Shards of Us by K. R. Caverly Read Free Book Online Page B

know how long. All I remember is waking up face down in a seat of some sort a while after Sebastian knocked me unconscious. It felt like there was something moving beneath me, as if I were a car, but I can't be too sure. I could see nothing but blurry sunlight for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, and then I was gone, back in a memory.
    I'm twenty years old again, running down my old street in the pouring rain. I'd been at a friend's house all day, but her mom told me something had happened, that I needed to go home now, and I refused to let her drive me because I knew whatever it was, it was bad. And before I realized what I was doing, I'd started running.
    I run and run, already crying and choking and gasping for air, already wanting to crumple and let everything else leave me, already knowing something is terribly, terribly wrong.
    I can hear the sirens wailing through our once silent neighborhood, the buzz of energy and fear and sadness in the air. It's the dead of night, but everyone is standing outside of their houses, hugging and looking at the house the cars are crowding. My heart sinks.
    They're staring a t my house. The house I'd been staying in ever since I failed out college.
    Ten cop cars surround my front yard, and policemen fill the area, bringing evidence and equipment in and out of the house, talking into their radios and putting up yellow tape all around my home.
    I keep running. I don't even hesitate. Tears burn my eyes and my heart pounds furiously, but I try to hide it, try to stay hopeful, even though a deep, crushing part of me knows it's really over.
    "Ma'am, this is a crime scene," a pudgy cop says when I duck under the yellow tape, forcing my way over to my house. "You can't--"
    But I'm already pushing past him, muttering, "I live here" in between my fits of trembles, and then I hustle inside the house, pushing past a few cops, and look around desperately.
    The house is a mess. F urniture is upturned everywhere--couches, chairs, tables. Shattered glass is spilled across the floor, and torn-up pictures of me and my parents laughing and smiling several years ago litter the ground like they're nothing. And then I notice the drop of crimson on the hardwood floor in front of me, and I look up. I let out a scream as soon as see my parents, on the ground, shot and killed beside the sofa, their hands locked.
    Together.
    Even in death.
    I gasp and cry, and my body feels frozen and numb and hurt and I can barely process what I'm seeing, what this means. Sobs rack through me and I turn away, shaking all over. A detective grabs me and steers me outside, telling me I shouldn't be here, I should wait outside, that I was going to be okay, that everything was going to be okay even when I knew it wasn't.
    The detective starts turning away and hurries back inside, but I grab her through my tears. "Tell me," I gasp. "Tell me what happened."
    Her eyes look sad, so sad, sad for me. "I shouldn't--" she says quietly and tries to brush me off, but I cling to her for dear life, not knowing what else to do.
    "Please, tell me," I whisper. My voice sounds so hollow and defeated it doesn't even feel like mine anymore. "Tell me what happened."
    She sighs, then locks eyes with me. "It was a robbery," she says. "Your mother's jewelry was reported stolen. Suspect appears to be male. They tried to stop him, but… they couldn't. He had a gun," she adds.
    My stomach twists at her words but I manage a nod, whispering, "Thank you." And then I start shaking all over again, and I collapse into her arms, screaming and crying and telling myself this can't possibly be real, this can’t be happening to me, all night long.
    When I wake up next, I can vaguely hear a door slam outside, feel someone grab my arms and mutter something under their breath. And then I'm being moved away from here, to somewhere outside in the blinding sun. I feel my head loll back, and then I'm back in another memory.
    It's t hree days after the murder. I'm