All the Little Lights(119)

“You don’t know what it’s like to hear him talk about you,” I said.

She turned her gaze on me. “What do you mean?”

“He’s listened to you. He quotes you sometimes. He thinks you’re wise.”

“Wise, huh?” She looked at the stairs. “Wasn’t expecting that word.” Her expression crumpled. “Catherine, if you love him—and I know you do—you will find a way to get him to go to college. This is his chance.”

I nodded.

She sighed. “He’d follow you anywhere. Maybe this time you could return the favor. That, or set him free. That’s what I had to do when I wasn’t what was good for him anymore. And God”—her eyes glossed over—“if that’s what you choose . . . that I don’t envy.”

She stood, gathering our dirty plates, and climbed the stairs. Her footsteps marked her location until the door opened and then closed.

Elliott turned over, staring up at me without expression or judgment, but more like he was waiting for that from me.

“You were awake that whole time?” I asked.

“A little trick I learned from my dad. Mom hates waking us up.” He sat up and swung his legs over until his feet were on the floor. His elbows planted on his knees, he stared at the rug beneath his socked feet.

I rubbed his back. “You okay?”

“I have a bad feeling,” he said, his voice soft and sleepy.

I wrapped my arms around his middle and hugged him from behind, then kissed his shoulder. “We have more than seven months before you leave.”

“Even if you break up with me, I won’t go. Mom has good intentions, but she has no clue what I’ll do or what I’ll give up for you.”

“Don’t say that too loud. Half the town already thinks you murdered Presley for me.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Then at least they have an inkling.”

I stood. “Don’t say that. That’s not funny.”

“None of this is funny.”

Elliott stood and walked to the hutch. He opened a drawer and then closed it, turning around. In his hand was a flat box the size of a notebook, wrapped in white paper and tied in red and green string.

He took a step toward me. “Merry Christmas.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “It’s tomorrow.”

“I know. Open it.”

I pulled the string and lifted the lid, revealing a black-and-white photo of Dad and me just a day or two before he died. We were standing on the porch, smiling at each other. It was a quiet moment, one that I had forgotten. The frame was a decoupage of more photos of my dad. Some of just him, some of us together. I covered my mouth with my hands, my eyes instantly filling with tears that overflowed down my cheeks.





Chapter Thirty-Five Catherine

Elliott put the Chrysler in park, the engine idling in Mrs. Mason’s driveway. Her car could be seen through the small square windows of the garage door, and although the lights were out, it was comforting to know she was inside waiting for me.

Elliott slid his fingers between mine and then lifted my hand to his lips.

“Thank you for today. And for this,” I said, tapping the box with the frame inside.

“You like it?” he asked.

I nodded. “You don’t get yours until tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s not much.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything. When can I see you?”

“Around noon? Oh God.”

“What?”

“I didn’t get Mrs. Mason anything.”

“She won’t care, Catherine.”

“But they got me presents.”

“They?”

“Mr. Mason brought some by. Oh my God. I’m awful. I should have done something for them today.”

Elliott chuckled. “It’s fine. If you want, we can find something tomorrow, and you can give it to them then.”

“Like what?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. We’ll sleep on it.”

I leaned over to peck his lips, but he grabbed my arm.

“What?” I asked, still smiling.

Elliott’s grin faded. “I still have a bad feeling. I’m going to walk you to the door. I can do that now, right?”

I nodded.

Elliott left the motor running, and we walked hand in hand to the door. I turned the knob and pushed, the alarm beeping at me, so I entered my code and pressed disarm.

“See? All good,” I whispered.

“I guess my bad feeling is just about dropping you off.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said, rising on the balls of my feet. I pecked his lips and then waved, watching him walk to his car. The Christmas tree was lit, the soft glow lighting my way to the kitchen. I paused for a moment, feeling something sticky under my feet, and then continued over the tile floor to the light switch. I heard the Chrysler back out of the drive and pull away, and I flipped on the light.

My mouth fell open, and my stomach instantly felt sick as I traced the bright red spatters and smears along the countertops, the refrigerator door, and the floor. Someone had been dragged across the kitchen, four small streaks from fingers left behind as whoever it was futilely clawed at the tile. The body was dragged through the utility room and out the garage door.