Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Poppy

Shouldn't it have been raining?

I manage to roll my eyes as I tip my head up in disgust and look at the clear sky. Why aren't the heavens crying? The bright sun suggests the angels are rejoicing over welcoming another angel.

Come on, God, at least set the proper mood for me today!A furious storm with thunder roaring like my inner chaos, lightning slashing the sky, preferably striking me down so I could be with my brother again.

I wanted rain so fewer people would come. That sounds bad. Let me explain. Funerals are fake; the grief of these strangers only makes reality seem more bizarre and surreal. I remember my parents' funeral; so many came to pay their respects. I only knew about ten people, and out of those ten, only half mattered.

Shouldn't funerals be a time of respect? Just let the family be alone to mourn.

I look around. I just want to be alone. What I want to do is lay on the ground beside my family and dig my fingers into the dirt that has been disturbed to dig yet another grave.

Maybe that's why so many come—to keep me alive but suffering with the memories.

I blink, and it's done. The service is complete, and workers who look bored and severely underpaid shovel soil onto the coffin.

How much does a soil shoveler get paid to bury a loved one?

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Maybe my mind's way of coping is by asking such ridiculous questions.

In the distance, people murmur as they leave the gravesite and make their way to Harper's house, where the reception will be. They will never come back here again. Peter is about to turn into a memory.

With a deep inhale, I take in all the details I can. The scent of freshly cut grass and the warmth of the sun seeping into the fabric of my black dress made me feel like one of those TV dinners you pop into a microwave, the ones where you only peel back a corner of the plastic so the steam can cook the food. If you peel back the entire cover, everything will explode. Just peel away a corner and take everyone I love away from me slowly so I can survive.

There's a small patch of weeds with pretty white flowers at the base of the oak tree behind the graves. How old is that tree? For how many years, decades, or even centuries has it been tormented by people's cries?

I look to the left of my feet and then to the right. Henry and Peter once stood there, holding my hand at our parents' funeral. I open my hand, extending my fingers, half expecting theirs to slip between mine.

Nothing happens.

I stretch them wider, feeling only the stale air—no warmth of a human or coldness of a ghost. Still, nothing.

Henry isn't here. He didn't show up to his own twin's funeral. I can't blame him when the murderer is standing at the foot of the grave.

I have no idea where he is. The only family I have left is before me, under the soil. I want to join them, but if they could hear my inner thoughts, they would be furious. So, I keep it to myself.

Bury it deep…just like they are.

A throat clears right as a shadow covers me.

Is it the Grim Reaper? Did he hear my thoughts?

My eyes pivot to see the last person I want to see.Thanks a lot, Reaper. You never show up when I need you.

My spine stiffens as I shift my eyes away and look down at my old pair of white Converse shoes. Henry got Peter and me a matching pair last Christmas. Now, we will never all match again.

The newcomer hates these shoes.

I smile.

Andrew exhales, "You made a mistake, Poppy." he states as he looks from side to side.

Yes, I did; the first was dating you.

Andrew steps closer, making sure we are alone, and I smell his cologne over the grass scent now. I part my lips and only breathe through my mouth so I don't have to smell it.

It's just us and the gravestones. I look at the etched letters that carve out my mother's name. It's a serif font, so it looks classically elegant. Peter's gravestone isn't finished yet. It usually takes a few months to complete a gravestone. A fact I wish I didn't know.

I wonder if his font will be a serif as well?

Harper said she would take care of the details.

"So you want it to be like this," Andrew exhales with irritation. "You honestly want to try to run from me? From us!"

He has the audacity to sound frustrated.

"I don't want it to be like anything. We're done." My eyes narrow. Okay, Grim Reaper, I could use you right about now. Heck, I'll take just the appearance of your sickle so I could at least have a weapon.

"You don't mean that," he scoffs.

I manage to muster a bitchy laugh, "Since you couldn't accept the word 'no' the last time I told you, I will say it again. We're done," I growl. My ball, my fist, and my nails dig into my palm; however, with my short, petite height and build, I look more like an upset toddler than a pissed-off woman. I can't even be mad about what Andrew did because my brother's death trumps it all.

I can't be mad, devastated, or empty about what Andrew did!

Peter is all I can see and feel.

Grief.

The night of the party launched a series of events that have forever changed me. Only one other person knows what happened. He's standing next to me.

"You were just playing. You liked it. Girls play hard to get all the time. It's a kink." His voice is like a fisherman's net hanging in the air as it waits, hoping for a reply I will not give. "Listen, I get it; your brother died; you need time."

Time.

God, I hated that word. The only part of 'time' I needed was the countdown clock because I'd see my family again one day. I believed in heaven. I had to. I needed hope to keep me going.

I look at Andrew and shake my head. He's dressed like the perfect boyfriend attending a funeral—black suit, pressed white shirt, black tie, freshly shined shoes, his hair perfectly smoothed down, his playboy grin absent because he's playing the part of the devastated boyfriend.

Lord, he's the perfect deception, blonde hair, blue eyes, and all. He looks like an angel. I, like the rest of the world, was fooled at first. I saw the handsome mask. It took time for me to realize all Andrew's emotions were fake, all except for the joy he found in relishing in other people's pain. Andrew is a monster, and unfortunately, that monster has his claws dug deep into my flesh.

"Listen, I know what you heard and saw was a lot."

"A lot," I scoff, my voice rising. "What about before your father came? What about then, Andrew? Was that too much for me to handle?"

He doesn't like that.

He cocks his head and looks down at me, so predator-like.

Why didn't I see that before?

The way he narrows his eyes feels like a vice grip on my lungs. He licks his lips and looks around again, but it's still just us. Everyone looks up to Andrew from afar; I thought it was because he was the golden boy, but now I know better. It's because he's dangerous. People don't praise kings; they fear them because no honest king can keep his throne with merely the love of his people. It takes fear and control. Andrew has that in spades.

"I'll give you time," he announces, as though he's just declared world peace—as if I should applaud and bow down in gratitude. "But eventually, you'll return to me."

Does he really expect me to thank him?

The calculating look in his eyes prompts me to step back as if he's already mapped out everything far, far into the future.

"Don't run from me again!" Andrew growls in an angry whisper that sears my ears. He steps closer and swings his arm around me, hugging me, caging me to him. As if he were an arctic wind, I freeze and turn to ice. Last week, his touch was tolerated; I was still a daft, scared fool last week. That changed the night of the party. No one knows that; if anyone looks at us now, they'd think a boyfriend was comforting his girlfriend.

How sweet. How perfectly deceptive.

Do they see how his fingers bruise my flesh?

No, of course not. They can't peel their eyes away from his handsome face.

I hate that I can't move. I hate that my fear freezes me, turning me to ice instead of casting me into the pits of hell where fire might heat the soles of my feet, urging me to run.

"I know you're in shock now; that often turns to anger." His right hand reaches up as if he's cradling my head but hidden under my hair, always hidden; his grip burns, pulling at the roots of my hair, forcing my face up. Here it comes, the side I never knew, the dangerous side. "People who are angry do stupid things. That's why you called Peter, isn't it? See what happens when people do stupid things, Poppy." He jerks his head towards my brother's grave as if he were suggesting a particular sweater on the rack and not the person buried six feet under.

"If you ever feel the need to talk about what you overheard, then, well…" he lets his threat linger in the air for a few seconds like a gladiator in a chariot circling the arena before it begins to put on a show. "It would be a shame for another tragedy to occur to your family so soon. Where is Henry, by the way?" Andrew asks. He hugs me tighter to him, as if I'm grout he is shoving in-between tiles, forcing and trapping me in place.

That's all I ever was to him, a piece of decoration. I see that now. I wish I noticed it then.

My eyes shift to the space on my right where Henry should be. I'm relieved he's not here, yet that relief brings forth the most fear-inducing question: where is Henry? And does Andrew know?

I have to tip my chin higher to meet Andrew's eyes; his golden blonde hair shines like a halo in the sun. I always thought he was just that, an angel. The popular boy who turned his sights onto me. I thought I was lucky. Why can't we hormone-drunk females remember that some fallen angels have turned into demons? There is a reason their wings are black.

His perfect white smile pins me in place. That smile used to make me giddy.

"Don't worry. I don't know where Henry is, but finding out would be so simple." He cups my cheek as he leans closer. I hate that my body begins to shake. Showing him my fear gives him all the power.

His hot, minty breath wraps around my ear like an unwanted blanket on a hot summer's day, "You owe me, Poppy. If I informed my father about what you heard, you would find yourself right there," Andrew's finger ominously points to the grave, "nestled beside your brother. Imagine the headlines: 'The last of the Moores, Henry and Poppy, both tragically perishing in a...' Well, we can't have a car accident again. That would look too suspicious. Perhaps a gas leak or a burglary gone wrong."

His lips brush against my skin, not affectionately but with a chilling possessiveness, drawing a gasp—a cry of fear from me. To any onlooker, it would seem I wept for Peter's death.

Andrew draws me in, bringing me close until my cheek is pressed against his chest. I'm shocked to find there's actually a heart beating inside of him.

My breath feels constrained, bouncing off his shirt and back into my face, creating a sensation of gradual suffocation.

Why can't I push him away? I'm frozen, just like I was that night.

Why can't I be the strong, badass female I see in movies and read in books?

Because this is real life, and that means heroes die and villains live. No one is coming to save you but yourself.

You can't save yourself, Poppy.

"Shh, don't worry. I'm going to give you time. I think that's all you need. Time to consider your actions. Considering I'm leaving for grad school, it makes perfect sense for us to take a break."

A break? Is that why he was so insistent that night at the party? Is that why he pushed boundaries and insisted on his actions?

So many things went awry that night. What I overheard wasn't the initial misstep; no, Andrew's desire to take something from me was the first mistake of that evening. Now, I realize I was merely a way for him to pass the time before he left for grad school.

He tilts up my chin, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, and his eyes go distant. Predatory. "I'm going to miss these lips; how they tremble for me. That's okay," he says more to himself.

Hundred percent psycho, but what does that make me? I fell for him.

"Time only makes the heart grow fonder. You'll come back to me."

Ladies and gentlemen, update your dictionaries because the new definition of clinically insane is Andrew Sinclair.

I don't know how to fight insanity, so I just remain frozen. Play dead like a possum. The problem is some insane people like it when things play dead. Maybe I need to fight back.

Will he lose interest, then?

Do I have the strength to fight?

His lips curve into a smile that ignites a fury inside of me. "Don't do anything stupid."He purrs.

My shock-induced fear cracks like thin ice. It feels like a demon inside of me just rose up. We all have them buried deep; most choose to ignore them. Most can. I did until now. I let it speak for me, let its anger seep out.

"The same can be said for you," I hiss. "It was stupid of you to let me hear what I did. Tell me, Andrew, did you think I would handle it well? Did you think I'd look at your hands and not see the blood on them? Think I'd shrivel away into a corner; let you attach strings to my arms you could pull like a puppeteer? Not after what you did, you fool. I should have cut you out of my life a long time ago. You silly, stupid fool."

I exhale, a weight off my chest, but no inhale comes rushing in. I know I just made a huge mistake. The demon inside of me just challenged the devil. It forgot the devil is its master.

The way his blue eyes gleam makes me hesitate. He blinks, and it's like the tongue of a hungry predator just licked its bloody teeth.

You fool, Poppy. You should have kept playing possum. Play dead long enough for the hunter to lose interest, then get up and run.

Henry. Think of Henry. Andrew is right; after what I overheard, his family would easily kill my brother. I have to make a deal with the devil, not for myself but for my last surviving brother.

"I'm sorry," I confess. I hate myself for saying it. "I'm upset."

It's so easy to judge people, especially victims. Why didn't you do this? Why not that? I would have done this; there is no way in hell I would have done that.

I used to judge, too, until I walked in a victim's shoes. The laces are so tight that I don't know how to untie them anymore.

So I play the game and keep walking in them, praying that eventually the soles of the shoes will run out and I'll be free.

"I know, baby." His index finger glides down my cheek as if he's probing a specimen. Not his hand, not a loving gesture. Just a single finger as sharp as a scalpel. "You need time. We both do." He shrugs his head at my brother's fresh grave. "I'm going to give it to you." His brows raise, waiting for my reply.

I know what he wants to hear: thank you. But I can't say it. I have to hold onto one shred of dignity. One last ounce.

He said he'd give me time. Is that another trick?

I can't live like that.

"I'll keep quiet."

"I know you will," a smile traces his lips, "you're so good at biting your sweet tongue. I love this new side, this fire, but I love your silence more."

"Stay the fuck away from me," I blurt out, jumping back from his touch.

Another mistake.

No, no, no. Not Henry. Don't take my last brother.

Think. How do I make sure he won't hurt Henry?

A threat for a threat. "Come near me again, and I'll tell the world what I heard!"

He shakes his head and laughs, "Who would believe you, Poppy? You think I'm worried about what others think?" His brows knit in a mocking glare. "I'm not worried they will believe you. They won't. I'm only telling you to stay silent so you remain alive. Don't you see, Poppy, I'm protecting you from my father. I care about you, baby." he shrugs, "You better hope I continue to feel that way. If not, then you're no use to me."