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

I can hear a siren in the distance. No no no . . . if they run lights and sirens, they could send him off the edge fast. I move forward a little more. He doesn’t react. “I’d really like to talk to you about my sister. I could use that help, too, talking to somebody who understands. Do you want to get down and go grab a coffee, maybe? Come on, Tyler. Let’s talk it out. You can do this anytime. But I’m here, right now. And I care.”

He seems to sigh, and for a terrible red second I think I’ve lost him.

Then he says, “Yeah. Okay.”

And he jumps down off the ledge.

I’m not really prepared for that, and the relief that fills me makes my voice a little unsteady. “Thank you, Tyler,” I say. “Come on with me. Let’s go find someplace quiet, okay?”

He says, “Did you call the cops?”

I don’t blink. “No. Maybe someone else did, though. Someone could have seen you up here.”

He nods and walks over to my truck. While his back is turned, I hang up the call. I open the door for him and get him inside just as the Knoxville patrol car glides to a stop nose-in toward us. The strobes stay on, but the siren stops. Two officers get out. I hold up my hands and walk toward them. “Sam Cade,” I tell them. “I’m the one who called. He’s down, and I’m going to take him for coffee and then try to get him some help. We’re okay. Thanks for coming.”

One of the officers breaks off to talk to Tyler. The other moves me up against the railing a little farther off. It doesn’t take long. They’re just relieved not to have to be talking someone out of an irrevocable decision.

When I get back in the truck, Tyler seems okay. Quiet. He’s staring down at his hands. “Thanks for coming, Sam,” he says. “You didn’t have to. That means a lot.”

I don’t know how to answer that, so I just nod and start the engine. There’s a twenty-four-hour diner not far away; I’ve hit it several times, and it’s usually quiet. He doesn’t talk on the drive there. We pull up and walk in, take a seat in a yellow leatherette booth, and get coffee pours. Tyler orders a waffle, which surprises me a little.

Now that my heartbeat’s slowing down, I realize that I’m already late coming home. I text Gwen stopping on the way, home soon, will call. I put it on silent, not even vibrate. The responsibility of Tyler is pretty big in my mind right now. I don’t want him to think I’m not completely invested in this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about whether or not she knew I loved her,” Tyler says. “That’s a good question. I guess she didn’t, Sam. I never was good at showing things like that, even before—” He points toward his head. “Big brother, little sister, I got annoyed at her a lot. I wish that wasn’t true, but it is. Did your sister—”

“We didn’t grow up together,” I tell him. “We were separated in foster care when we were both really young. We reconnected while I was overseas. Mostly, we just talked on video calls and the phone. She probably annoyed me before we lost our folks, but I don’t really remember that part so well.”

That gets his attention. He pauses with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Your parents died?”

“How about yours? Are they still—”

“No. They’re both gone too.”

We sit there, two orphans, both hurt in different ways. I don’t know that I like the mirror that I’m looking into. But I understand the black, wounded desperation he feels, and that’s enough to make a bond.

I tell him about my sister. I do it slowly, a little haltingly, because I’m afraid it’s going to unleash all the nastiness I’ve buried so deep. But it doesn’t, beyond a couple of uncomfortable twinges. That’s a wonder. I talk about how it felt to come back, to deal with the loss, to fall in with Miranda Tidewell—the mother of another of Melvin’s victims—and go down that unhealthy, entirely destructive spiral.

I talk about Gwen, and how she’s pulled me back out of it, or at least been a signpost on the way. He takes it in silently, eating his waffle with mechanical efficiency and no real sign of pleasure. My coffee sits untouched even after his is empty.

When I finally stop talking, he meets and holds my gaze for long enough it feels uncomfortable. “Thank you,” he says. “I needed to know that.”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. “Point is, Tyler, there is going to be a way up and through this. I found one, and believe me, I was in a very, very dark place. I believe you want to find a way out too. So if you want to keep meeting and talking about it—”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he says, which sets me back a little. “I mean . . . you’re right, Sam. I should get help. Real help. Like you have.”

“I’d like to help you do that,” I tell him. “How about I call a counseling crisis center and you talk to them? They’re going to have better advice than I do.”

He shakes his head. “I already know where to go,” he says. “There’s a doctor I know who can help me. I just . . . didn’t want to go there, that’s all. But I guess I have to, really.”

“Can I drive you there?”

He blinks, like he didn’t think I’d offer. “That would be nice.”

I pay the check, since he’s done. I walk him out to the truck, and he gives me quiet directions. We pull up in the parking lot of a small hospital; the sign says it serves behavioral health urgent care. That’s exactly what he needs.

“Sam?” He unlocks his seatbelt and turns toward me. “You’ve been real