Instinct

22. See the Past, It Will Burn You All

Stephanie sat on the edge of her neatly made bed, staring at particles floating in the air – dust motes riding on thin, grey strings of light. The sound of a radio, turned up loud enough that she could hear it even muffled by the floors and walls between them, was consistent at the back of her mind. It quelled the unease at being left alone in an empty, quiet house, but it was a poor substitute for company.

She could easily admit it: she was afraid of the dark and terrified of silence, in a way she hadn’t ever been before.

At the home, with Brennan and Lydia, it hadn’t been a problem. Between the harsh glow of fluorescent streetlamps glaring through threadbare curtains and frosted windows, and the sound of at least a dozen sets of heartbeats and hushed breathing, Stephanie had grown used to sensory stimulation. She’d developed an expectation for it, even, without having known the difference.

It was bizarre – a stupid fear. After all, she’d faced murderers and death before. Now all it took was a dark, silent room to send her quivering and ill looking for someone or something to take away the fear.

The TV could only do so much. Every channel she seemed to pass was coverage on the latest in a series of crimes, both related and totally separate from werewolf-kind – or the type of ridiculous reality show that just gave Stephanie a headache on principle. So the radio had picked up the slack, and if she sat by it and turned it up whenever there was a mention of Liam, or his voice played out over the speakers, no one ever had to know.

She called Brennan when she could, when the anxiety and anguish rose unbidden. When it threatened to overwhelm her completely. He promised to help her find her sister, and it assuaged the fear that she would never find the younger Armstrong. Brennan had, after all, rescued her. If anyone could find her sister, it was him.

She felt well-rested, clear-headed, and well-fed. There was nothing wrong with her besides the weight that she still needed to put on, but that realistically wasn’t going to change in only a couple of days. That was perhaps why she’d snapped at Liam that morning. Her muscles felt cramped, itching under her skin – restless. All Stephanie wanted to do was go outside, feel the cold air burning in her lungs, feel the stretch of her muscles as she ran, get the blood flooding to the surface of her pallid skin.

But she had to stay inside, by herself, until they had things sorted out.

Stephanie knew why, of course. She understood. The media was still raring to meet who they suspected was Stephanie Armstrong, the mystery girl who had jumped the fence. Her mother’s house still remained anonymous; they’d taken pains to ensure that, so paparazzi weren’t hounding the house day and night. They had to make sure that stayed the way it was.

Liam had reminded her that she probably wasn’t ready for the hype that she’d encounter once she was introduced to the outside world. He’d told her to just stay home, get better, and then they’d talk about getting her prepped for the questions that would surely follow.

So, yeah, she totally understood the situation backwards and forwards. That didn’t mean that she had to enjoy it. Stephanie rolled her shoulders, huffing in irritation at the way her muscles rippled impatiently under her skin, and bit at the top of her thumbnail.

In her line of sight, at the bottom of her scarily empty closet, sat the yet abandoned backpack she’d retrieved at Daniel’s only two days ago. She hadn’t touched it since. It seemed silly, now, how desperately she’d felt she needed it at the time, but since, she’d only sent it furrowed-brow glances and avoided it altogether.

Stephanie tilted her head and then sighed, reaching forward before she could convince herself otherwise. Sitting cross-legged inside the absurdly large walk-in closet, she slid the zipper open. A small, weathered paperback book thumped onto the ground.