the hell?

I lean in, tilting my head to inspect the large purple circle on my neck. Is that . . . a hickey?

Sweat breaks out on my skin and I kick off my jeans and check between my legs. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, not like times in the past when I’ve come to naked, sticky, and sore.

I power through the rest of my shave and jump in the shower. I don’t know how long I’m in there, but by the time I’m finished I’m out of soap and my skin burns. As hard as I try to reach back and remember anything about what went on during my blackout, it’s impossible to pull a coherent thought.

And what I do remember leads to my worst fear.

Shyann was here.

She was upset.

I went dark.

Now I have a hickey on my neck.

Did I . . .? No. I wouldn’t, but— Oh God. He would.

I toss on a gray T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans and my stomach growls. When was the last time I ate? I grab my work boots and scramble to the living room. My eyes scour the area for clues. Anything.

But everything looks as it did, nothing out of place.

I move to the kitchen to grab a quick peanut butter sandwich and there in the windowsill are Spider-Man, Batman, and Pinkie Pie.

I didn’t put those there.

My sketchbook lies open and my heart pounds as I move to it with apprehensive steps. The drawings on the open pages come into view. Shyann nude in the river. Her light eyes stare back at me from the page along with a warning. Scribbled in childlike handwriting . . .

Time for another sacrifice.

I drop my sandwich and grab my hat and keys.

Shyann.

Everything is a blur as I race down the dirt road, sending a wall of dust into the air. I pull up to the Jennings home and desperately search for her truck, but it isn’t there.

I speed toward the highway, my pulse pounding in my throat, and hit the pavement with a squeal of my tires. My stomach growls again and hunger combined with worry for Shyann makes me dizzy.

She’s not at the diner, and a quick pass by the Jennings office and there’s no sign of her truck. My worst fears unfurl and I blink hard to keep my focus on the road and not give in to terror.

My head swims as I whip my truck around the corner and a little farther down the road to the three-acre lot we’re building a two-story home on. Immediately I see Nash’s truck and hop out to go fumble through some made-up excuse for being late and frantic.

Lying is something I’ve always been good at.

It’s kept me out of the mental institutions, and if I pull this off, I can stay in Payson and keep my job. I just need to know she’s safe.

A few of the guys give me a quick chin lift and Stilts crosses to meet me halfway through the site. “Hey, kiddo. Feelin’ better?”

“Uh . . .” Feelin’ better? Was I sick? “Yeah . . .?” I search for Nash or Cody, hoping they’ll be able to tell me if Shy is okay.

He throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at someone who must be somewhere in the vicinity behind him. “Heard what happened.”