Page 6 of Every Thought Taken
I shrug. “So far, yes.” Taking a deep breath, I consider how to explain why. There is no perfect answer. “His reasons for killing killers make sense.”
“You don’t think it’s wrong he’s a killer? Even if he’s taking out killers, he’s one too.”
“Yeah. But it’s better than him killing good people.”
Helena jerks back and stares at me, her brows pinched. She studies me a moment and I shrink inside. Her stare isn’t cold, but it is similar to Mom’s look of disapproval. And I hate this look on her face. I disappoint enough people already. Letting down friends… not sure I can handle that.
She pats my leg with a hand. The simple touch is familiar, like something Grandma Everett does when she is proud of my vocabulary quiz grade. It is also different, but I don’t know how.
“Killing aside, what else do you like about the show?”
Her hand is still on my leg. Warm and… nice. I close my eyes, mentally shake it off, and focus on her question. The deeper I dig for an answer, the more I wonder if she wants to hear it. Because it isn’t normal… like me.
“He isn’t scared to be himself. He knows darkness exists in him and chooses to accept it. People call him weird and he doesn’t care.”
The corner of her mouth tips up. “That’s a very specific and smart answer.” She knocks my shoulder with hers. “Sometimes I forget you’re younger.” Her face softens. “You act more mature than most boys—in your grade and mine.” She lays her head on my shoulder and whispers, “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
CHAPTER4
HELENA
Ashiver wakes me and I tug the blanket to my chin with a groan. Clangs and mumbles in the distance wake me further. I crack an eye and see Mags next to me on the floor, curled into a ball in her sleeping bag.
How did I get to bed?
Memories of my talk with Anderson last night begin to surface. I was confused by his answer about why he liked the show. Last I remember, we started the third episode with my head on his shoulder. I’d never been so physically close with Anderson. He was Lessa’s little brother and, in some ways, mine too.
When he spoke of darkness and fear and brushed off negative comments as if he related to each, instinct took over. I wanted to comfort him. Take away every hurt he has known. Steal every dark thought he ever had.
Last night, he laughed for the first time in a long time. I may not see Anderson every day like I do Mags and Lessa, but we spend a lot of time together. Enough for me to pick up on the small changes in his smiles and laughter and attitude. Often, I consider asking Lessa if he is okay. But I resist butting in. It isn’t my place. He isn’t technically my family.
If something is wrong, his family has to know. Right?
Unzipping my sleeping bag, I sit up and look past Mags for Lessa. Her sleeping bag is empty. I twist and scan her bed. Empty. I stretch my arms then consider waking Mags but decide to let her sleep.
I tiptoe to the door and twist the handle, peeking over my shoulder as the hinges creak. Mags doesn’t move. Hints of sweet and savory and smoky hit my nose as I step into the hall and shut the door. I use the bathroom and brush my teeth then head for the kitchen.
As I round the corner, Lessa and Anderson come into view. Their backs to me, they stand at the stove. Lessa flips pancakes while Anderson stirs scrambled eggs and turns over bacon on the griddle. Without a word, I slide onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and watch. The timer buzzes and they step back. Anderson grabs a hot mitt and opens the oven door.
“Hey,” Lessa greets then turns off the burners.
“Morning,” I say as Anderson sets a pan of homemade biscuits on a trivet.
Footsteps echo down the hallway seconds before Lessa’s parents enter the kitchen. I don’t miss the slight slump in Anderson’s shoulders. I also don’t miss the way that one move twists my stomach.
“Good morning, kiddos,” Mr. Everett says with enthusiasm. He steps up to Lessa, wraps her in a tight hug, and kisses the top of her head. “Thank you for making breakfast.” He passes Anderson, pats his shoulder, and goes to the coffee maker and starts a pot.
Mrs. Everett wishes us a silent good morning with a wave and halfhearted smile then goes to the cabinet to grab plates. She stacks them at the end of the kitchen island then goes for the utensils. Before I get the chance to offer to help, she has forks and knives on napkins on the dining room table.
My mom isn’t as loving as my dad, but she has this warmth incomparable to anyone. As I watch Mrs. Everett move around the kitchen and dining room, I don’t catch an ounce of the warmth most moms have. The instinctual drive to nurture and safeguard their children. It’s… odd and disarming.
Lessa and I have been friends since the start of kindergarten and not once did I see Mrs. Everett in this way. Robotic and detached. Uncaring.
Maybe she didn’t sleep well.
The creak of Lessa’s door steals my attention. Mags shuffles down the hall in fuzzy socks with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She walks up to me and playfully shoves my shoulder.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”