Cut Me Free (14 page)

He puts down what he's working on and steps closer. “Lily's my cousin.”

“Oh.” Sanda still has red in her cheeks. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

She jumps down and runs into the hall. I hear a door click shut and then it's silent. The quiet charges the room in an instant as I watch Cam move closer. This time I don't want him to move away. Everything I've ever known tells me it's not safe, but I'm beginning to trust him. For whatever reason, he's always here when I need him, and I like that.

“You see how easy that was?” He takes another step until his hips are an inch away from my knees at the edge of the table. Not touching, but almost.

“What?” My mouth is dry. I'd kill for some water … well, not literally. I'm slightly nauseated that I have to clarify. I lick my lips and now Cam is looking at them. I shift my position on the table and slide back a little. He raises his gaze to my eyes.

“It was easy to answer your questions. I trust you.” He places his hands on the table beside my own. Again, so close, but not touching.

It's harder to breathe and I really hope he can't tell. I swear if we turned off the lights we'd be able to see the sparks jumping from his hand to mine. It's tangible. I search his eyes and resist the urge to blink. “Easy, but maybe not smart. How do you know you can trust me? Maybe you shouldn't.”

“Are you telling me not to?” He dips his head forward until his eyes are so close I'm drowning in the eddies of green and brown.

“No.” Wrong answer, idiot.

“Good.” He slides his hands closer until they're almost touching mine. His smile widens when I swallow hard but don't move away. Then the
click
of a door shutting from the other room snaps me out of it.

I jerk my hands away, and I notice the flash of amusement in his expression as he turns back to the papers. Sanda walks in and hops up on the table as Cam puts the documents in a stack and places them on my lap.

I'm suddenly very glad that Sam has kept his mouth shut this whole time. I don't need to hear what he has to say. I don't need Sam to tell me to stay away from Cam. I'm too … Cam is too … I run one hand over the side of the other. It still tingles. We're just not a good idea. I'm not a good idea with anyone.

“You were born in Missouri.” He turns to Sanda and everything returns to normal but my heart rate. “I'm going to get you into the system for a school down there, and then we'll print some transcripts so Charlotte can get you registered.”

“Registered?” She bounces so hard on the table I nearly fall off. “So I really can go to school?”

Cam nods and his eyes land on me for a second before he smiles at Sanda. “You really can.”

Her eyes tear up and she jumps off the table, but then hesitates and turns back to me. Reaching up, she pulls me down so she can whisper in my ear. “Is he safe?”

From the surprise I see in Cam's eyes, I know he heard her. I don't look away when I whisper back. “Yes, he's a good guy.”

Before I realize what she's doing, she turns and throws both arms around Cam's neck. I can hear her quiet whisper against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He barely had a chance to move his arm out of the way before she attacked him. Now he sits with his mouth wide open and his eyes on me. When he gently wraps both hands across her back, his expression shows me that he understands more than I believed he could. He pats her back with one hand, and I see a familiar pain in his eyes. I know very little about him, but maybe his life hasn't been as easy as I thought.

I move my lips to echo her words, but no sound comes out. “Thank you.”

Cam gives Sanda a small squeeze but keeps his eyes on me as he answers us both. “You're very welcome.”

 

13

By our second week of Krav Maga, I can see Sanda's confidence growing after every session. My wound is better. It's beginning to scar over. I suppose we're both scarring over. And I'm starting to worry about how normal it seems when Cam touches me.

He's made a habit of walking us home afterward. I don't mind. Something has me feeling a little shaky lately. Probably simple paranoia, but it makes me more comfortable to have him nearby, just the same.

Sanda skips along in front of us. She learned it from Rachel. It's her new favorite thing to do. She calls it “happy walking,” and Rachel giggles when she says that but doesn't correct her. If not for the scars curling down Sanda's arms, I'd probably think she looks like any other kid. Playing with Rachel has been so good for her. It makes me happy. Lately, I'm only a little sad when I think of Sam and wish he could've had a friend like that.

“What's on your mind?” Cam doesn't take his eyes off Sanda, but his focus shifts to me.

“Nothing. The past.” A shiver runs through me. Even now, the strange prickling of someone watching, someone following us, nags at the edges of my awareness. I glance around, but there are many people on the street and no one seems to pay particular attention to us. Shrugging it off, I kick a pebble along the sidewalk and try to answer as truthfully as possible while still not telling him anything. “Things I shouldn't think about.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're over. Why should I?”

Cam doesn't answer for half a block, and I focus my attention on Sanda, thinking the conversation is over. When he finally speaks it seems like his mind is on something so far away he can't touch it—or he doesn't want to. “My aunt Jessie always tells me if I can't deal with things enough to move forward, they'll never truly be in the past.”

I try to laugh it off but stop when I hear how cold and biting it sounds. “Your aunt sounds like she should write for one of the self-help shows I've seen on late-night TV.”

He turns his eyes to me and his focus is right back on the here and now. “I've been in enough fights to pay attention to scars.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “What happened to Sanda?”

I know he's really asking about both of us. I've seen the look in his eyes when he notices the burn marks above my right elbow, or the way my left arm won't straighten all the way anymore thanks to a particularly bad break. Drawing in a slow breath and counting to ten, I choose my words carefully.

“Drop it. Whatever it is, I'm sure she doesn't want to explain it to someone who is practically a stranger.” My words are as hard and icy as an avalanche as they spill out of my mouth. I'd meant a stranger
to Sanda
, but I can't find the words to clarify. Cam's spine stiffens.

“Consider it dropped, but you still owe me—”

“I know.” I want to apologize, but I don't know how.

We're half a block from our apartment, but he stops walking. “I better get back. Wouldn't want to get in trouble by walking a
stranger
home. See you guys on Thursday.”

Neither Sanda nor I get a chance to respond before he turns and jogs toward the studio. A jagged stab of regret strikes me straight in the heart, and I wonder how I should've responded. We stand staring at his retreating back until he's out of sight, and then Sanda grabs my hand and begins walking again.

“He's not bad.” Sanda's voice is soft and thoughtful.

“What do you mean?” I struggle to shift from under the sudden weight of anxiety that threatens to bury me. I feel safer with him, but when he's gone I feel more vulnerable and I hate that. Lately, my fears shout at me whenever I'm alone and I don't understand why.

Hurry. Something isn't right.

Sam's words make every hair on my body stand on end. The sensation of being watched only grows stronger now that Cam is out of sight. I squint at people across the street. Their movements seem anxious, frantic. The buildings of Philly tower over us like the gods of tragedy I've read about in a dusty old book Nana had snuck into the attic. Never intervening, only observing as we crumble beneath the weight of our own mistakes. Shaking off the ominous air, I pick up the pace.

“Cam is one of the good guys and he's nice to you.” Sanda widens her eyes at me as she hurries to keep up. They seem to see through me in a way most people can't. “Why aren't you nice back?”

I sigh and it burns a little in my throat. “Because I'm not a nice person.”

She shakes her head and stares at the bottom step. “No, that's not it.”

Smiling, I guide her up the stairs to our apartment building. “Well, let me know if you figure it out.”

*   *   *

Sanda makes cute snoring noises when she's asleep, but not when she's having one of her nightmares. Bad dreams make her whimper, cry, and even scream.

I stand in the doorway to our bedroom and listen. Her snoring reassures me. She's alive, breathing and happy. No one will come to steal her away while I sleep. I won't wake up and have to bury her cold body under a tree.

I walk into the bathroom and glance again at the only mirror left up in my apartment. I've never dyed my hair before, but I may have to learn how. My blond roots will show at some point and asking Lily for help doesn't seem like a good plan. I feel bad about mentioning her sister, and even more terrible about breaking the picture, but I don't know how to fix it. I'm not sure it can be fixed.

After taking a shower, I wrap up in my robe and towel off my hair as I walk into the living room. Pacing helps me think, and I love that I can move anywhere in my apartment and never have to duck. There were only a few places in the attic where I could stand upright. Nana made me stand in them as often as I could so my back wouldn't start to curve from hunching too much. Sam never got tall enough to need to duck.

I move to the window and watch the street below. It's late now and there are very few people outside. A couple walks near the corner, holding hands and smiling. I wonder what it's like to be them, to trust someone with your heart that way. Are they foolish?

A tiny red glow in the park across the street catches my attention. It's dim and then moves a little and glows brighter. A cigarette, I think. It's a man standing under the tree and smoking a cigarette. My heart pounds loud in my ears as I back away from the window. It's probably a coincidence. It's just a man having a smoke in the park, nothing to be afraid of.

Ducking down, I sneak along the wall to the light switches. I turn off every light in the apartment and then creep back to the window. Careful to stay far enough away so that he can't see me, I peer into the darkness where he smokes and waits. He never turns away from my building. It's hard to tell from here, but the angle of his face seems to be aimed up toward the top floor, my floor,
my window
.

He throws the butt of his cigarette at the ground, turns and walks away. Once he leaves the shade of the tree, I see the same low hat and high collar I saw in the booth at the restaurant. An icy hand clamps down on my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

I don't know who he is, but he's real. He's here … and he's watching me.

 

14

I blink a few more times, trying to make my tear ducts start working to soothe my sandpaper eyes. I'm perched in the same position I've been in for hours. I'm not sure how many, but the sky outside has turned from black to navy and is rapidly progressing to violet. I don't know why I'm still here. I watched him walk away, but I know I can't sleep now. The idea of going to bed while the man could still come back haunts me.

The ghosts of my past and present keep me stuck in one place. In some ways, they always have.

Instinct and logic are too busy creating a battlefield in my head to allow sleep anyway. Logic tells me I'm taking this too far. The man might not have been here for me. Maybe he was just a man out for a smoke in the park. Maybe he was just staring at my window because he saw me before the lights went out and was watching to see if I … if I what? If I'd left? If I'd gone to sleep?

I let out a shaky breath. Even the good and logical scenarios still make the man sound like a thief—or something worse.

My gut tells me something else. He was standing there for me, but why? Who is he? For the millionth time in the last hour, I run through my short list of possibilities: the Father, Brothers, the police. The figure was too broad-shouldered to be the Mother, plus she didn't smoke like my other two main suspects. The Father should be dead, the Parents should both be dead—and Brothers, too. I've left a trail of dead bodies in my wake, which makes the police the most logical answer, but there was something about the figure that seemed far too menacing for that.

They are dead. They are dead. They are dead.

Sam's mantra isn't helping things. It sets my nerves on edge even more than they already are. I almost wish he'd go back to the humming he'd been doing for the last few hours.

I shiver and grab a throw from the back of the couch. Pulling the scratchy material across my shoulders, I lean my head against the window frame and wait for the sun. Wait for the light to bring sense back into my life, to drive the fear away once again.

*   *   *

He's here. The Father squeezes my arm too tight. He wakes me from a dreamless sleep to a world of pain. He stands over me, stares at me, but doesn't see me. His hair is perfect, every strand in place. His clothes are spotless as always. He wears a raincoat when he cuts us. Wouldn't want to let any of our blood stain his shirt. Everything about him and his life is orderly and well kept. Everything except for Sam and me. We are the dirty things. His secrets.

I reach out for Sam's small fingers beside me, but he isn't there. My heart pounds in my head and I bolt upright, my gaze searching his hiding places. The corner where he hides with his Piper-Puppet. The scrap of blanket he puts over his head when we play together. Everything is in its place—everything except for Sam.