He thrust his fingers through his hair. Even mussed it looked good. What she could see of it. There was hardly any light left in the tent.
“Easy,” he scoffed. “That’s a laugh. Find your own damn way home.” With that, he bolted.
Aiyana sat stunned. How could Justin do this? He’d seemed so nice. He was the most popular boy in school, for Pete’s sake.
As though living a bad dream, she crawled out. The woods were dark and foreign. Hostile. Every rattling tree branch, every bush, was a monster coming to get her. Justin must have run up the hill because she couldn’t see or hear him. He’d left her alone in the ravine at nighttime. What kind of boy did that? Terrified, she ran up the hill.
When she was only halfway up, scrambling in the darkness toward the glimpses of street lamps flickering through the trees, the rain started. The bushes beside her rustled and she cried out, scrabbling to catch branches to help her up the steep incline.
Her feet slipped and slid in the muck.
Rain streamed down her face, ruining the makeup she’d applied so carefully to look good for Justin. At least the rain hid her tears.
She ran home, past their meeting place two houses down from hers. He’d refused to pick her up at her front door. Cripes, Aiyana, that should have been your first clue. You’ve been so dumb.
She rushed into the house, careful to close the door quietly, even though she ached to throw and break things.
She tiptoed along the hallway and into her room. Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it and let her tears flow.
Justin hadn’t really wanted her. He’d just wanted an easy lay.
What made him think she would be? She didn’t go out with boys. She was quiet at school. Was it because of her heritage?
In her mirror, she saw the reflection of a fifteen-year-old girl with dark raccoon eyes due to her ruined mascara. She swiped it with tissues until it was all gone.
Her hair, usually midnight black and shiny, hung in wet strings. With the broad cheekbones she’d inherited from her dad, there was no mistaking her heritage.
Native American. Ute.
She hated her face and her name.
Would Justin have attacked her if her name had been Brittany? Or Madison? If she were white, would he have tried to make her drink beer and have sex?
She grasped the corners of the heavy blankets decorated with the symbols of her heritage and hauled them from her bed, wadding them into a ball and tossing them into the corner.
It took forever to get out of her wet clothes, to haul the clinging denim down her legs. She crammed them into her laundry basket. Dad would be mad that she hadn’t hung them to dry. So what? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
She curled into a ball on her plain white bedsheets and shivered.
She hadn’t thought about that incident in years, but here in the suffocating darkness, it came flooding back. She, and the whole town, had learned how truly indiscriminate Justin had been. He hadn’t tried to take advantage of Aiyana because of her heritage. He had targeted all kinds of girls at school, not just her.
They’d gotten their revenge, though.
Since then she had learned to handle and face down her fears, but here in the dark woods, reason and logic flew out the window. She had just fallen back into her nightmare full force.
She laughed without humor. Fallen. Literally. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill creeping across the land.
Emily. Dad. Someone. Help.
Stop freaking out!
She fought her demons. She was no longer a helpless young teenager. She tried meditating, visualizing walking out of this cold, dark place, but her shivering deepened.
Find the beauty, Emily would say.
Now too dark to see, Aiyana could still hear. Ignoring the scurrying of a small creature on her right, she filtered the sounds until she found ones that soothed.
A breeze whispered through the trees above her, singing songs of longing. Nearby, a stream laughed sweetly, trickling over rocks. She closed her eyes and let the breeze and running water rock her into a gentle doze, but when she slept, she dreamed about things sneaking up on her, about hands pawing at her, about rocks burying her.
A great clap of thunder startled her awake. Darkness shrouded the land. Nothing stirred. How long had she slept? It felt like the middle of the night.
The heavens opened. It started to rain hard and fast.
* * *
PERSISTENT KNOCKING ROUSED Cody Jordan from a troubled sleep. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Home, but not home.
Where was he?
Oh, yeah. Back in Accord, in his childhood bedroom, not in his big house in LA. At thirty, he was back where he’d started. Talk about eating humble pie.
Thoughts of yesterday’s and last night’s marathon sixteen hours on the road from LA to Colorado—a brutal drive—swirled in. Loneliest drive of my life.
Mile after endless mile through the darkness had echoed the bankrupt emptiness of his life.
Someone pounded on the front door downstairs. Ah. That’s what had awakened him.
He reached for the jeans he’d dropped on the floor last night and hauled his sorry bag of bones out of bed. A full-body stretch worked out some of the kinks.
Swift footsteps alerted him to his parents rushing down the stairs.
He stumbled to his old desk, took a moment to touch the small blue urn and said a brief prayer. He turned away before he broke down.
In the bathroom he splashed cold water onto his face. Too bad he couldn’t wash away the past. Strong coffee and a hot shower might help.
Heading downstairs to find out what was going on, he noticed Mom and Dad were already at the door letting someone in.
Hearing him on the stairs behind them, they turned and glanced up.
“Cody!” his mom exclaimed, rushing to him with a rib-crushing hug. “You came home. I’m so glad.”
He suffered the hug stiffly. He no longer took affection. He no longer gave it.
His mom released him by increments. He disliked how her eyes probed, how she needed to see into his soul. No. That was open to no one but him. Even then, most days it was closed off. Better that way.
“When did you get in?” she asked, her expression sober and loving.
“About two this morning.” His tone forbade further questioning. Gently, he extracted himself from her hands on his arms and avoided her penetrating gaze. He knew what she saw when she studied him, a son too old and worn-out for his years.
“What’s up?” He directed the question to Salem Pearce, who stood in the foyer.
Salem lived in Accord. He and Dad were good friends. Dad had given Salem his first job as a teenager, probably thirty years ago.
Where was the time going? He glanced at his parents. Laura Cameron and Nick Jordan were institutions in the town of Accord, and well respected. Mom was in her early seventies. Had Dad turned seventy, too? Cody couldn’t remember.
He directed his attention to Salem and the open door. Outside, the rain he’d driven through last night had abated, but a gray curtain of cloud absorbed light. He glanced at the clock on the mantel in the living room. Six thirty