Revelation (7 page)

He crams the cell phone into his pocket, grabs keys from the counter. "I have some things to take care of in town.
Wanna
ride with?"

"Not particularly."

"I wish you would. I don't feel comfortable leaving you here alone," he confesses, lips pulling to a frown.

I take a sip of coffee, set the mug on the end table. "I'll be fine. I need to get in some target practice."

He relents without argument. "All right. But I need you to sign a few things before I head out."

I rise, step over the pile of blankets, follow him to the dining room table.

"This is a lot of papers," I say, eyeing the stack.

"I know. I'll make it quick and painless. I'm taking our marriage certificate down to the courthouse today, too. Just so it's official."

That was signed last night, under the watchful eyes of our witnesses.

"So what, exactly, am I looking at?" I slide onto the wooden chair, tucking my leg beneath me.

"These are insurance papers," he explains, handing me a pen. "We're covered if something happens while you're driving my car, and I'm putting you on my medical policy. If there's any kind of accident or . . . whatever, you'll be taken care of, no questions asked."

First the car accident and then the relapse. . . . The Flemings are forever taking care of my medical expenses. "Carter," I begin, leaning back from the table, shoulders squaring in defiance, argument poised on the tip of my tongue.

"Come on, Gee," he interrupts. "Please don't fight me on this."

I study him carefully—those serious, gray eyes. Determination in his features. And I get it. I finally understand. This is what he wanted to do—how he planned to take care of me. This is why he went through all of the trouble: risking his parents' ire, risking proposing, even, when I should've said no.

Refusing him now isn't an option.

"I guess I sign Genesis Fleming?"

He shrugs. "If that's what you want to go by."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it depends. You can keep your last name, too. Hyphenate it. You can go by your middle name. Whatever you want."

"I'm not attached to Green. And I don't have a middle name."

His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. "Your mom didn't give you a middle name?"

"Nope. We both know she was kind of a slacker."

"If you're changing your name anyway, why not give yourself one?" His eyes fix on mine. "I'm serious, Gee. This is your chance to start over. You can be whoever you want."

Start over.

He's right. I don't
have
to be Genesis Green, anymore. Genesis can die, right here at this very table. I consider the possibilities. A new name. New look. New life. But I can't. I can't be someone else. Not surrounded by unfinished business. Even if I change my name, I can't forget. I can't ignore. I can't not be
me
.

"What's your middle name?" I ask.

"Nicholas. Harrison."

"Which is it?"

"All of it. Carter Nicholas Harrison Fleming."

I swallow back a laugh, amused. "That's okay. You have enough names for the both of us."

"Nick was my grandfather, and Harrison was my mother's maiden name," he explains.

I sign
Genesis Fleming
across the bottom of the first page. "How did I not know that about you?" I ask, flipping to the next.

He shrugs, pointing to a column of boxes on the paper. "Initial those." I initial and flip. "Print and sign."

We move through several forms. I print, initial, and sign as instructed.

"This will add you to my bank account," Carter says. "They're going to send you a card and a PIN."

My posture stiffens. "Carter, you can't add me to your bank account."

"We're married. Yes, I can."

"I have my own money," I remind him.

His laugh is hard, mocking, edged in disbelief. "Why are we still arguing about this? If you don't want to use it, then don't. But I'm adding you, just in case."

"In case
what
, Carter?"

"I don't know," he says, voice rising. "In case . . . the Council. Viola. Seth. I don't know what's going to happen, Gee. I don't know what the future holds for either of us. I'm planning for the fucking end of the world, all right?"

His eyes search mine, vast and empty. And again I wonder at the transformation in just a few short months. How one summer changes everything.

"All right," I whisper, resigned, scribbling my name across the remaining papers. When I finish, I stack them carefully, hand them off to Carter, and, without a word, move toward the sliding glass doors, grabbing a forty-five on the way out.

*          *          *

My body sinks lower in the bathtub, water touching my chin, invigorating my skin until it's pink with heat. The tension from the day's workout dissolves, muscles relaxing. And I let myself close my eyes and imagine Seth is waiting for me on the other side of that locked door. That this is a day like any other: winter, spring, summer. And I remember how it felt to curl against him, body next to mine, arms wrapping me in a too-tight embrace too important to unbind. Our connection so strong it's like he's right here beside me.

Just as I let go—a presence in the darkness. Hand clasping my neck, pushing me beneath the surface.

The water turns cold. Ice. My arms and legs thrash, splashing, battering porcelain as I struggle against this restraining force. My eyes sting, lungs taking on water.   

The hand lifts me to air and I inhale sharply. Gasping. Coughing. Sputtering. Shivering. Gooseflesh rising to the surface of my skin. The world swims into focus, colors gleaming, mingling, tattoo sleeve mirroring my own glowing in fluorescent light.

The next time I'm prepared, sucking a breath before submersion, holding onto it. Lungs straining, losing time, I feel with fingers, grasping the sides of the bathtub. Viola pulls me upright, and beyond the spatter and hiss of water choking my ears is Carter, beating the door, shouting my name.

"What the hell are you doing?" she growls.

"I—I don't know what you're . . ."

It's dark, tranquil in this muffled, underwater world. My lungs refuse to fill when I'm lifted again, paralyzed by the frantic beating of my heart. Water bounces in waves, pouring over sides and onto the floor.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't find you?" Viola asks. I blink against her watery outline.

"Genesis? Open the door!" a furious Carter demands from the outside.

I grapple for words. "It—it's not what you think, I swear!"

Her features harden, eyes darkening, sending me back under.

I'm gasping the moment I hit air, shaking with cold, lips trembling. "It's not like that," I rush. "We had to get out. They would have come looking for me!"

"Genesis!" Carter pounds the door, rattles the knob.

"I'm not running!"

Her temper flares, teeth clenching. Her fingers tighten, nails digging into my skin. "You do not speak, you do not breathe, you do not
move
until I say so. Understood?"

I nod frantically, fighting back the specks of light shining behind closed eyes—the dizziness threatening to consume me, the blackness dragging me under.

And then I'm alone.

I rise, struggling, unsteady on my feet. Desperate to get away. I reach for the towel draped on the bar on the wall, and, when I step onto the tile, slip. The bar loosens, wrenching free as I hit the floor. Pain radiates, jamming my throat. I pull the towel tight around my body, crouched low and shivering. The door breaks and Carter tears inside, gun in hand.   

"What happened?" He kneels beside me, feels my cheek. "Jesus, you're freezing." He rummages through the cabinet, removing extra towels.

My lungs work in spasms, breaths like knives slicing my chest. "S—she thought we were. . . ." The words collide in my mouth, refusing to surface.

He wraps my legs. My feet. "She did something to the door! I couldn't get in!" His eyes drift to my neck, reaching, something inside him breaking. And when he pulls his fingers away they're covered in blood. "Shit."

I curl my body into a ball, hugging my chest, leaning against the tub, eyes fading to a close. Carter's footsteps echo in my skull. He returns with my inhaler and a first aid kit, grabs a washcloth from beneath the sink and presses it against my neck. I breathe in the medicine, hold it in my lungs, exhale.

"What did she do to you?" His voice is hard, fuming.

My mind spins in circles, tumbling over events as I try to piece it all together. "It was her fingers. Her fingernails. I don't know!"

"I don't even see a scratch! It's like you're bleeding from
nothing
!" Carter rises to his full height, kicks the first aid kit across the room. It slams against the wall in the hallway, exploding, contents scattering. "How the hell am I supposed to protect you from this?" he demands to know, dragging his fingers through dark hair.

"You can't," I tell him. "Neither could Seth." Salty tears prick my eyes at the thought of him. Of Carter. "I can't screw this up, Carter. I
can't
."

"Hey. Hey, it's okay." He lowers himself to the floor, wraps his arm around me, murmurs into my hair: "It's not your fault."

But it is.

I wipe my nose across the towel, eyes closing, head resting against his broad shoulder. And my heartbeat slows, working to maintain a normal pace as the medicine takes effect. And all I can see is ocean. The endless curl of waves tumbling, spreading across the shoreline. "I'm tired," I confess, words breaking in my throat. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of running. . . . I want to go home."

N
INE

The empty space consumes me, closing in as I concentrate, fingers gripping the thick handle. I fling the knife, listening to the sound of the blade slicing air, carving a place in the bark of a tree. I throw another. And another. When I remove the blindfold from my eyes, every knife is secured in the trunk of the same towering pine, blades protruding at various points.

Sunlight plays against gaps in the forest, wind rifling naked branches.

Ready or not.

T
EN

"What is this?" I ask, lifting the garment bag discovered hanging on the bathroom door. Carter lifts his eyes from the laptop screen at the dining room table, reaching for a bag of chips by his side.

"A dress," he replies, matter of fact. "We're going to dinner."