Bree touched his shoulder. “I’ll go first.” She moved in front of her brother. Her hand went to the service weapon on her hip.
She took a deep breath and went inside.
The living room was empty. Behind her, Adam shuffled a sneaker. The throw rug had rotted away to a few shreds of fabric. Dirt and leaves gathered along the walls. But Bree no longer saw the abandoned house as it stood today. She was transported back to the very last night she’d been under this roof.
Adam said something, but his voice was muted by the imagined sound of her parents fighting and the smack of her father striking her mother.
“Bree?” Adam jostled her arm.
She shook herself. “Sorry.”
His gaze turned hesitant as he engaged in some internal debate. Bree said a quick prayer that he’d change his mind and haul her out of there, but she suspected it didn’t matter. The damage was done. She was remembering.
Everything.
His jaw went rigid. “Which room was mine?”
Bree turned to walk down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She passed the room she’d shared with Erin and stopped in the doorway of the smallest, the nursery, now empty. “This one.”
Adam followed her into the room. She ran a finger over the grimy wall and uncovered a patch of faded baby-blue paint. “She was excited to be having a boy. I remember watching her paint over the pink.” She pointed to a scuff on the wall. “Your crib was there.”
Adam pivoted, scanning the room, his face creased with concentration. “I don’t remember anything.”
For the best.
Bree turned on her heel and went back into the hall. She halted in another doorway. “This was their room.”
“Is this where he killed her?” Adam asked from behind her.
“I don’t know.”
“But you were here,” he protested.
Bree whirled to face him. Anger heated her face. “I didn’t wait around to watch him do it.”
“I’m sorry.” Adam looked away.
Bree breathed. “No. It’s all right. You have a right to know, but I was only eight. My memories have definite blank spots.”
She glanced back into the room. Despite what she’d told Adam, a clear picture formed in her mind.
“They were fighting in there,” Bree admitted.
And that’s the spot where Daddy pinned Mommy to the wall. One big hand curled around her throat. The other held a gun, the muzzle pressed against her forehead. In the warm, humid air, clammy sweat broke out between Bree’s shoulder blades. Her heart thudded against her ribs in a thin, panicky rhythm.
Don’t make me hurt you. You always make me hurt you.
Memories assaulted her. Bree grabbing her siblings and taking them under the porch. The winter wind blowing through thin pajamas. Terror shaking their very bones.
The echo of a gunshot.
She flinched.
She moved back down the hallway to the kitchen. She could sense Adam behind her, but she didn’t narrate her recollection for him. How much did he need to know? Did he really want these images in his head? Once they lodged there, they’d remain forever, like a tattoo—or a deep scar.
“Daddy had a gun,” Bree said. “I took you and Erin out the back door.”
Even at eight, she’d known they needed to hide. She’d recognized the murderous look in her father’s eyes was different from his usual anger, which had been bad enough. A shudder passed through her bones, shaking her from her athletic shoes to her uniform shirt. The house was empty, but Bree’s hand hovered over her service weapon, as if she could go back in time and save her mother.
She flexed her fingers and lowered her hand.
There was no one to save today.
Adam moved toward the back door. Bree followed him out onto the porch. He’d replaced boards here too. They descended into the weedy yard and turned to face the house.
Bree pointed to the porch steps. “There was a loose board. I’d hidden under there before.” She didn’t have to elaborate on what—no, who—she’d hidden from. Adam knew, even if he didn’t remember.
“Then what?” He looked like he was holding his breath.
Bree shivered hard. It had been cold that night. She felt the icy dirt beneath her bare feet, and the bitter chill seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas. “A gun went off.”
The dogs had been barking. One had howled. The sound memory rippled over Bree. Despite the summer warmth, goose bumps rose on the skin of her arms.
“How long were we under there?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know. A while.” Long enough to get very cold.
“What happened next?”
“I’m not sure.” Bree sensed a blank spot in her recollection. Had her eight-year-old self shut down with shock at that point? She vaguely recalled slamming doors, loud footsteps, and shouting.
Another gunshot.
Daddy?
Did it really matter? She knew enough. Her father had killed her mother and himself. The three siblings had been split up shortly after. Adam and Erin had been raised by their grandmother, while Bree had been sent to live with a cousin in Philadelphia.
“The sheriff came.” Bree had never set foot on the property again—until today. “He took us to the station and called the family.”
Adam stared at the house. He looked disappointed.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she said.
“No. It’s enough.” He reached for her hand. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“You’re welcome.” Bree squeezed his fingers. “What will you do with the place?”
If it were hers, she would burn the house to the ground. But she doubted Adam would. He seemed to want to maintain the structure as some sort of shrine.
“I don’t know.” His brow knitted, and his eyes looked lost. But then Adam had seemed disconnected for most of his life. Violence always left marks. Some scars were just less visible than others.
She turned to her brother. “I’m sorry, Adam. I need to go back to work.” She scrambled for an excuse. “We had a tough call this morning.” That was the truth.
Adam’s shoulder jerked. “It’s cool. Thanks for coming out here.”
“We’ll talk about it again, OK?”
“OK.” Adam nodded, but his eyes were still disappointed. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “You’ll tell me if anything else comes back to you?”
“I will.” Bree gave him a one-armed hug.
Adam glanced back at the house. A damp wind stirred the branches overhead. Bree shivered. She glanced over her shoulder. The barn overshadowed the yard. Next to it were the remains of two partially collapsed sheds, their exposed wooden beams bleached like old bones in a desert. Beyond the clearing, an overgrown path led to the area where the dogs had been kept. Bree rubbed the thirty-year-old scar on her shoulder. Her earliest clear memory was of one of those dogs nearly killing her.
Something banged in the barn.
“Someone’s in there.” Adam started forward. “I’ve run off trespassers before.”
“You should have called me.” Bree reached for her gun. “Stay here.”
But Adam was a Taggert, and they were a stubborn lot, always making choices that were the opposite of their own best interests. He jogged across the weeds at her flank. She reached the side of the barn, put out a hand to stop him, and hissed, “Stay behind me.”