It Started That Night. Virna DePaul

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      Even though it wasn’t quite 7 a.m., Lily knew Aaron would already be at his law office. She picked up the phone and dialed his number.

      “Aaron Bancroft.”

      “Hi,” she said, feeling more grounded just hearing Aaron’s voice. “It’s Lily.”

      “Hey, Lily! You got my message?”

      “I did.”

      “And?”

      “And it’s perfect timing. I’d love to come to dinner. Have you already asked Ivy—”

      “That’s awesome, Lily!”

      Lily chewed her lip. “But are you sure it’s going to be all right with Ivy?”

      Aaron gave a strained laugh. “Come on, Lily. You’re family. You know you’re welcome to come over any time. Ivy’ll welcome the company.”

      If she felt better, she might have called him on his blatant lie. “Still, I’ll call her. After work—”

      Once again, he interrupted her, an impatient edge to his voice. “Don’t piss me off, Lily. Please.”

      She felt her brows lift. She’d known Aaron since before her parents split up. He’d never used that grim voice with her before. “But—” She hesitated, remembering his atypical request for help. Even if Ivy didn’t welcome her with open arms, Aaron and Ashley would. “Okay. Thank you. And—well—my father and Barb, they won’t be there, will they?” Despite how she’d threatened John with going to her father, she didn’t think she could handle seeing her dad. Not when she was already feeling so shaky from seeing John.

      “No. But he misses you, Lily. You might want to give him a call.”

      Hearing the slight reproach in Aaron’s voice, Lily didn’t bother to respond. She knew it was unfair, but she couldn’t change how she felt—she’d never forgiven her father for leaving them for another woman. Or for failing to save her mother.

      And she’d never forgiven herself.

      Wearily, Lily sat on her couch. She smoothed her finger over the binding of one chenille pillow. She forced her voice to sound cheery. “See you tomorrow night.” She pulled the phone away from her ear just as Aaron spoke again.

      “Ivy feels helpless—like she’s losing her daughter. You being here will help.”

      There was nothing Lily could say. She was the last person to give parenting advice, but she’d try almost anything to feel close to her family again.

      Don’t hope too much, Lily. Don’t let yourself be hurt again. A pleasant dinner wasn’t going to erase fifteen years of tension and distance.

      Lily showered and dressed for work, but didn’t bother with breakfast. She’d grab something on the way. At the door, she studied the picture hanging on the wall. It was of the four of them—her father and mother, her sister and herself. Arms around each other. Smiling. Happy. Reaching out, Lily traced the shape of her mother’s face.

      She remembered the gruesome dream, how sharp the knife had looked, how loud the screams had been, how she could almost feel the gush of blood escape from her mother’s body and onto her clothes and the floor.

      It was her greatest heartache. She couldn’t think of her mother, couldn’t look at her picture, without imagining her being hurt. Without feeling guilt for hurting her, as well.

      The same thing happened whenever she saw or thought of John.

      Resolutely, she straightened her shoulders and did what she always did when leaving the house. She kissed her fingertips, touched them to her mother’s image, then said, “Be back soon,” before heading outside.

       Chapter 4

      The large room at the Mercy Rehabilitation Clinic was meant for serious activity. The red-and-yellow checkered vinyl floor and cheery yellow walls had been sealed to withstand spilled paint, markers, clay, glue and plaster of Paris. Aside from Lily and Fiona, however, the room was deserted and quiet. Lily smiled at the little girl, who’d been dropped off for her weekly appointment by her new foster parents. Fiona looked positively radiant, even if she still hadn’t said a word. No surprise since she hadn’t talked since the accident.

      “I’m making another exception for you, Lily. But I can’t make it a habit. Please understand that.”

      Lily brought her attention back to the woman on the phone. “I know, Dr. Tyler. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so important.”

      “Our prior agreement still stands. I can’t talk to you about John or Carmen. I’m not even sure I—”

      Before Dr. Tyler could change her mind about meeting her, Lily said, “Thank you, Dr. Tyler. I’ll see you soon.” Lily hung up the phone and stared at it.

      She couldn’t believe she’d actually called John’s mother for a therapy appointment, but she had no one else to go to. The dreams were getting worse and she needed to talk to someone—a professional—about what they might mean. And John’s mother was a licensed therapist, one who’d helped her after her mother’s murder, so she already knew all the relevant facts about her history and her mother’s case.

      “Someone’s here to see you.”

      Lily’s body jerked and she let out a frightened scream. One of the on-duty nurses frowned at her.

      “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”

      Lily forced a laugh and raised a hand to cover her racing heart. “I’m fine,” she said. She glanced at Fiona again. “We were just concentrating, weren’t we, Fiona?”

      The little girl smiled but didn’t answer. She went back to her drawing, her little tongue poking out of her mouth.

      Lily shifted her gaze to the boy standing in the hallway. Albert Sanchez quickly looked away, feigning interest in the worn linoleum floor. Conflicting emotions momentarily held her paralyzed.

      Albert had been discharged from the hospital less than three weeks ago, five months after he’d staggered into the emergency room with complaints of “intense headaches.” Turned out he’d had a bullet in his skull. Although it hadn’t taken his life, the bullet had damaged his speech and his coordination. Lily had worked with him for months, surprised by his unwavering enthusiasm for anything artistic. She’d developed a genuine affection for the boy and he’d seemed to get increasingly comfortable with her. But once he’d been discharged, he hadn’t returned.

      Until today.

      He was a thief and a gang member. When he’d been brought in, he’d been accompanied by a group of older boys who wore their attitude and hostility as easily as their baggy, low-waisted jeans and gang colors.

      His dark hair covered his skull again, and the number fourteen tattooed on his temple, the one that marked him as a Norteño, stood out starkly against his pale skin. Unlike his friends, his face was clear of the tear-shaped tattoo that symbolized a gang-related kill.

      He СКАЧАТЬ