Kiss the Stars (Falling Stars #1)(87)

World a blur as I raced to catch up to the asshole driving that car. Not knowing if it was me who was bringing my baggage, the landfill that was my life, or if it was the trouble she’d gotten herself into that was the real danger.

Made me feel deranged.

Recklessly determined to get to whoever was responsible.

To end it.

Fix it.

Eradicate it.

Whatever it took.

Aggression flamed. Hatred burned.

Blood turning to cold, bitter ice.

A war raging within.

For her.

For her.

Problem was, I didn’t know who she was anymore.

My bike rocketed down the street at a dangerous speed, houses and trees whizzing by, and I was barely able to process what was right in front of me.

Nothing except for the taillights that I gained on.

I pushed myself harder. Faster.

Wind whipped, and my heart slammed against my ribs.

Madness whisking me into fury.

The car skidded before it made a sharp right.

Fuck.

I braked hard.

The roaring engine whined, and the rear-wheel locked up and sent the bike skidding into a fishtail.

I fought to gain traction. To get control.

Still, I took the turn too goddamn fast.

Too goddamn sharp.

Tires screeched as they slid on the pavement. Tried to see through the panic, and my foot came down in a bid to keep it from skidding into a full slide. One second before I hit the ground, I caught traction.

Righting it.

Barely managing to straighten it to upright before I gunned it again.

But the car I’d been chasing down was disappearing around a left turn about a quarter of a mile ahead.

I raced to get there, but by the time I made the same turn, the car was gone.

Vanished.

Nowhere.

Refusing to give up, I searched, taking the side streets slow like some kind of deranged motherfucker. Peering into windows of cars, like searching through rubble in a battlefield in the middle of the night.

Wanted to scream that I was coming up empty-handed.

That I’d failed again.

Finally had to concede that there was no chance I was going to stumble across them after I’d been riding aimlessly for the last hour and a cop running his beat had clocked me as suspicious.

Before I made a bigger mess of things, I turned and headed for home.

Home.

Bitter laughter rumbled out, knowing my brain had gone bad.

The taste of this betrayal sour on my tongue.

Venom in my blood.

But it didn’t matter.

I parked my bike in the garage and went through the gate. Instantly, my gaze was pulled to the windows on her wing of the house. Dim lights illuminated the girl who was at one of the easels, a brush in hand.

Heaven.

Eden.

A perfect, tortuous Hell.

Drawn, I moved. No will left.

I punched in the code, and she didn’t even flinch, like she’d felt my approach all along.

“Lost ’em,” I grunted. Sheer defeat.

Sable eyes found me, the quivering at the corner of her mouth telling me everything. “I was worried.”

“I know,” I told her. What the fuck else was I going to say? Knew she’d already gone there. Both of us digging the same grave.

In the shadows, I eased up behind her, needing to seep into her warmth.

Nearly buckled at the knees when I caught sight of the picture she was painting.

Slayed.

Cleaved in two.

“It’s you,” she whispered, agony and affection written in her tone.

Knew she wasn’t talking about the image she was actually painting. Knew it was the first time that she’d been able to pick up her brush to bring her art to life since she’d witnessed the trauma of losing her best friend.

But still, it sliced through me like a double-edged knife.

Brutal and beautiful.

I inched forward, that knife cutting me to the core, my breaths haggard as I peered over her shoulder at the painting.

In the image, I was on my knees, facing away but in profile, my expression somehow distorted yet clear.

I stared at the snowy ground where I knelt.

Broken.

The image ached of loneliness.

Of grief.

Of loss.

My fingers were drawing a face in the snow beneath me.

Mia lifted her arm again, her hand trembling with sorrow as she swept the brush across the obscured, shrouded face, detailing it more.

I knew without question that this was Mia’s representation of the woman she saw as my wife. Like she’d plucked the misery from my soul and perfectly put it on a canvas.

Knowing me the way she couldn’t.

Moisture gathered in my eyes.

I had to stop this.

End it.

Go back to the beginning.

Remember.

Problem was, the only thing I was doing was remembering.

Agony and pain.

And I couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop from giving her more.

I reached for Mia’s hand, every muscle on my body edged with tension.

Sharp and bleeding.

I curled my hand over hers so that we were holding the brush together, and in haphazard strokes, I painted a second face in the snow beside the other.

The little girl the only thing I could see.

Haylee. Haylee. Haylee.