13 - Some Secrets Come Back To Haunt You

My life is measured in two states; Before and After.

Before Eden's Gate, I had prospects, and friends, and high hopes for the future. After moving into Solus Estate, I've got something of a ghost problem, a grand total of half a friend (Sam's rather insubstantial), and I've been dropped in the middle of a three-decades-old murder mystery.

Since then, and since many subsequent breakdowns, Sam and I solved the case. Our main suspect has become our informant and olive branch. Ryan told the police about his involvement, confronted his friends — the same ones who either shoved Sam or agreed to hide the truth — and presented them with a court date to come clean.

That date is today.

"Theo, darling, I shouldn't be back too late," mum insists as she shrugs her work bag over her shoulder. "And I've got the weekend off— we could do some gardening."

Instinctively, I look over my book towards the window.

For the first time, Eden's Gate has been blessed with some sun. It's still freezing out, and the house wails and groans beneath the glare of light, threatening to turn to dust in protest, but I think it's progress.

"Yeah, sounds good."

Mum lingers in the doorway for so long that I glance at her with a raised brow and ask, "Are you okay?"

She nods and approaches with all the swiftness of a woman on a mission. By the time I stand up to meet her, she's throwing her arms around me. "I'm sorry about all the long hours. We'll have fun here, I promise. Thank you for being such a good sport."

"I know we will," I return, melting into her embrace. Hugs from mum are on the same comfort level as the sun blazing insistently outside. A physical force shoving away the darkness. "Have fun at work."

"I always do. Have fun with your book."

I laugh, glad beyond words for the day off. With the trial, Cliff decided it would be best to close the library and support his son.

Mum bustles off to work. I wave her off, shut the gate, and return inside to collapse on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

Sam, sitting cross-legged before the window with his eyes closed and the sun casting his vague features in an even more vague glow, says, "Any news?"

"No news," I tell him, checking my phone. No notifications. I've set reminders and subscribed to articles and even added Ryan's number into my contacts, just so that I'll be one of the first to know what happens today— short of actually breaking into the courtroom, that is.

I did consider it, but Sam wants to know the second I know, so we're waiting for news in the depths of Solus Estate.

He groans, falling onto his back and crossing his misty arms as he glares subdued fury at the poor, undeserving ceiling. "This is taking forever."

"Be patient," I scold. "You've waited this long— I'm sure you can wait a little while longer."

Sam tilts his head back to level his glare on me, instead. But this time, it flickers with wry humour. "Low blow, Theo."

I'm about to retort when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Ryan. Sam shoots up and rushes to my side; enveloping me in ice as he crashes onto the sofa.

"Alright, kid, listen up," Ryan's gruff voice greets. I put the phone on loudspeaker for Sam's sake, and we're both quiet as we await his verdict. "It was essentially me versus the girls, on this one— Nathan didn't see anything. I told them what happened. I told them Angela's the one who suggested running and fabricating the story to protect our own skins. The defence attorney tried going down the drugs route — Angela's play, I reckon — but Emily just broke down in the stand when it was her turn for questioning. She said she didn't know what came over her and she only wanted to startle him but it went wrong. I'll tell you the rest when I see you."

It's hard to keep the smile off my face as I say, "Thank you, Ryan. Really. I appreciate you coming clean."

"You're not the only one. I'm heading to the library now— dad says he's proud of me for speaking up. He wants to have a serious talk about helping me find a job. So, yeah. I'll be round soon to talk specifics."

I've barely ended the call when I see a new notification pop up. This one is a link to a local news article. The title reads: Hangout Gone Wrong? How the accident of the ages turns to murder.

I show this to Sam, who's so excited that his blurry form flickers and darts like a candle's insistent, delicate flame. He looks happier than ever.

"I'm sorry they're not all going to jail, Sam," I tell him, scrolling through the article. Thankfully, Ryan left my involvement out of the case. There's no mention of the college student probing for answers. Nor is there any mention of the ghost of Sam helping to convince Ryan to confess the truth.

"I don't mind," Sam says in a dismissive, aloof voice. He shrugs, or the flickering mist of his form spikes for a moment. "I just wanted people to know it wasn't an accident. And now they know."

I watch as he drops his gaze down to his lap and absently messes with his hands.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, shifting a little closer and fervently ignoring the waves of ice cascading along my arm at the close contact.

He lifts his gaze to mine and I fall into a world of muted oceans shimmering with hope. I catch an echo of a tear cracking down his cheek; a ravine in miniature. "Thank you, Theo. Really. Thank you for helping me, and thank you for seeing me."

I smile. "Hey, don't get all emotional on me, now."

He laughs, wiping his cheek. "Oh, shut up."

Shrieking disrupts our peace, and I add 'oiling the damn hinges' onto my to-do list when mum and I tackle the garden. Ryan's here.

"That was quick," I muse. Knowing Ryan, since he's been over quite a lot these past few weeks, he'll be here for a few hours. I'll be the bridge between him and Sam, helping them catch up.

To keep up the pretence, he tells my mum that he's dropping off books from the library on Cliff's behalf, or picking them up. They get talking, and I have to fervently ignore their laughter and pretend my home world and my murder-solving world are two separate places, and definitely not merging together.

The front door shudders beneath the pound of a fist.

I jump up to answer it, and Sam — curious as always — follows dutifully behind.

"That was the quickest talk—" I begin as I open the door. Thoughts stutter to a stop. My heart clenches painfully, sending spears of icy dread shooting along my chest.

Ryan's not here.

Sam's gaze flickers from me to the open doorway and back again. "Uh... Theo, who is that—?"

"Dad." The word drops between us, weighted and empty of all feeling except horrified recognition.

Standing just outside, dressed shabbily and with days-old stubble shadowing his untidy jaw, is my dad. The drunk, abusive prick that mum and I ran to Eden's Gate to get away from.

The one — I remember in blinded panic — we've got a shiny new restraining order against.

"What the fuck is this?" he hisses, shoving a pile of papers into my chest with such force that I stumble back.

Sam crowds in front of me — a brave if a little insubstantial barricade — as I hastily look over the documents. They're the divorce papers. Shit, shit, shit.

"Theo, close the door. Close the door right now," Sam insists, his voice like a tug on the fraying threads of my focus.

I grab onto the handle like a lifeline. "You can't be here," I manage, my voice shuddering as I try to light the spark of clarity in my head. My thoughts are a gale, swirling panic, and nothing's catching.

"Is that so?" dad asks, his voice dripping with venom.

He takes a step closer. Instinct mingling with terror has me slamming the door shut.

Or, trying to. He shoves it open with enough force to send it bouncing off the wall. It sends unpleasant memories chipping away from the wall in my mind.

I shrink against his advances. "I'll call the police. You can't be here—"

In a blur, he snatches at my arm and drags me right up against him. Pressed so close, I see the angry dark circles lurking beneath his eyes. A cloud of his cologne, musk-leaden and heavy with the unmistakable, unpleasant tang of alcohol, abuses my nose.

"Get off him!" Sam shouts, his icy hands grabbing at my other arm and trying helplessly to pull me back. He can't quite grasp me, or if he does, he can't summon the energy to pull. All I know is that my arm is freezing, and my mind is on fire.

I shove my dad back and rip my arm free of him, stumbling straight through Sam and his futile efforts in the process. My world descends into mist and ice, and when I emerge on the other side, I catch a right hook to the jaw that sends me straight down to the floor.

"Stop it!" Sam begs, putting himself between us as I struggle to my knees. "Theo, please— I'm trying!"

Panic slides sluggishly around my head as I wipe at my chin. My hand comes away stained with blood. Pain pulses a deafening symphony with hysteria.

Dad grabs my arm and hauls me up. "You think you can run and hide from me, boy?" he seethes, shaking me with each word to really drive his point home. "You're coming home with me, and you're not going anywhere until all this nonsense is dealt with— do you understand?"

I don't, and I'm sure as hell not going anywhere with him.

"Fuck you," I bite back as my knee connects solidly with his groin.

He grunts with pain as I rip myself from his iron grasp. He stumbles back, blocking the front door, and I race into the kitchen.

As I catch myself against the wall and fumble with the rusting latch on the window, desperate for a quick escape, Sam's panicky form flickers at my side.

His squeak of terror is all the warning I need, but he shouts, "Theo, he's here! Fucking open it, he— he's— oh, shit—!"

The latch is worn shut and will not open, taunting and trapped in the armour of rust. So I turn to face my dad.

He's at the other end of the island, plucking a knife from the block. He looks furious.

For fuck's sake.

"Get in the car, or I will use this," he says, his voice disarmingly steady as he advances.

I shrink back, thrown back to the times I was small and helpless beneath his rage. Sam grabs my arm and tugs me into motion, and I dart for the other side of the island.

The counters between us are the most insubstantial of barriers, and terror seizes my lungs and turns my limbs to lead.

He glares at me, starting round the island. I race the other way, heading for the archway and the hallway and the front door and freedom.

Sam screams a warning. A hand closes around my wrist and hauls me back.

There's a brief struggle as I fight and flail to break free of my dad's iron grip, and as he fights to keep me close, his features pinching with strain, his eyes clouded with drunken fury.

The impact is nothing more than a dull thud as his fist connects solidly with my gut. I gasp and stumble back, winded, but he does not follow.

His gaze slides down as dawning horror lights behind his eyes. The knife is glistening crimson.

I find my own gaze lowering, numbness spreading through my veins.

There's blood on my jumper.

All of this registers in a dim, distant sort of way. As though it's happening to someone else. Realisation is a burning ember floating harmlessly in the air, coming to rest on my skin with a little jolt of pain.

He stabbed me. And I'm bleeding. A lot.