Mari Mancusi - Scorched

“Here we are. Home sweet home,” Trinity announced as she pulled the torn screen door open. The bank had changed the locks when they’d foreclosed on her former home, but they evidently hadn’t bothered to check all the windows. She wasn’t surprised, not really. After all, there was nothing inside worth stealing. Just dusty furniture and even dustier memories.

She drew in a breath. The last time she’d stepped inside this house, she’d stumbled upon a nightmare, her worst fears coming true. This time things were decidedly less dramatic. The house felt more like an ancient crypt than a fresh grave. Caked with dust and draped with intricate spider webs, it was an empty husk of what had once been a home.

She could feel its emptiness hammering at her bones. But Connor said he wanted to make sure. He cased the house, first and second floor, gun raised and ready, as she waited by the back door for his okay. After determining that it was, indeed, as abandoned and vacant as she promised, he set down his gun and allowed his shoulders to relax. Trinity rummaged about to find a few candles and matches, and even scored an industrial-strength flashlight from the garage that amazingly still held some battery power. She spread the candles around the living room and removed the plastic covering from the faded flowery couch.

Connor watched her at her tasks, still looking a little uneasy. He’d changed out of his strange silver jumpsuit and now wore slouchy dark-rinse jeans, riding low on his narrow hips, and a tight navy T-shirt, stretching across his broad chest and bringing out the blue in his ever-glowing eyes. Trin had to admit, for a guy from the future, he was pretty hot. If only she could snap a quick pic and text it to Caitlin. Of course, explaining how she met him might prove a bit difficult.

She shook her head. Get your mind out of the gutter, girl, she scolded herself. After all, he was here on a mission to save the world—not hook up with the locals.

That said, the guy from Terminator did manage to find the time…

“So you used to live here?” Connor asked, completely oblivious to her ridiculous thoughts, thank God. “It’s strange we have no record of that.”

“I wasn’t here long,” she admitted, sobered by the question. “My mom bought the place to convince the judge I’d have a quote—” she made rabbit ears with her fingers “—stable home environment.” She screwed up her face. “What a joke that was. Didn’t last long enough for the first mortgage check to cash.”

Connor regarded her solemnly. “Is that when she died?”

“When she blew her head off, you mean?”

He winced. “I’m sorry.”

She waved him off, not wanting to deal with the pity she knew she’d find in his eyes. It was bad enough to be back here in the first place. Everywhere she looked—everything she saw—a bitter reminder of that other Christmas Eve two years ago today. That fateful afternoon when she’d danced home from school with light steps and a happy heart. Eager to get the party started. To celebrate her first real Christmas in her first real home.

From now on, things are going to be different, her mother had promised. From now on, we’ll be a family.

But that, it had turned out, had been just another one of Mom’s fantasies.

“It’s amazing they managed to get all the brains out of the carpet,” she muttered, kicking the obviously bleached-out rug with her toe. The shotgun had made quite a mess—in fact, if it wasn’t for her mother’s bloodstained bunny slippers still stuffed on her feet and the emerald ring on her finger, she probably wouldn’t have even recognized the corpse sprawled out on the living room floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Connor’s cringe and immediately wished she could take back the vulgar words. After all, it had been her idea to come here—not his. And there was no reason to lash out and punish him for what her mother had done to her. Over the last two years, she’d tried to forget it altogether, to block out the memories and move forward with her life best she could. But being back here, at the scene of the unforgivable crime, was proving too much, especially with her nerves already stretched so tight.

“She was sick,” she found herself saying, surprising herself as the words spilled from her lips. She never talked about what had happened with her mother. Not to Caitlin. Not even to her grandpa. He’d tried to get her to talk about it, of course, even sent her to shrinks they couldn’t afford to help her release what she’d bottled up inside. But it had been no use. She’d never been able to voice the betrayal and hurt she’d experienced on that devastating day—the day she’d realized that all the promises in the world meant nothing and the only person she could truly trust was herself.

“Not physically sick,” she continued in a rush, twisting the ring on her finger forcefully. “I mean, she heard…voices…in her head. Sometimes they were so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.” She pressed her palm against the wall, hanging her head as she remembered. “They told her to do things. Things she never would have done otherwise.”

Like abandon her only daughter without even saying good-bye.

She trailed off, uncomfortably reminded of her own voices—the ones she’d heard back in the museum and at her grandpa’s house. Was it just a coincidence? Her mind playing tricks? Or had her mother’s illness been lurking inside of her all along? Waiting for just the right moment to dig its sharp talons into her consciousness and rip out her sense of reality?

I’m nothing like Mom. I’m nothing like Mom. I’m NOTHING like Mom.

She shoved off the wall, plopping down on the couch and scrubbing her face with her hands. “Anyway, that’s when my grandpa took me in. He didn’t have to. But he knew how miserable I’d been in foster care over the years when my mom was in and out of hospitals, and so he somehow convinced the judge to award him custody.” She gave Connor a sad smile. “And we became a family. Just the two of us.”

And then I yelled at him , she added to herself. I basically called him a fool for wasting our money on some useless artifact.

But it wasn’t useless. And she was the one who’d been a fool.

She glanced out the window, unease knotting her stomach. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Had the blood on the knife been his? The fact that the agents were looking for him meant, at least, they didn’t have him. But what about these Dracken people? Could they have captured him somehow? And if so, what would they do to him? Would they hold him captive until she agreed to turn over the egg?

“I just hope he’s okay,” she said quietly. “I can’t stand thinking about him out there somewhere, all alone, maybe in trouble. It just makes me feel so helpless.” Her voice cracked on the last part as she fought back a sob.

For a moment she just sat there, staring out the window, not knowing what to do, what to say. Then, to her surprise, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Connor reaching out, without a word, gathering her into his arms.

Her first instinct was to resist, to pull away. To put distance between herself and this stranger. After all, she wasn’t the type of girl who just fell into a guy’s arms at a moment’s notice, no matter how hot they might be.

Yet she was so stressed, so frayed, so at her wits’ end. And his arms were so warm. So gentle and comforting. An embrace for her tired soul to melt into. She found herself relaxing, resting her head against his chest, breathing in his warm, rich scent. As he stroked her head with careful fingers, she could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against her ear.