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After Cook put me in this bedroom, he walked out. I couldn’tblame him after seeing me freak out like that. Thinking back on it, I knew Leo Finch wasn’t Tommy G. He didn’t even look like Tommy.
I was crazy.
No wonder Cook walked away from me and closed the door behind him.
Scrubbing my hand over my swollen face, I fought off the tears again. I wouldn’t cry again. I wouldn’t be so weak.
Cook’s rumble of voice echoed in the hallway. “Mom . . . the pills . . . Mom . . .”
After what just happened and how Vivi was acting, I didn’t need to be involved. I shook my head, trying to clear her behavior from my mind. I had my own shit to deal with.
Leaning forward, I grabbed the photo albums, sketches, and the camera off the bed. I shuffled through the photos and compared it to Cook’s sketches. How young he must have been when he drew them. I found his fingertips darkened constantly, like he never stopped drawing, yet I hadn’t seen him draw anything yet. And his fingers weren’t covered in charcoal now.
So why did he stop drawing? What happened? The pictures in the album came to a screeching halt when Cook was around fifteen or sixteen.
The floorboards outside the bedroom door creaked, and I picked up the camera quickly. Vivi wasn’t heavy enough to move the floorboards. I pressed the window of the camera to my eye and waited, hiding a half smile. A thrill of unfamiliar excitement oozed through me.
Seconds later, Cook opened the bedroom door, and I clicked the button. He stumbled back, raising his hand against the strobe-like flash.
Cook dropped his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture of you,” I said.
“I get that.” He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. His boots caked with dirt, left globs across the carpet. “But why?”
I flipped to the last page of the photo album. “There’s nothingafter this. Why?”
Cook frowned. His eyes were narrowed but glassy with distance. A vein in his neck, under where his beard stopped, fluttered. What did he not want to say? I wanted to lean in and ask and help him like he was helping me, but that was problematic.
I couldn’t even help myself. Back in the living room with Leo proved that. I was a mess and currently Cook’s problem. I didn’t need to make it any worse.
Finally, he leaned away from the photo album. “I see you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah.” I braced myself against the wall.
He leaned toward me. In the small bedroom on the full-sized bed, we were close. Our legs almost touched. He had his fingers interlaced, his knuckles a stark white. He wore my scratches up his wrists and on his neck, but the blood had dried.
I did that. I checked under my fingernails and flicked away his skin that was still caught under them. I could’ve done worse, but I hadn’t meant to hurt him. I only wanted to escape Tommy G.
Not here, Maddie. Tommy G. isn’t here.
Yet I thought he was. I thought he had come back to find me, to rape me. I thought he would hurt me. I had confused Leo with Tommy. How could I be trusted to know who was who after that kind of mistake?
Cook pressed his hand to my knee. The weight grounded me in the moment.
“You’re shaking,” he said in a low voice.
“Do you think it’s possible for me not to?” I asked, trying to joke. It fell flat.
“Yes,” he said in his deadly serious tone. “I’ve seen you stop shaking. Felt your body relax against me.”
“Like when I hurt you?” An apology bubbled up on my tongue.
“I’ll heal.” Cook sighed. “I can take the pain.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want that.”
“I do,” said Cook. “If it will take away your pain, I’ll do it. You cangive it all to me, and I’ll shoulder it.”
