Vanish (Firelight #2)(32)

I’m almost to the center of town, when a voice breaks through the sound of my footfalls.

“Hey.”

I jerk to a stop, turn, and watch as Cassian materializes from the mists.

“Have you been following me through town?” I demand. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What?” He frowns. “No, I’ve been waiting here.”

I stare at him suspiciously, casting another glance over my shoulder as if I’d find someone there, lurking, watching me.

I turn back around as Cassian asks, “Did you do it? Did you tell him to never come back?”

“Yeah. I told him.” I did. At least at first.

Lowering my gaze, I resume my pace, crossing my arms in front of me.

He falls into step beside me. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” I shake my head. “It’s been . . . a lot today.”

“I know it has.” He stops and faces me, both hands on my shoulders. “You did the right thing.”

The right thing. I don’t know what that is anymore. A lump clogs my throat. I can’t speak, can’t utter another lie. I just nod jerkily. Shrugging from his grasp, I turn, eager to be away from him. His presence twists me into knots . . . fills me with guilt. About the kiss. About the lies I’ve told him tonight. About the possibility of leaving the pride forever and undoing his trust in me.

He keeps pace with me, and I slide a glance at him, desperately wanting to be alone right now.

He seems to understand. “I’ll walk you home so you won’t get cited if we’re stopped. I can tell them I was escorting you to check on Tamra or something.”

It’s with these words that I know what my life would be like if I stayed here. It wouldn’t be a bad life. Cassian would always be my friend, would always have my back, and he would help me regain acceptance among the pride. And I eventually would—if I could do my part.

If I could forget Will.

If I could pretend I wasn’t miserable inside. It’s all up to me.

I brush my fingers to my lips where I can still feel him. Somehow I don’t think I can ever forget. These last weeks, I’d convinced myself that I could put him behind me . . . that I had. Tonight proved me wrong. He’s always been here. He always will.

Days later I stand at my mother’s door, knocking gently. “Mom,” I call.

The low sound of her television carries through the door. Her shift ended hours ago, so I know she’s been home for a while. She’s probably hungry. I didn’t see any dishes in the sink.

With another knock, I push open the door and enter the dim room. She lies on the bed in her bathrobe, her stare fixed on the television. I blink at the unmade bed. Mom always makes the bed. I’ve never seen it unmade this late in the day before.

A half-full glass of verda wine sits on the nightstand. Beside the glass stands the bottle. Of late the wine is all that sustains her. Not much as far as sustenance goes. I wonder why they haven’t stopped her from taking so much of it home from the clinic. It’s used mostly for curative purposes, not for open consumption.

“Hey, Mom.”

She flicks her attention away from the rerun of a sitcom. “Hi, Jace. Have a good day?” Her eyes are dull and lifeless.

The question is merely rote. Something to say.

And how should I respond to a mother who’s checked out? Is there anything I can say—do—to bring her back to me?

“Fine. Good.” I clear my throat, determined to do everything I can to revive her. How can I leave her like this? If I run away with Will, who’s going to take care of her? “They’re playing jako at the rec tonight. The tournament was interrupted last night. Thought you might like to go and watch—maybe play.”

“No,” she says quickly. “I don’t feel like being around a crowd.”

Of course, I think. All you’ve done is show up to work, occasionally visit Tamra, and drink yourself to sleep every night. Socializing among the pride who’s taken your daughters from you would not be your idea of a good time.

“Well, we could have a girls’ night in,” I suggest. “How about I cook?”

Her gaze flits over me and I wonder if she’s realizing that she hasn’t cooked in over a week.

“Sure,” she murmurs, but the word is dragged out, reluctant, and I know. She doesn’t want company. Not even mine.

Pasting a smile to my face, I pretend that I don’t notice her reluctance. “Great. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.” I gently close the door behind me and head into the kitchen.

As I fill up a pot of water, I hear a sound. A creaking floorboard.

I turn quickly. “Mom?”

Nothing.

Then I hear it again, another creaky board. I take a few steps into the living room.

“Hello?” I wait several moments, staring out at the empty room. Shaking my head, I turn into the kitchen, rubbing at the prickly flesh at the back of my neck. It’s not the first time I’ve thought I heard someone in the house. I sigh, figuring it’s no surprise I’m so jumpy with everything that’s happened over the last couple months.

My thoughts turn back to Mom, and anger bubbles up inside me at her total lack of interest in . . . anything. The defiant thought skitters through my head that I shouldn’t even bother letting her know when dinner’s ready. But then that anger diminishes and I just feel sad. Because she wouldn’t even care.