Betraying Innocence (8 page)

Ana

Ana woke several
more times in the weeks that passed, each time in a different place. It was never clear how she got there, but she would open her eyes and she would be in the backyard, standing in the living room, on the top of the stairs, in the hallway, in the kitchen, the living room, the front porch, her room … always standing, always disorientated. Sometimes it was broad daylight, the sun blinding, the wind whipping through her hair, cooling the sweat soaking her clothes. Other times, it was pitch black and she didn’t know where she was until she started screaming. Then someone was always there, pulling her back from the brink of insanity, back into the black abyss, only for it to happen all over again.

Then came the nightmares, a blurry mess of noise and colors. The smell alone was enough to send her reeling. The repugnant stench of blood, of decay, of something dead, punched a hole into her gut. Her stomach churned even as she fought to throw off the heavy blanket of terror pulling her under. The smell was always followed by screams
; horrible, deafening screams that drove into her ears like spikes. They clawed at her brain until she wanted to just tear it from her skull and throw it against the wall. But all of that was nothing,
nothing
compared to the tapping.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each careless rap of her father’s fingers on the tiled counter sent a chill down Ana’s spine. She watched his steady drumming with a thick ball of bile lodged in the back of her throat. The sour tang of it lathered her tongue, making her want to gag every time she swallowed. Her nerves jittered, grating with every relentless
tap, tap, tap.
 

The tapping! God the tapping! It was always there, pounding into the cavity of her skull. It never stopped. Always tapping. Tapping
.
Tapping
. She heard it every night. It beat against the walls, the floor, the ceiling like a trapped creature searching for a way out. It was everywhere. And when it wasn’t scurrying behind the walls, it was toying with her, making her see things, making her wake up in places she didn’t belong. She couldn’t stand it anymore. Three weeks of torture and she could feel herself slowly beginning to slip. The walls of her room, they kept pushing in on her, suffocating her. Every morning she woke up drenched in sweat and feeling trapped in a tomb with the tapping in her ears. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear her hair out. She wanted to … her gaze flickered to the block of knives on the counter. Her hand jerked, knocking into her spoon and sending it clanging in the bowl. The sound jolted her. She came back to herself, breathing hard. Tears of frustration lodged in her throat.

“Ana? What’s wrong?”

“I need to go!” she cried, shoving out of her stool, sending it careening and screeching across the laminate.

“
Go?” Mom’s gray eyes were wide against her stunned face. “Go where?”

“
Anywhere.” Her feet tangled together. She slammed into the island, but determination spurred her up and moving. “I can’t stay here anymore! I can’t stay here!”

Panting, Ana tore out of the kitchen, ignoring the shouts of her parents as she thundered down the hallway and out the front door.

Late August greeted her with an umbrella of gray clouds and the scent of rain clinging to the muggy air. The ground beneath her bare feet squished as she pounded down the path. In the distance, thunder boomed. But she kept running, trying to outrun the world. It wasn’t until it began to pour, turning the dirt to sludge, that her legs buckled. They collapsed beneath her and she just sat there in the middle of the road, soaked, shivering and completely alone.

It was undetermined how long she huddled there in a puddle of filth, listening to the whoosh of rain and the
hard thump of her heart as it fought not to explode. But the rain slowed from dumping buckets to a light drizzle, and maybe that’s what saved her, because there was no way the car racing towards her would have seen her in time otherwise. It just managed to skid to a fishtailing stop.

“What the hell are you doing sitting there?” a voice boomed over the rushing rain.

Ana had no energy to look up. It was taking all her strength to remain upright. She was just so tired and the ground was so soft. She just wanted to sit.
Please, just let me sit!
But hands were suddenly there, grabbing her, tugging at her, pulling her until the only sounds were the reminiscences of the rain in her ears and the squeak of something in the background. Something itchy was wrapped around her, sucking out the chill soaking her bones, but it wasn’t enough.

“Now, where
did you come from, hmm?”
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Oh God, the tapping. It was back! She slammed her hands over her ears, needing to block it before it bore holes into her brain.

“Stop! Stop
it!” she wailed.

Hands were there again, confining her, holding her down when all she wanted to do was run, run from the tapping.

“Get off me! Let me go!” Her screams were swallowed by more tapping. It was everywhere. So loud, so demanding. It was trying to drive her mad. “Stop!”

Just behind the consuming noise, something shrieked. The world around her rattled. Someone
… something growled.

“Get off her!”

More noise. More tapping. It was happening all around her, but she couldn’t see. It was dark, thick, empty, hot darkness, grinding into her eyes, blinding her. Why couldn’t she see what was happening?

Cool wetness slapped her in the face a second later. She was grabbed again, dragged. She was vaguely aware of being lifted, cradled. Someone was saying something. The words were familiar, but it could have been Klingon for all the sense it made. Then, there was warmth again. The itchy thing was replaced by something that
smelled of spices, rain and freshly mowed grass. Ana tried to piece it all together, but the tapping was back, seemingly louder. Someone was sobbing. Deep, heart wrenching sobs that tore at her soul. Then there was nothing. No cold. No rain. No warmth. No sound, except the tapping keeping her company in the dark.

Rafe

He should leave. It felt
strange sitting there, in her kitchen, drinking tea from a mug that said
#1 Dad
and listening as her parents tried to determine what to do with their daughter.

Rafe glanced up at the two, a little daunted by how much they both looked like Ana, or rather, how much she looked like
them. Usually kids had pieces, but she had all the best parts of her parents. The intense green of her dad’s eyes. The brown and gold of her mom’s hair. He had no idea when he’d observed her so closely that it was almost impossible not to notice, but he could sketch her from memory given the chance. It was just too bad he had no artistic abilities.

“Could you tell us
again what happened, please, Raphael?” Mrs. French turned away from her husband to take the stool on Rafe’s right.

She wasn’t crying. If anything, she looked frighteningly determined not to cry. Rafe would have believed her to be disturbingly in control of her emotion if it weren’
t for the red ring around her eyes and the way her jaw muscles kept flexing. She bunched her hands together and set them on the table.

Rafe stole a glance at
Ana’s father, who looked both torn and agitated standing in the corner. He was as wet as Rafe, having dashed out in the rain when Rafe had brought Ana home. But he didn’t seem to notice, while Rafe felt like he’d peed himself.

“I was home
when I heard the screaming,” he began, retelling them what he’d told them only moments ago. “I ran out and saw some guy trying to push Ana into his car. She was resisting, but she was … loopy, like she’d been drugged. She kept mumbling about making the tapping stop. The guy claimed he found her that way and I couldn’t find any injuries, but I didn’t stay to check. I brought her straight home.”

Mrs. French sucked in a shaky breath and straightened. She turned her head to peer at her husband, silently asking him something that had him growling at the back of his throat
and turning his head away.

Ignoring him, she
focused on Rafe once more. “You did a great thing for her … for
us
today, Raphael. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Rafe looked down at the hands he’d wrapped around the mug. He didn’t say it but he
almost wasn’t. He’d been in the middle of a death match on the
Xbox
. It had been pure curiosity that had him poking his head out the window. He’d nearly broken his controller as he pitched it aside and tore out of the house. But that was nothing compared to the blazing rage that had ripped through him when he saw the guy forcing Ana into the car. He had almost torn the guy’s head off. He wanted to. Then he’d seen Ana, slumped over, face a frightening shade of gray. She was shivering violently, barely conscious. However, her parents didn’t need to know that, or that the guy smelled of mothballs and stale beer.

“I’m glad I was there,” he murmured, fingers tightening around the ceramic
mug.

A s
lim, white hand rested on his wrist. It squeezed before moving away. Mrs. French rose to her feet, but didn’t move away. She stood watching him, a question in her eyes he didn’t know how to answer.

“
Raphael?” She moved the stool to stand at the counter. Her knuckles popped as she wrung them anxiously at her midsection. “You and Ana are friends, right?”

Rafe thought of
his run-ins with Ana, thought of their conversations and almost grimaced.

“Not really. I mean…” He almost kicked himself at the discouraged look on her face. “We haven’t really talked much.”

“Oh.” She dropped her gaze.

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I just assumed because she’s talked about you in the past and…”

He felt about as surprised as Mr. French looked by the confession. Ana talked about him? To her parents? Why would she do that? More importantly, what did she tell them?

“She did? Why?” Mr. French demanded, the disgust in his tone almost amusing. “When?”

Mrs. French shot him a dry glower. “She talked to me, in private.”

Mr. French looked like he didn’t understand what that meant. “But she tells me everything.”

“
Some things,” Mrs. French said curtly, “a girl just wants to talk about with her mother. God, Richard, now is not the time for this.” She turned back to Rafe. “I was just wondering if she ever talked to you about what was bothering her.”

Rafe frowned. “Is something bothering her?”

Mrs. French pressed a hand to her brow, using the tips of her fingers to rub the skin. “I don’t know. I don’t want to burden you or embarrass her, but she’s been very upset since we moved here. She doesn’t eat, or sleep and when she does, she winds up all over the house lost and confused. She’s become withdrawn and unhappy.” She broke off with a frustrated growl. She gouged her fists into her eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

Rafe didn’t know what to say. True he’d felt an inexplicable pull towards Ana since the first time they met, but he had no idea what to do with girls with issues.
That was so out of his league. He wasn’t the guy people went to with their problems. Heaven knew he had enough of his own.

“Maybe she’s homesick,” he said lamely.

Mrs. French shook her head slowly. “Maybe.”

“Why don’t I walk you to the door,
Raphael.” Mr. French pushed away from the counter he’d been holding up and started for the doorway without waiting for Rafe to say anything more.

Rafe, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, thanked Mrs. French for the
tea he didn’t drink and got to his feet. He followed the other man to the front door.

On the porch, they stood just looking at each other, neither wanting to be the one to blink first.

“Ana’s a good kid,” Mr. French said.

Rafe nodded. “Yes, sir. She is.”

“I worked very hard to make sure she stayed that way.”