Playing With Fire (Tangled in Texas, #2)(95)

It was dark.

A door creaked open, and then closed again, followed by the light sounds of slow breathing and the soft padding of bare feet across the wooden floor. I cringed, knowing what was coming next. It was always the same thing.

When the scratching started, I tried to hide under the covers only to have them ripped away from me. Whimpering, I drew myself into a ball and wrapped my arms around my legs, burying my face into my knees.

I didn’t want to look up, afraid of what I’d see: the thing that scared me the most. But I did anyway because, deep down, I knew the scratching wouldn’t stop until I saw the explosion with my own eyes. It happened so often, almost nightly…and still, I was afraid.

This time, the scratching sounded only twice when the light burst in front of me, temporarily blinding me to anything else. The overwhelming sulfuric odor filled my nostrils and made me gag. But this time, something was different. As I jerked away from the fire, my consciousness returned to my body and my limbs stiffened from the vision.

It felt like a dream. The same one I’d had for years. But this time everything had been much clearer. Maybe it was because my subconscious was paying attention. As if a fog had been lifted.

That’s when I realized that it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a deeply embedded memory. One where I was five years old and witnessed matches being lit in front of my face while I tried to go to sleep.

Normally, I couldn’t see the person’s face, only knew they were there. The horrendous monster who would torture a scared little girl in her pink canopy bed. But this time was different. I recalled all the times that this very incident had happened to me, recollections I’d apparently blocked to keep myself from the pain of seeing the face of my tormentor.

But this time, I opened my eyes. And with that one innocent look, horrific, deep-seated memories rushed back to me at once. Memories a little girl had blocked to save her sanity. But as an adult, she’d never be able to push them back again.



As I opened my eyes, the haze cleared. A figure moved across the room and sat in the chair beside my hospital bed. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

Recognizing the voice immediately, my body stiffened. I slammed my eyelids closed and clenched my jaw, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t be afraid, baby girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” My heart squeezed at the term of endearment I remembered from my youth, but I didn’t respond. “Your friends are just outside the door. I asked them if I could speak to you alone.”

I blinked several times to clear the fogginess in my eyes, but wouldn’t allow my gaze to meet his directly. “And I guess they were okay with it…since you’re here?”

“Not really. Two of them patted me down to make sure I wasn’t armed, while the other did a federal background check on me. Once they realized I wasn’t here to harm you, they let me in. You’ve got protective friends. I like that.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I concentrated on pushing away the blinding pain and anger in my heart that waged war on the memories of my mother.

“I’m sorry I scared you the night you caught me standing outside your house. I wanted to talk to you then, but I was afraid if you knew it was me, you would run before I had a chance to explain.”

I sighed. “Explain what? What do you want, Stuart?”

He winced a little at the use of his first name. “For you to finally know the truth.”

I squeezed my eyes shut tight to keep out the images that tried to squirm their way back inside my mind and released a ragged breath. The face I’d seen behind the match replayed over and over in my head like an eternal loop. “I…I already know the truth.”

“No, that’s the thing, honey. You’ve never known the truth about what happened that day. But that’s my fault. I was only trying to protect you. But you’re twenty-eight years old now. I think it’s time you found out and got the answers you deserve.”

Something landed in my lap and I opened my eyes. It was a thick, leather-bound journal, filled with tattered pages. “Look through this,” he said, his voice wavering.

Hesitantly, I put my hand on it. “What’s in it?”

“An explanation. Letters I wrote to you that I never mailed. Notes on things you can research. Other crucial pieces of information that will convince you I’m not the monster you think I am. My cell number is written on the inside. After you look through it, I’m sure you’ll have questions. Even if you don’t, but just want to talk, I’m here.” He headed for the door, but turned back as he reached it. “I’m not going to push you, Anna. You’re a smart girl. You know the truth about what happened.” He smiled lightly. “I’m glad you’re okay, baby girl.”

Then he disappeared.

I lifted the journal and heaved it across the room. Papers fell out, fluttering to the floor. I didn’t need to read the contents of that damn journal to know what was in it. It wouldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. And it wasn’t something I’d soon forget, since I had the physical and mental scars to remind me daily what had happened.

I cried, letting the memories overwhelm me.

Visits to the mental hospital. The number of pills taken to keep the demons at bay. The excitement over fire. The exhilaration around flames. The number of burn scars marring perfect porcelain skin. The animated expression while lighting matches in front of a child’s wide, fearful eyes. The panic-stricken scream after lighting one’s self on fire.