Annabel's POV
It's funny, I suppose, that when I lay there, shaking and sobbing in Billie's arms on the train tracks, feeling him stroke my hair and press his lips in pain against my head, against any part of my face which I allowed him to see, it's funny that I let him. I never let anyone hold me like that. At least after the accident. At least after Cassie.
Cassie. My guts twisted, sorrow beyond anything I had ever felt wracking every inch of me. Before, part of me had been fighting his warm embrace, but upon the flash of her face, pale and looking almost like she was sleeping, but not quite, I collapsed into him.
I hated him. I hated him for this. I hated what he had said and I hated what he had done. Oh god I had missed him, I had missed his stupidly messy hair and his kind eyes and his crooked smile and his strong grip, as if he was holding me over an abyss, perhaps he was, and I missed his smell. Cigarettes, metal from the strings of his guitar and lilacs, the flowers that were clustered all around the tracks at Christie Road.
"I hate you." My voice was empty, it sounded hoarse and I could barely recognise it.
His grip tightened.
"I know. I hate you too."
I was just a shuddering mess then, the tears ebbing. He pulled me further onto his lap, cradling me like a child, rocking back and forth. Sense was starting to crawl into the warmth and melancholy that surrounded me, and I thought for a moment to break his hold, but as his fingers dug further into my skin I could tell he was shaking too. I was too exhausted. I curled myself against his chest, listening to the hammering beat of his heart.
He looked at me then. Guilt glazed every feature of his face. That damned beautiful face. He knew I just wanted to sleep. But I knew he wouldn't let me; he needed answers.
Would I give them to him? I had never spoken a word of any of it before. Would I to him? Was he entitled? Did I want to?
I began to sit up, wiping my stained face clumsily, attempting to climb out of the cocoon of his limbs around me. I wobbled, and he reestablished his hold on me. I brushed his hands away, they fell effortlessly. I ended up next to him, not looking at him, not looking at anything really, except perhaps the refinery smog curl into the night.
"Jeremy, he didn't give you that mark did he?" Billie's voice was so quiet, and I could feel his eyes on me, although I willed myself not to look.
"No. He gave me others, but never that bad. Jeremy... he's an asshole, a fucking asshole, but he's not a psychopath."
His stare intensified.
"Who did?"
I closed my eyes. There he was. An image of perfection and of cruelty. A glorious nightmare.
"Holden Clifferson."
A weight felt like it had been lifted off my chest after I had said his name. Everything came flooding back like a tsunami in its wake. The ashy blonde hair. The sharp jaw, charmed smile, golden skin. Grey eyes. Hard as steel. Cold as ice. They never flinched, not even once.
I opened my eyes. Billie was watching, waiting.
"Once my dad died my mom was in shock. She needed support, she was vulnerable I suppose. She married Jeremy a few months later. He was alright then, smiled a lot, used to buy me books and records. We moved into their apartment in New York, my mom, my sister Cassie and me."
He seemed to open his mouth to question, but I just continued in a rush of rawness and hurt.
"My sister Cassandra is 3 years older than me, meaning she was 16 when we moved. We met our new stepbrother for the first time; he hadn't been at the wedding. He was 18, his name was Holden and he was very handsome, he was also very charming and we all liked him immediately. I remember when we were sitting at the table that first night for dinner and Jeremy and my mom were recounting their honeymoon. There were a couple guests over too, work friends or whatever. I remember watching Holden and Cassie talk quietly, and how she would blush and smile every time he laughed at her joke or complimented her. I remember how she fidgeted in her chair, like she was excited, when he leaned to whisper things in her ear. I also remember something strange in his eyes. You see, it was always his eyes which gave him away. He looked like he was a lion looking at a wounded gazelle."
