Split, Page 2

  “We’re on in five…four…”

  I straighten my coat and look directly into the camera as Trevor counts down in my ear.

  This is for you, Momma.

  “You’re on!”

  “Terror struck this quaint Flagstaff neighborhood as big-city crime moves north. After several assaults on women in Phoenix, all with identical trademarks, police have now moved their investigation to neighboring cities as another victim surfaces. The name of this most recent victim hasn’t been released, but her age, socioeconomic profile, and details of the crime fit other victims of who Phoenix police are now calling the Shadow. All the assaults were committed in the evening hours, with no witnesses, and the perpetrator is masked and wears gloves, leaving no forensic evidence behind. The call to this house behind me came in shortly after eight p.m. when the woman who lives here was found bloodied and unconscious—”

  “There’s movement in the doorway,” Trevor says.

  “…after a frantic nine-one-one call.”

  “No! Let me go!” A young girl, a teenager, is practically carried out of the house by an officer. Leaf swings the camera to her. She’s curled into the chest of an older policeman, her shoulders bouncing as she sobs.

  “Shyann!” Trevor’s voice booms through my earpiece, making me jump. “Keep talking. Leaf, get us a visual on the girl.”

  “Oh, uh, it seems a…” The girl’s face twists in agony and I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “A girl who—”

  “Mom, no… please, Mom!” Her guttural shriek pierces the air.

  Another fissure slices through my chest and old feelings threaten to bubble to the surface.

  Emotionless. Stay distant, Shyann.

  “Seems to be the victim’s daughter—”

  “Let me see her,” the girl pleads with police. “Oh, God, please…”

  The girl’s anguish reaches through my chest and squeezes my heart. My throat grows tight. The backs of EMTs shuffle out the door as they carry a stretcher.

  “Mommy!”

  I ignore the girl as best I can and try to trudge on. “It seems…um…they’re—”

  “No!” The girl throws her body onto the stretcher and it’s then I notice the woman on it is covered in a white sheet. Completely covered. Even her face.

  Oh, God. She’s dead.

  Trevor’s voice growls in my ear. “She’s dead! Get the shot!”

  My stomach churns.

  “Talk! Shyann!”

  I nod. “It seems tragedy has taken a turn…um…for the…”

  The young girl launches herself at the body again. The police hold her back while she kicks and screams for her mother.

  My breath catches as memories flood my mind. I was just like her. Losing control of my body, kicking and wanting to inflict the kind of pain I was feeling. The heart-pumping panic, sudden coldness that blankets overheated skin causing uncontrollable shivers. And the terror, all of it shoots through me now like it did when I lost my momma.

  “Shyann! Talk to her!” The levity in Trevor’s voice ignites my blood, replacing my frigid panic. “This is fucking gold.”

  Leaf moves to get a better view and jerks his wide eyes for me to get into the shot. I turn back, studying the girl, remembering the confusion, the heartbreak, the all-consuming unfairness.

  “Please don’t die…” Her anger turns to sobs of devastation so palpable they shake my foundation.

  I take a wobbly step forward.

  “Don’t be dead…”

  “I swear to God, Shyann, if you don’t get in there and grab this story…this is our ticket. You hear me, dammit? Get your ass in there!”

  I open my mouth to speak, Trevor’s demand in my ear pushing my lips to move, but there are no words.

  I can’t.

  Everything becomes irrelevant. My stupid fucking clothes, dreams of becoming an anchor for a national broadcast, all if it pales in the light of this girl’s recognizable anguish. Her cries rip through my unaffected façade and reach into my soul. It slices through vital organs and dives into the recesses where I’ve locked away my hate. Anger. Cruelty that a child would have to suffer through the loss of the single person in this world that ever understood her.

  Trevor growls in my ear. “Shya—”

  “I can’t.” The words come out with the force brought on by years of suppression.

  “You can’t? We’re live! Talk!”

  Leaf’s free hand rolls frantically through the air, his camera lens zeroing in like a weapon ready to cause mass destruction.

  My head moves on my shoulders, conveying the one word that won’t leave my lips. No.

  “Fuck it, she’s done!” Trevor’s voice shakes with fury. “Leaf, get in there now!”

  Leaf moves before Trevor’s even done talking and shoves the camera lens into the girl’s face.

  “No!” An impulse to shield her compels me forward. “Leave her alone.” I stumble over loose rocks, but it’s not enough to stop me. “Cut the feed!”

  “Back off, Shyann! You’re—”

  I tear out my earpiece and throw my body between the girl and the camera lens.

  Leaf gasps, “What the fu—”

  “Leave her alone!” I grab the camera and slam it into Leaf’s face so hard it sends him to his ass.

  The firm clunk of the news camera rings in my ears and blood spills from just under Leaf’s eyebrow, signaling me to a single truth.

  My short career in broadcast news has come to an end.

  * * *

  Five years fit into a few boxes now packed in the bed of my Ford Ranger. I never thought much about my lack of belongings. Makes sense I guess. If it wasn’t something I could wear or something I was studying, I had no use for it. The last five years of my life have consisted of meeting my basic needs—shelter, sleep, sustenance—and chasing after my career goals. Anything to keep from being forced back to the town I was raised in.

  I had big plans when I left home. College, work, and get as far away from Payson as I could. Now here I am, a few months past graduation, and I made it ninety-four miles.

  Not impressive.

  I was looking forward to bouncing around from small market to small market, going from one furnished studio apartment to the other, ready to pack up and go when a job opportunity called. If it called. Which after last week’s incident it probably never will.

  “You sure you’re okay to drive home alone?” Trevor’s leaning against my truck, a coffee in one hand and wearing his stupid fucking aviator glasses that make him look nothing like Maverick. His styled dirty-blond hair doesn’t budge in the wind and his pale skin screams of a man who spends most of his days inside and behind a desk.

  Maybe it’s growing up in a small town, or the closest men in my life being the build-it-yourself, hunt, and drink beer type, but his pleated golf shorts and lavender collared shirt tucked in like a good little preppy doesn’t make me weak in the knees. He’s handsome, gets plenty of attention from women, but all he’s ever been for me is comfortable. He doesn’t bring out my inner sex goddess, nor does he completely repulse me.

  “You sure you care?” I slam the tailgate shut a little harder than I need to.

  He sighs. Loud. “Honey…”

  I cringe inwardly at that ridiculous pet name.

  “I do care, but you knew this would happen.”

  Not even an ounce of sympathy, not that he’d understand why I did what I did. Trevor’s one of those robotic guys, prides himself in having zero emotions and preaches the importance of keeping all relationships, business or otherwise, feelings-free. It’s one of the things I dig about him—I mean, until now.

  “This was your chance, Shyann. You blew it.” He laughs, but it’s more of a shocked I-can’t-believe-how-stupid-you-are chuckle. “You gave Leaf an orbital fracture. You fucked this up for all of us.”

  “Thanks for the recap, Trevor.” I split my ponytail and pull it tight.

  “You can’t expect to keep your job after that. Yo
u know better.”

  “Just like a bad little puppy, you’re gonna rub my nose in it. I appreciate that.” As if I don’t already feel like shit. It’s not like I did it on purpose; it just happened.

  Truth is, I’ve always had a horrible temper. I’ve managed to keep it under control; being away from my childhood home and the small town I grew up in made it easy. I distanced myself from everything that made me feel, until the newscast heard ’round the world. For me, there was no holding back.

  He hooks me by the waist and pulls me into a one-arm hug, pressing our hips together. “Aw, don’t leave mad.” He kisses me and the smell of coffee on his breath mixed with his overly sweet cologne turns my stomach. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to that hick town.”

  “It’s not a hick t-town. It’s a quaint m-mountain community.”

  His eyes narrow. “You’re stuttering. You always stutter when you lie.”

  “Whatever.” I press my hand against his chest to get some distance, and a small fire burns in my gut. “Besides, it’s only temporary until I figure out what my next move is.”

  Trevor’s the one who got me the job at FBS. Job is a bit of an exaggeration, seeing as I only made enough money to pay for the necessities. Now I’ve got sixty-eight dollars in my account and my rent was past due until Trevor paid the six hundred dollars so I could get out of my lease. I’d feel bad for taking his money, but my only other option was asking my dad. Trevor was the lesser of two pride-squashing evils, and Lord knows I have little dignity left to spare.

  He releases me and opens the truck door. “Drive safely and call me when you get there.” There’s a tiny hint of the man I remember meeting in my comm classes back when we had mutual respect for each other and our career goals. “Let me know what you decide.”

  “Will do.” I slide into the driver’s seat and strap on my seat belt. “And…uh…I’ll send you a check as soon as I get some money.”

  He shuts the door and leans down to poke his head through the open window. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you somewhere to stay while you figure all this out. It’s just—”

  “Are we really doing this? Don’t act like you give a flying fuck where I end up, Trevor.”

  Disapproval twists his mouth. “That mouth’ll keep getting you into trouble if you’re not careful, honey.”

  I fight the urge to shove my finger down my throat. “I like my mouth. It’s honest.”

  His lips brush across my cheekbone. “Get your shit together, then bring your dirty mouth back to me. I’ll see if there are any job openings in town. Maybe the coffee shop’s hiring.” There’s a hint of humor in his voice.

  “You’re an asshole.” How I ever ended up naked with him is a mystery. I mean, if lots and lots of tequila can be considered a mystery. After that it just seemed like an easy way to scratch an itch.

  “You love me.”

  I stare at him for a few seconds, realizing that I don’t love him. I care about him as much as a person who cares about nothing can, but that’s the extent. We established the ground rules from the beginning—no attachments, our careers come first, don’t get in each other’s way.

  “I’ll be in touch.” I avoid his eyes and step on the gas, forcing him to step back from the truck. I don’t even look in the rearview mirror as I pull away.

  I hit the road, grateful for the one thing my dad gave me besides my blue eyes that earned me my middle name—my truck. It’s small, only two seats, but it has four-wheel-drive and even though it’s the color of baby shit—the dealership calls it champagne—it’s been the most reliable thing in my life.

  The highway stretches out before me, and talk radio blares static through my speakers. I punch off the obnoxious noise and force myself to sit in my own silence.

  Stupid, stupid, Shyann.

  Five years of college for what? I worked my butt off to get where I was, got handed the opportunity that would catapult my career, and killed my chances in a few seconds of live newsfeed. Now there isn’t a broadcast company in this country that will touch me. And I’m broke.

  I know better than to let my personal feelings interfere with my work. As much as I regret what I did to end my short career, I can’t say I’d do anything differently. There’s no way I could exploit that young girl’s suffering.

  The girl’s mother had a heart defect and the severe beating put too much stress on her heart and killed her. Not a painless death, I’m sure, but at least it was quick.

  Unlike my momma’s.

  No, she had to suffer for over two years, her body giving up at an agonizing pace, leaving her mind for last so she’d be completely aware of how she was dying. The memories slice through my mind’s eye, my dad holding her limp body, roaring his anger at God.

  It was sitting in that cold church, watching every person in our town filter past me with words they hoped would ease my pain. That was when I decided I’d get out of Payson the second I graduated and never go back. I was angry, starving for a fight. Desperate to have my dad back rather than the empty man with the dead eyes who she left us with. He hated that I was leaving, never understood my need to run, to do all the things I promised my momma I’d do. We fought. Hard. Unforgivable words were exchanged, and we haven’t managed to patch our relationship since.

  Now I’m crawling back to beg for mercy, the prodigal child, broke, jobless, and with debt hanging off me like dead weight. If there’s one thing I know for sure, Nash Jennings will never let me live this down.

  He might be a proud man, but I’m just as proud. I’ll need time to save money, figure out my options, and the second I do I’m out of there. Yeah, this is my best option.

  I’m meant for big things. This is simply a speed bump.

  Two

  Lucas

  “Yo, dreamboy!”

  I jerk my head up from my tape measure to see Stilts struggling to secure a rafter to a tie beam.

  “Mind helping me out?”

  A quick nod and I climb up the ladder, taking two rungs at a time, the red on the middle-aged man’s cheeks getting redder like an alarm that’s about to blare. “Got it.” I hold the beam steady on my end while he levels and secures it into place.

  Sweat drips off the tip of his bulbous nose. “Thanks, kid.”

  Kid. The word grates along my spine. I’ve lived through more in my twenty-five years than most guys twice my age. Not that he’ll ever know that.

  “No problem.” I jump down and head back to working on the partition wall that will eventually be a kitchen. This type of work has always come easy to me. Cuts, angles, levels, everything in construction is a math equation with only one right answer.

  Easy, predictable, and safe. At least, safe for me.

  Carving is what I love most. Taking a salvaged piece of wood and turning it into something new and beautiful, giving it a new purpose. A different life.

  My mind works through the project before me, my hands securing lumber with every pop of a nail gun, but in my head I’m somewhere else. Creating, always imagining. The wood’s grain patterns twist and swirl, inspiring intricate pictures that I try to remember so I can sketch them later. It seems stupid, but even the simplest inanimate objects hold fascination when I look at them long enough. Maybe it’s a vivid imagination or maybe my brain doesn’t work like most.

  “Looks good.”

  I peer up at Chris, my foreman, who’s checking my levels. “Thank you, sir.”

  He regards me with very little concern, the same passive nonchalance he always does. “Nash is looking for you.” He tilts his head toward what will eventually be the garage of this home, then turns away.

  That’s the other nice thing about working construction—there’s not a lot of idle chitchat among men. They communicate in basics, need-to-know only, even eliminating words completely with the occasional grunt. I’m able to keep my head down, get lost in the project and earn a paycheck with little to no problems at all.

  I rip my baseball hat from my head and give it a
good shake, then do my best to smack the sawdust and wood shavings from my T-shirt and jeans as I head out to find Nash.

  Seeing him at the far end of the garage, I’m reminded why the man commands the respect of not only his employees, but also from the entire town, far as I can tell. The guy stands over six feet tall, his silver and black hair a little too long to be considered clean cut and a little too short to be considered long. His eyebrows are dropped low in concentration that makes him appear to be cursing the hell out of whatever he’s looking at.

  “Lucas.”

  He doesn’t even look up, but the firm way he says my name quickens my pace until I’m right up to him. “Sir?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the blueprints rolled out on a makeshift table constructed of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. “Clients called. Interested in a specialty piece for the fireplace.” His thick, calloused finger runs along a line on the blueprint. “Here. Told ’em we got a guy who does some pretty good work. You interested?”

  “Is that…” I squint at the blueprint, figuring out the numbers. “Eight feet? Roughly?”

  He sets his steely gaze to mine and I fight to hold his stare. The color is so light blue they’re almost white and, set against skin that’s been exposed to the sun and the elements for what I’d guess to be close to sixty years, gives him an eerie and intimidating look. “Seven and a quarter.”

  I fidget, tugging my hat down to my eyebrows. “I can do that.”

  “I’ll need a mock-up for approval.”

  My hands go into my pockets as nerves and excitement war in my chest. “Did they want something specific?”

  He rubs the back of his neck, still studying the blueprints. “I showed ’em your last piece. They want something along those lines.”

  The last one I did was an outdoor scene, a river flowing with deer drinking and a family of black bears grabbing fish from it. It was inspired by the view outside my front door, so coming up with another one should be easy enough.

  “Same wood, sir?”

  He shakes his head and exhales heavily. “Been here for two months now. You can call me Nash. Local pine will work.” He makes a frustrated growling noise, then shifts his gaze to a few men unloading supplies from his truck. “Cody!”