“Waiting is its own form of torture, isn’t it?” she says. “I’m not sure if waiting and thinking of all the horrible things that can happen is worse than what will actually be done.”

I cling tighter to her as my own demons and nightmares awaken. The what-if’s messing with my mind are the torture she speaks of. Anything happening to me isn’t the problem. I’m plagued with thoughts of what will happen to her.

Fear.

I’ve never been scared by much. Never believed in bogeymen living under the bed. Magic and sorcery belong to people like me who have fast hands and can deceive the human eye. It’s hard to believe in evil locked in closets when you realize at an early age it’s all made-up stories to explain what people think is unexplainable.

It’s not unexplainable—only mere men manipulating shadows and mirrors.

But there’s a bitterness in my mouth now. A metallic taste I don’t like much. A coldness in my blood and a freezing in my bones at the thought of what the men outside that door could do to Violet.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

Me, too.

I strain to hear anything beyond her breaths and my heartbeat in my ears. Occasionally there are footsteps overhead. Muffled voices. The sound of the ascending and descending of the old wooden staircase. Violet curls closer into me whenever there is movement outside the door, and I keep up a steady caress up and down her arm.

My gut tells me we’re in here for a while. Tells me that they want us to be tormented by our own thoughts before the next round.

“Do you think Brandon’s okay?” she eventually asks.

I pray he is. I pray harder he kept his courage and called Eli for help. Faster the club gets involved, the faster we’ll be out of this mess. “Yeah. Your brother is a fighter.”

“No, he’s not. He’s scared of the world and most everything in it.”

I know, and Violet loves him more than she loves anyone or anything else in the world. Family first is a priority I understand. “He’s all right. You saved him tonight.”

“We saved him.”

We. It’s not a word Violet has used in a long time for us. It’s a soft kiss and a ripping of a Band-Aid at the same time.

“They took my bracelets and my necklaces. They also took Dad’s watch.”

I hug her tighter. The bracelets and necklaces—it’s not their worth that means something to her, it’s who gave them to her, the sentiment behind the gift. Some from me, some from Cyrus, most of them from her father. Losing them and her father’s watch would be like losing a part of her soul.

“We’ll get them back.”

She doesn’t argue, but doesn’t agree either. “You think it’s after midnight?”

After midnight. Damn. This isn’t right. None of this is right. “Happy birthday, Violet.”

“Eighteen,” she whispers.

We had so many plans. “Eighteen.”

“I want to go home.”

“We will.” I’ll walk through hell to make sure it happens. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Try anyhow. At least doze. We both know you can be awake and asleep at the same time. Do that. There’s no telling how long we’re in this for and we have to keep sharp.”

Violet nestles into me like she might try to sleep and I move my hand from caressing her arm to rubbing her head. That always made her sleepy, always made her fall asleep in my arms.

“Thank you for sacrificing yourself for Brandon,” she murmurs. “He loves you.”

“I know.” A lot like he loves her. A lot like I love her, too.

Violet begins to sing. Not loudly, softly, under her breath. She has a beautiful voice. When I was a kid, I used to think that’s what angels would sound like. Violet used to sing all the time when we were younger, but less and less as we got older.

Last time I heard her sing was the night her dad died. I held her that night, too. We lay in her bed, her head on my chest, and she sang in a soft tone until she fell asleep.

Broke my heart then. Breaks my heart now. But like then, I’m helpless and do only what I can, hold her and pray.

Violet

THE BEAMS OF sun warm my skin and I stretch lazily on the blanket. I’m at my favorite place on earth—the back field of my house. Walk long enough and eventually I’d wander onto Cyrus’s property. Dad would let the grass grow high here and he’d have it cut several times throughout the summer and sell the hay, but he would leave this small portion untouched for me.

I loved the wildness of free-growing grass, trees with long limbs and branches heavy with leaves. Beside me, Chevy’s propped up on one elbow and he’s watching me. Chevy always watches me.

“I’m dreaming,” I say.

He smiles, shifting from fourteen to seventeen, then back to fourteen. Can’t decide which one I like better. He’s handsome either way, but at fourteen, Chevy couldn’t make up his mind on whether to hold my hand. Confused about how he felt, since we had been raised to love each other as siblings, but we were more than brother and sister, more than friends. The two of us always shared a special connection.

At seventeen, he broke my heart. I blink and Chevy is sixteen and I loved sixteen. He did way more than hold my hand then and we were light-years away from him shattering my soul.

I’ve always been able to do this. Be aware when I’m dreaming, but there’s a cost to it. Sometimes I become paralyzed. Powerless to move my body. My mind awake, my muscles asleep and I’ll panic at the thought of never being in control again. To never speak or walk or run.