to light and guard

chapter twelve

"At least you're not on the front page," Mary Eunice provided, weak and unable to offer comfort as she viewed the headline on the second page of the newspaper, which read, "Lana Winters Visits Grave of Murdered Ex-Lover," with a picture of their faces accompanying. The photograph flattered neither of them; the flash reflected on Lana's sunglasses, so her eyes looked like headlights, and Mary Eunice had a wide-eyed, panicked expression, lips drawn back over her teeth and squirming. "It could be worse, couldn't it?" You're not helping.

Brown eyes skimmed the article with haste, not lingering upon the words there, but her hands trembled with whitening knuckles where she clutched the paper. "Yeah. It could be worse." Her voice had a clipped tone, and Mary Eunice winced, averting her eyes. She's upset. Mary Eunice's tongue flicked to the roof of her mouth as she sought words. Don't. You'll just make it worse. Hand resting on her forearm, her fingernails dug into the skin there; she picked and loosened one of the scabs she had created with her anxious plucking. Lana, absorbed in the newspaper and the fury she had gathered against it, did not notice. "But it's still pretty damn infuriating." A scowl had etched upon her face, trenched there. "They didn't name you. You should be safe."

"From what?"

"Public scorn and scrutiny." Lana arched an eyebrow, lifting her gaze from the paper to Mary Eunice. "My fan club would get their panties in a knot, knowing I took you out of Briarcliff. They know what sort of place it is." Mary Eunice glanced down at her fingernails, the jagged ends she had tried to keep from biting. The urge to nibble on them jerked to life in her chest. You're awful. You make Lana's life awful. "People like that are more infuriating than the haters. They send so much damn mail—I would rather them leave me alone. Damn vultures. They're all damn vultures."

Should I say something? In the inflamed silence, Lana glaring down at the paper like she expected the words to change if she directed enough fury upon them. The dark voice surfaced in Mary Eunice's head once again, the one in Aunt Celest's tone. Of course you should, you moron. The Aunt Celest of her mind knew how to cut her down with a single curl of her tongue, just like Aunt Celest in her life. You're an idiot, Mary. You'll make a smart man a good, quiet wife one day. Her face screwed up to chase away the memory, and her tongue flapped to Lana, hoping to ground herself in reality if she participated in the conversation. "I'm sorry they're so awful to you." I'm sorry it's because of me. "What—What can I do?" The jagged edges of her fingernails pierced the skin of her forearm.

A heavy sigh fluttered from Lana's parted lips; she kicked up on the couch and flipped the paper closed, folded it in half, before she leaned against Mary Eunice's shoulder. The heat of her body sent a flush through Mary Eunice. Her heart skipped. I love it when you touch me. It makes me feel warm on the inside. What brand of friendship created the intimacy she felt for Lana, she wasn't certain, but she cherished it all the same.

A hand flicked against hers, wrapped around the softening heel of her hand and tugged it away from the open wounds she had created on her arm. "You don't do anything. You're here, where I need you." Lana smoothed the pad of one finger over Mary Eunice's bloodied fingertips; she turned her face away in embarrassment. That's a disgusting habit, she berated herself internally. "You pick when you're anxious. I don't want you to feel that way. What can I do?"

Lana's nose almost touched Mary Eunice's jaw bone. With their closeness, the abashed Mary Eunice fought a nervous trembling of her lips while seeking a response. "This makes it better." She managed it without stammering, much to her surprise, and she swallowed the collecting saliva in her mouth. "I like this."

A small, easy grin wormed its way upon Lana's lips. She lifted Mary Eunice's arm and slid underneath it, draping it over her shoulders. "I like this, too." Oh, goodness, I can smell her hair. The scent wafted up to her like fleshy, overripe strawberries. Mary Eunice could have burrowed herself into Lana's hair, could have lost herself there, could have gone into permanent hiding and never emerged. "What movie do you want to see tonight?"