“Mmm…” he agreed, returning to his work. “Yes.”

I looked at the remnants, knowing that real strawberries were this small. His tiny garden had tomatoes, basil, peppers, lettuce… I wouldn’t think he’d be into this, but I guess now I knew who was taking care of the greenhouse.

“Strawberries used to be sweet when I was young,” I said. “I don’t know. They’re sour all the time now.”

“Commercial strawberries the last couple of decades are bred to be big and beautiful, but that’s it,” he said. “They taste bad. I can barely eat any produce in the States.”

I looked down at him. “You’re not from here?”

He turned his eyes on me, cocking an eyebrow.

“The US, I mean.”

Okay, yes. I assumed we were in the States, but we might not be.

He returned to his task. “I was born in Turkey,” he told me. “My family relocated when I was fifteen.”

So he was an immigrant. Was it hard for him, being different in school? Trying to fit in?

“Did you assimilate quickly?” I asked.

“Assuming I had any ease assimilating to anything to begin with?” he joked, amusement in his eyes.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

I could relate.

I was the only kid in school who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Who didn’t take part in the annual winter pageants or do Secret Santa on the swim team.

But if I could’ve faked it, I wouldn’t have. It wasn’t my style to fit in. Screw ’em.

“Did you assimilate to her?” I broached, almost whispering.

The woman he talked about at the pool showers. The one made for him.

He faltered and then stilled, a faraway look crossing his eyes.

I swallowed, but I smiled to myself. I’d found his weak spot.

“Still hearing noises?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“No.”

But I might know where they were coming from now.

I glanced at the phonograph near the windows, still playing Schubert.

“Why are you roaming?” he asked me.

I shot him a look, an excuse lost on my tongue.

But then I remembered.

“I, uh… I saw the garden shed,” I told him. “I thought I’d look for tools. Maybe a ladder. That panel is off its hinges.”

I pointed to the roof and the broken panel of glass.

But he didn’t look, just kept working as he cut and cleared weeds. “Come here,” he said and held out his arm, inviting me in.

I reared back a little, but then…something pushed me forward.

I inched in, and he circled my waist, pulling me down into his lap.

I protested, trying to stand back up, but he took my hands in his and pushed them forward, palms down into the plant bed and sliding them underneath the soil.

What the hell was he doing?

Turning my head, I looked at him as he squeezed my wrists, keeping my hands in the dirt. What…?

“What do you feel?” he asked.

I hesitated, speechless. What did he mean, ‘what do I feel’?

“Soil,” I said.

Obviously.

He cocked his head, looking unimpressed.

Did he really have to hold my hands down?

Sighing, I wiggled my fingers a little, indulging this as the crisp feel coated my skin.

Almost like planting your face in a fresh pillow.

“Cool earth,” I finally told him. “It’s soft with water. Fluffy. Like flour, almost.” I looked over at him, his nose inches from mine. “Thick but…clean between my fingers.”

He released me, but I stayed there and watched him pick up a small glass pitcher, pouring water over the soil covering my hands.

Ice hit my pores as the fluff turned to goo.

“And now?” he pressed.

“Weight,” I replied. “It feels heavy. Muddy. Sticky.” I stared off, almost grossed out by it. “It’s suffocating. Like I’m buried.”

He nodded. “There’s not much that’s bad for you, done in moderation. Some water is necessary for plants to thrive. Too much kills them.”

Holding my eyes, he gripped my wrists again, pinning me to the dirt.

“You want tools?” he asked. “To fix… hinges?”

I stared at him, not liking the gleam in his eyes.

“You came out here to get tools for broken hinges you didn’t see until you… came out here.” He stared at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. “You can have all the tools you like, Emory. In moderation.”

I swallowed the golf ball in my throat as he continued to hold my hands and my eyes.

He knew I was full of shit.

He knew it the moment I walked out here. Did he know about my stash?

I clenched my teeth, keeping my nerves in check, but he cocked his head, eyeing me curiously.

“Did you grow up with an addict?” he asked.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I can usually spot liars fairly easily. They keep their explanations vague, fidget, break eye contact… You’ve had practice.”

“I’m not lying about why I need the tools.”

“You are,” he retorted calmly. “But that’s okay. I like being played with. In moderation.”

Chills spread over my skin, and my pulse kicked up a notch in my chest, but then… something brushed the tip of my finger underneath the soil.

I jerked. “What was that?”

But he held me down, warning me, “I wouldn’t move.”

What?

Something slithered over my fingers under the dirt, and I froze, unable to breathe.

I pulled against his hold, but he pushed me back in as his piercing gaze pinned me, the smooth body under the soil thick and never-ending.

It was long. It wasn’t a worm.

I gulped, whispering. “Is that a snake?”

“One of them.”

One of them? I darted my eyes around the plant bed, trying to spot others. There was a clear, plastic wall around the garden, the panel in front of us removed so Aydin could work.

“Who was the addict in your family?”

“Huh?”

“Look at me, Emory,” he said.

I looked up at him, worry knitting my brow. I tried to slide my hands out, but he held firm. Shit.

Where was Will?

“Who conditioned you to lie so well?” he asked, staring into my eyes and keeping his voice calm and steady.

“He…” I trailed off as the snake, or whatever it was, stopped over my hand, and I felt it shift or…start to coil. Another lump lodged in my throat. “Aydin…”

“Who?” He tightened his hold on my wrists.

“He…” I breathed hard. “He wasn’t an addict. My brother had a temper,” I explained.

Fuck, where was Will? Tears sprang to my eyes.

“And he got physical with you?” Aydin asked.

A flicker of something hit my pinky—again and again. Its tongue?

“Oh, my God,” I gasped. “Please.”

Let me go.

“Be still,” he said. “Look at me.”

I darted my eyes to his again.

“Like a rock,” he instructed. “You’re part of her terrain. She won’t notice you unless you want her to. Like a rock, Emory.”