Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake, #2)

by Rachel Caine

“Are you going to kill him?” I don’t know what I want to hear. “No, sweetie,” Mom says. But I don’t hear any conviction behind it. I know that Sam wants to put a bullet in Dad’s head. Maybe more than one. And I get it. I get that Dad is a monster who needs to be slayed. But Dad is also a memory to me. A strong, warm figure tucking me into bed and placing a kiss on my forehead. A laughing man whirling me around in the sun. A father kissing my boo-boo finger and making it better. A giant shadow scooping me up off that soft braided rug and folding me in warm, protective arms.

There’s a rare grace in what she’s just done. It’s forgiveness, and pity, and understanding,

I crave safety. And I know that seeking that in the arms of another man—even Sam—is dangerous. My safety has to be found within myself.

I’m not prepared to say I love her. But I am willing to admit to myself that it’s more than curiosity, more than liking, more than the kind of one-night-stand lust that you get over in the morning.

You never understand how vulnerable you are in this age of social media until something breaks against you, and then . . . then it’s too late. You can shut down Facebook, Twitter, Instagram; you can change your phone number and your e-mail. Move to new places. But for dedicated tormentors, that isn’t a barrier. It’s a challenge.

It isn’t fair, or right, but it’s dreadfully human, the way we tear each other apart.

“If I’m already dead to the people I love, I might as well die for them.”

It’s bleak, and it makes perfect sense to me. I think that for the first time Sam Cade really pities me now, as if I’m broken. But I’m not. I’m forged hard out of pieces, like a bar of solid steel. There’s nothing soft left.

I’m too broken to be brok...

But the past never leaves us. It’s in every breath, every cell, every second. I know that now.

Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up. Memories are.