Page 133 of Burning Embers
“Izzy, we need to talk,” Hale says almost as soon as I step through the door after my shift at the theater.
I smell like butter, hot dogs, and Coke—the latter courtesy of a little boy who “accidentally” threw it at me. And I say “accidentally” because I’m ninety percent sure the little shit did it on purpose after I told him he couldn’t have a soft pretzel for free.
I hang up my coat and run my fingers through my knotted blonde hair.
Hale and Gerry sit in the living room on the couch, almost as if they’ve been waiting for me to return home the entire time I was out.
An uneasy feeling slithers through my stomach and settles in my chest, coiling around my heart.
Is this about the murders? Alixandra and Larissa? Something else entirely?
“What’s up?” I ask a little cautiously as I move into the living room.
I don’t sit despite the empty armchair that has clearly been left for me. I have too much energy skittering across my skin, almost as if I stuck my finger into an electrical socket.
Hale and Gerry exchange an unreadable look that sends my heart into palpitations.
While Hale is dressed comfortably in sweats and a T-shirt, Gerry still wears his signature leather jacket and cowboy boots. His long hair cascades down his shoulders with a single braid woven near the front.
“Don’t look so terrified, kid,” Gerry says with a chuckle.
The sound causes some of the tension riding my shoulders and neck to ease.
“What did you expect?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “You can’t just tell a girl ‘we need to talk’ and not expect her to freak out.”
Hale rolls his eyes. “But wedoneed to talk.”
“You could’ve started the conversation with something a little more light-hearted,” Gerry teases. “Maybe you could’ve started the conversation with a song?”
“A song.” Hale doesn’t phrase it as a question as he blinks up at his husband.
“A ballad, maybe? Or a rap?” Gerry continues, running a hand over the beard on his jawline.
“What do we need to talk about?” I ask, getting the conversation back on track.
I’ve witnessed firsthand the way Gerry can rile Hale up with his teasing. The two love each other more than anything, but I swear Gerry’s boisterous, jovial personality makes Hale want to go on a murder rampage.
Hale and Gerry exchange another one of those unreadable looks, and the room once again turns fraught with tension.
“You’re going to be eighteen soon,” Hale says kindly, and I swear my heart stops beating.
How often did I pray to turn eighteen and finally be free of the shackles foster care put on me?
Now, I’m dreading my upcoming birthday more than anything else in the world. It feels as if I’m staring up at the sparkly blade of a guillotine just waiting for it to drop. My heart doesn’t just beat; itpounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire room could hear it.
Are they going to kick me out?
Where will I go?
Terror threatens to flay me open.
“Jesus Christ, Hale!” Gerry snaps. “Why did you have to phrase it like that?”
Hale blinks. “What did I do wrong?”
Gerry ignores his husband and turns towards me. “Kid, we’re not kicking you out, so if that’s what you’re thinking, stop it.”
Hale finally seems to grasp how his words could be construed, and he gapes at me in wide-eyed horror. “Oh no, sweetheart. No. We’re not kicking you out. God, no.”