I feel better.
The break helped. The weed helped.
Dax and Chase helped.
Still, as we slip back inside through a side door in the building, the worry that has taken up permanent residence inside my chest starts to expand again like a creeping poison.
I might feel a little better, but nothing is better.
And it won’t be until my mom is out from behind bars.
8
I visit my mom on Saturday morning, and Lincoln insists on driving me. It cuts the travel time down by about half, which leaves more time for studying and trying to hunt down a murderer, so I don’t put up much of a fight.
He reaches across the center console as we drive, gripping my hand in his and squeezing tightly. He’s snuck into my room a few nights over the past week, and I’ve found that I sleep better with him next to me. It doesn’t keep the nightmares away, but the terror fades more quickly when I wake up in his arms.
Mom’s mood has been swinging from upbeat to worried all week, but today is a good day. I feed her optimism, stoking it like I would a small, flickering fire, doing everything I can to keep it alive. Even if it’s feeding on nothing, even if its fuel is something as ephemeral as blind hope, I can’t let it die.
For both our sakes.
I press my hand to the
glass before I leave, lining my fingers up with hers in what’s become a familiar gesture.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, Low. Be good, okay?”
“Always.”
My stomach is in knots by the time I leave, just like it usually is. It’s impossible for me to step foot in this fucking place without fantasizing about picking up my chair, smashing the glass of the window that divides us—even though I doubt it would actually break—and grabbing my mom by the hand, pulling her to freedom.
We wouldn’t make it ten feet past the front doors, much less to the border or whatever the fuck, but I can’t stop myself from imagining it every single time.
I just want to do something.
We’re quiet on the way back, and when Linc pulls into the motor court and parks in one of the garages along the west wing of the house, he turns to look at me after pulling the key from the ignition.
His amber eyes churn with a mix of emotions, but he doesn’t say anything. He just hooks the back of my neck and draws me toward him, meeting me in the middle for a soft kiss.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
It’s a lie, and he knows it—I can see it in his face. But it’s close enough to the truth for him to let it slide. I’m as okay as I can be right now.
We slip out of his car and head toward the side entrance to the house. The entryway is quiet when we walk in, but as we’re heading for the west wing stairs, footsteps sound on the polished floor behind us.
“Ah, Harlow! Linc. I was just looking for you.” Mr. Black smiles broadly at us.
“Yeah? What do you need?” Lincoln asks.
“Oh! Well.” His dad chuckles. “Actually, I was looking for Harlow.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
I glance over at Linc to find that his expression has frozen. He’s watching his dad with something almost like distrust in his eyes, and for a second, nerves twist in my stomach.