Games of the Heart (The 'Burg #4)(36)

Now she knew.

And now Mike knew.

Mike’s eyes dropped to the books but his head filled with Dusty. Dusty as a little kid, her smile an easy flash, her laughter and singing filling the house, her wisecracks quick and clever. Then Dusty when he tried to talk to her, so much black makeup around her eyes, her hair a disaster, her clothes hanging on her, her face twisted with anger, her words sharp and bitchy.

Because a psycho had put his hands on her and she clearly dealt with that alone the best way she knew how. She didn’t tell anyone. Even her brother who she was closest to had to learn from her diaries.

And now she was with a guy who was clearly not right. Thirty-eight years old, never married and picking who she called “morons” but if this recent one was anything to go by, considering cops had to be involved to keep the ass**le away from her, was far worse than that.

“Mike?” Rhonda called and Mike’s eyes cut back to her face.

“Rhonda that was a long time ago and Denny Lowe is dead. There’s nothing I can do,” he said quietly, his voice carefully even, his gut so tight it was a wonder he didn’t throw up.

She stared at him then whispered, “But –”

“Dusty’s gotta need to want help, Rhonda.”

“Sometimes they don’t…girls like her don’t –”

Mike cut her off. “She’s not a girl. She’s a woman and right now there’s nothing I can do.”

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing he could do.

Fuck.

Rhonda closed her mouth and stared at him again.

Then she whispered, “Right.”

“My advice, don’t share that with Mr. and Mrs. Holliday.” He jerked his head to the books. “Right now, you all don’t need that shit. And it’s Dusty’s to share. Yeah?”

She nodded slowly.

“Which means, Rhonda,” he went on, “don’t share you know with Dusty. You’ve all lost someone close to you. She’s dealing too, just like you. Now is not the time to bring that shit back up if she’s buried it.”

She nodded again.

Mike drew in breath then said softly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Yeah, he was sorry. Seriously f**king sorry.

He had no f**king clue what to do with this shit.

Then Rhonda did something Rhonda should never have done. She moved to the back of his couch, put the books on it and without looking at him, whispered, “I’ll just leave those here in case you change your mind.”

“Rhonda –” he started but got no further.

Quickly, she muttered, “’Bye Mike,” and took off down his hall.

He didn’t move mostly because he couldn’t move. He just stood there staring at the books even after he heard his front door open and close. Even after he heard her car start up and pull away. And even after a long time passed.

Dusty. Open. Sharing. One hundred percent.

Except when they came close to talking about her teenage change. Then she made it clear without words she was not going there.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

We snap out of it. Promise, she’d whispered.

She hadn’t. She picked the wrong guys, avoided her hometown, didn’t open up about it and thus deal with the fact that she’d been molested by a serial killer before he became a serial killer and thought less of her sister who defended ra**sts.

He forced his body to turn and move to the backdoor. Then he let his dog in. She bounded around him as he moved through the living room.

But he didn’t move to his gym bag. He didn’t go to the gym. He didn’t go to the phone and call Dusty.

Because his ass was plain f**king stupid, he went to those f**king books.

Then he leaned his stupid ass against the back of the couch and cracked one open.

An hour and a half later, he’d long since rounded the couch, sat in it and was bent forward, elbows to his knees, the second book held open between his legs and he’d read them both.

The first was her first. He figured, from where it started, he’d broken up with Debbie and was on his way to college. This meant he was free for her imagination to soar.

And Rhonda was not wrong. She loved him. She was too young to know what to do with that love but she was not too young to know how to express it.

And it was beautiful.

But it wasn’t all about him. He skimmed through the young girl crap, studied the shit she drew so breathtakingly in corners, around words, sometimes taking both pages to draw what popped into her head. All of it, even drawn by a girl of fourteen, was better than most shit he saw on people’s walls.

Then he turned a page in the second diary and that all changed. Gone were the gel pens of many colors she wrote with and the soft multi-colored shades of the pencils she sketched with. Suddenly, all the writing and the sketches were in heavy black. There were no flowers, butterflies or portraits of loved ones. The images were dark. Monstrous. The words were heavy, morose, angry. Her relationship with her sister who consistently confronted her, sometimes cruelly, about her change deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t wait to get the f**k out of The ‘Burg. She couldn’t wait to be “free”.

And the encounter with Denny was surprisingly detailed.

He’d got her separated from her girl pack with some lame excuse that she dropped something. He’d then engaged her in conversation. And finally, he’d manhandled her until he got her away from the crowd and to the back of the high school. All of this during a football game. She’d kept her peace because he’d threatened her viciously. And he’d got his hand up her shirt, her bra down and his hand between her legs over her jeans. She’d managed to bite him at the same time kicking his shin, got free, ran and succeeded in getting away. At that time, Lowe had to be years older than her seeing as he was older than Mike.