Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

He starts talking. I’m listening, but mostly I just want him to stay engaged. He talks about finding a photo online of his family, about how it took him back to one particular Christmas just before his sister was taken away. I understand that. Memories are a drug, and sometimes they have a rush to them that brings a horrible, hollow emptiness after. I still remember the last video call with my sister while I was deployed. I’d had to cut it short. I still replay it in my mind and think about what else she might have said, what else I could have done to keep her in my world just a little bit longer.

Tyler is doing the same thing, but he’s got nothing to hold on to. His sister’s killer was never caught, and that never-ending suspense and despair makes people lose faith, lose love, lose hope. My mystery was solved.

His may never be.

Five minutes away. I keep an eye out for patrol cars. If I dared, I’d try to make a call to the cops and send them to the bridge, but the trust I’ve established with Tyler is as fragile as a smoke ring; if he thinks I’m going to betray it, he’ll be gone before they can stop him.

And what if this is something else? A little voice in the back of my head, a cold one, has doubts. You don’t know this kid. What if he’s luring you?

If he is, I’m armed, and I’m not going down easy. Tyler doesn’t strike me as someone who’d be physically aggressive, but if he is, I’m ready for that.

“Sam?” His voice is faint now. Tired. “I just want to go now. Thank you for trying.”

“No, Tyler, don’t do that. Come on, man, stay with me. I’m three minutes away. You can wait three minutes, right?” I’m hurtling there like a comet. I can see the lights of downtown. The bridge isn’t far. I blow through a deserted red light and keep moving.

“I don’t want to wait.”

“But you called me for a reason,” I say. “You wanted me to know. And I do want to know. You’ve got more to tell me. I know that.”

I keep talking, not even sure what I’m saying anymore; I see the green superstructure of the bridge up ahead; it’s built under the bridge, not over. The lights illuminate the roadway, and I can’t see any cars stopped in the narrow breakdown lane on either side. It’s only a two-lane bridge, and no traffic at all.

I slow down, afraid I’ll miss him; even so, I spot him at the last second. He’s wearing dark pants, a dark hoodie, and he nearly blends into the night.

He’s standing on the concrete ledge, legs pressed against the green steel. It’s an easy, effortless step over.

I hit the brakes and fight the wheel to steer the truck into the narrow space of the breakdown lane, and I bail out fast, phone clutched in my hand. My instinct is to run at him, but my next impulse is to stop, slow down, approach carefully. So I walk, though it seems to take forever.

Tyler is staring out at the river, not at the lights of downtown. And as Nietzsche said, the abyss is looking into him. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t break that stare.

“Tyler?” I see the phone is in his hand, still active. I shut off the call and hold up both hands. “I’m going to put my phone in my pocket, okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds fine. That’s the worst part. “You didn’t need to come.”

“I know.” I lean against the railing. I’m ten feet away, trying to figure out how to get closer without triggering a deadly reaction. I put my phone in my jacket pocket, and as I do, I hit the emergency dial function for 911. I wait for a few seconds, and hope that it’s connected before I say, “Why did you pick the Gay Street Bridge to jump from?” God, please let the operator pick that up.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “I like this bridge. And it’s high.”

It is. There’s a strong, cool wind blowing. The stars are out, the moon behind a rising cloud bank. It’d be beautiful if I were standing here with Gwen. It’s ominous now.

“You want to explain to me why you decided to do this now? Tonight?”

“I told you. The pictures.”

“But there had to be something else. You’ve seen those pictures before.”

He turns his head toward me. He’s wearing his Florida Gators baseball cap, still, with the hoodie drawn over it. He puts his hands in his pockets. The blank expression is no different than it was at the airfield, and that chills me deep. “It’s her birthday,” he says. “My sister’s, I mean. She’d be twenty-one today. I would have bought her a drink. Made sure she got home safe after.”

That guts me. I can feel the crumbling edge of that emotional cliff.

Tyler looks back at the river.

“Tell me about her,” I say. “Did you two get along?”

“Not always. She was kind of a bitch the day—the day it happened.” I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I see him waver forward a little, and I tense up. I can be fast if I need to; I might be able to get to him and grab his hoodie before he’s out of reach. But stopping a falling body his size is tough, and I’ll probably rip a ligament, maybe dislocate my arm.

That isn’t a deterrent. Just a factor. I carefully, hopefully unnoticeably, edge closer. “Did she know you loved her?”

“What?”

“Did she know you loved her, Tyler?”

I get his stare back again. “Why?”

“Because it matters. It mattered to me. The last thing I told my sister was that I loved her, and that helped. But she would have known it anyway, I hope.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if she thought that. I bought her a Christmas present,