Abby clung to the rocky façade. To move meant looking down, way down, or releasing her hold and climbing up, way up. An image of Jack’s body plummeting past flashed through her mind; her heart contracted. She couldn’t stay clinging to the cliff. Words moved through her mind in an endless loop.
Forget him … forgive him … forgive me …
Abby slid her bruised hand around on the stone until she found a niche above her head; she did the same with one foot, then hoisted herself up, a little at a time. She repeated the process, left then right, a slow, excruciating vertical crawl. Her arms ached, her already skinned face scraped on jutting pebbles, and her ankle throbbed.
Forget him … forgive him … forgive me …
She reached the moss at the top. Close up she saw the tiny, individual shoots clumped together; in the dark it looked gray instead of green. The moon over her shoulder cast enough illumination to highlight a silvery sheen on the damp fungus.
Abby’s searching fingers found a gnarled root. Using it as a handle, she pulled until she slid across the moss and collapsed on top of the cliff, feet still dangling over the edge. She dragged her body across the moss then stood, swaying. She bent over at the waist and put her head down. The spinning stopped but her stomach rebelled. She gagged and vomited on the lichen. The stench made her vomit again.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and waded through the sodden switchgrass. The longing to cry, the ache to grieve, would have to wait. Although she knew she should keep moving, she collapsed on a tree stump. Jack could no longer hurt her. He also would never make her laugh again, dry her tears, or surprise her with a rose-covered box.
In the absence of immediate danger, exhaustion set in. She hung her head and noticed Jack’s bike shoe still clutched in her hand. Picking it up, she held it next to her cheek, flashing back to the barn the first time she saw it on him. And the last time, as he tried to force her off the cliff. She flung the shoe into the woods and limped through the mud. Jack’s bike and his backpack were half-hidden in the weeds, bike tools strewn about.
Abby hesitated, then reached for the backpack, holding it against her chest and breathing in the essence of Jack. A trickle of tears blurred her vision, and she succumbed to the battle between grief and anger. Numbness crept in and the tears stopped.
“Abigail … time to git home.” Silas stood amongst the trees, straight, tall, and very real. He opened his arms.
Abby dropped the pack. She ran to him, standing enveloped in his embrace, his scent heady and comforting. His soft breaths caressed her heart, making it pump with hope. “I don’t know what to do now. My brother …”
Silas pulled back enough to look in her eyes. “He ain’t worth your tears. Rest easy.” He kissed her forehead.
“What about us?”
Silas shook his head. “I ain’t privy to such things. I been mourning these many years for failing Abigail. But the good Lord gave me a second chance. Fighting for you brought me eternal love.”
“Since the day I arrived at Bikers’ Rest, you’ve been my friend—and my love.” Abby stood on tiptoes and kissed him. All the danger, fear, and distress morphed into passion. She pressed into him.
A rumble of thunder echoed from the other side of the river. Then another sound, soft and stealthy, caught her attention.
“Did you hear that? What if it’s Jack?” Abby stepped away from Silas. Mourning Jack and facing him again were two different things. When Silas didn’t answer, she looked for him, but he had vanished with the mist.
Before she could decide whether to run, hide, or fight, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind. She bit down, tasting blood and chocolate. The hand released her.
“Abby, whoa. Ouch, let go. It’s me.”
Abby whipped around. “Morton?” She flung her arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you. Your fingers, I’m sorry, I thought you were … well, I didn’t even think.” She stopped, out of breath, then pulled back. “Why are you here?”
Morton glanced around. “Where’s Jack?”
“Gone. Just—gone.”
Morton nodded. Another rumble of thunder, louder this time, made him shiver. “I got scared at home when the storm hit. A friend had taken my mom to a doctor’s appointment earlier; flash floods washed out the road, and they couldn’t get back. I didn’t want to be alone. I tried to call you, but the phones were dead, so I had to wait. When the rain stopped, I rode over to Bikers’ Rest. Then I got worried about you.”
“Why?” Abby said. “I could have been anywhere.”
“Nah, I knew something must be wrong between the open door at the house and the busted-up wall on the kitchen floor. I checked the barn and saw your bike, but not your dad’s or Jack’s. That seemed too weird. Then I found Jack’s letters and figured out you went after him. Stupid move, Abs. He’s a nut case—he could’ve killed you and thrown your body where we would never have found it.”
“Yeah, maybe, but what choice did I have? He is … was … my brother. And you tried to strangle me because …”
“Because I saw Jack’s bike and thought you were him and he had done something bad to you.”
Abby hung her head. “Yeah, well, I did something bad to him instead.”
“I’m not a lawyer, but I watch lots of TV.” Morton patted her shoulder. “It’s gotta be self-defense. And whatever you did, he had it coming.”
Abby couldn’t talk, think, or feel.
“I just want to go home.”