Griselda plated the food, and they ate at the kitchen table—a feast of cold chicken and apple slices washed down with ice-cold well water—and all the while they traded shy, happy, knowing glances, staring at each other, then looking away, shaking their heads with low, bemused laughter, both quietly delighted and just a little overwhelmed by what had just happened between them, by the words they’d spoken and the promises they’d made.

Holden wore nothing but unbuttoned jeans, and she stared at his chest—his strong, beautiful, sculpted chest that memorialized her loss—as much as she liked, biting her lip when he caught her, then giggling when he threatened to take her on the kitchen floor if she didn’t stop.

His eyes were soft with love, but alive with wonder, and every moment she spent with him, he looked more and more like the boy she’d known so well and loved so much. She could have happily watched him forever. Heck, she thought as she rinsed the dishes, that was the plan, wasn’t it?

As she stood at the sink tidying up, Holden went outside to the truck. When he came back a few minutes later, Griselda placed the clean plates in the drying rack by the sink and turned to look at his sweet smile, and noticed both hands were hidden behind his back.

“What you got behind your back, Holden Croft?” she asked, her eyes teasing.

His cheeks reddened a little as he showed her a notebook and three pens, holding them out to her.

Her eyes flicked questioningly from the items in his hand back to his face.

“It’s a gift. Maybe a d-dumb gift, but I thought . . . well, I thought you could write out some of your stories while we’re here.”

The lump in her throat was so immediate and huge, she dropped his eyes, trying to swallow over it, but it made her own eyes burn with tears. He’d gotten her a gift.

With shaking hands, she reached for the notebook and pens, staring down at them as one fat tear rolled down to the tip of her nose and splashed onto the notebook cover.

“Gris?” he said, reaching out to tilt her chin up. “You okay?”

“I love them,” she whispered, clutching them to her chest and trying to get herself under control. “No one’s . . . I mean, I haven’t gotten a gift in . . .”

He flinched, leaning forward to kiss her tenderly before drawing her into his arms, the notebook and pens trapped between their hearts.

She felt foolish for crying. It was such a kind, thoughtful gesture, and she was ruining it with self-pity. But aside from the homemade birthday card that Prudence had made for her this year, and the extra fifty dollars in her paycheck at Christmas and on her birthday, Griselda didn’t receive gifts. Not now. Not ever. Not from her mother, not from her grandmother, not from any of her foster parents, not from Maya, and certainly not from Jonah. Not counting the extra money from the McClellans, she hadn’t received a gift since . . . well, since Holden had handed her a bouquet of buttercups on her thirteenth birthday, almost ten years ago.

“Get used to it, Gris,” he said against her hair, still holding her tightly. “I’m going to get you presents whenever I want to. W-whenever I feel like it. I’m going to give you so many presents, you’ll barely remember what it felt like to have none.”

She could feel him clench his jaw against her temple, a sign that her tears were making him emotional too.

“My daddy used to give my mama gifts all the time,” he continued. “He’d come home from work with a flower or a candy bar. Sometimes he’d go into a department store and collect free perfume samples. They didn’t have much, but they took care of each other. And that’s how I’m going to be. I’m going to take care of you.”

With every bit of her heart, Griselda wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that after a lifetime of fear and loneliness and abandonment, it was possible to finally be happy. But just like before, when he’d said, “We’ll be okay now,” something inside her was skeptical. Part of her doubted she deserved happiness. Another part insisted that as much as she wanted it, something bad would happen, because something bad always did. Unlike Holden, Griselda had never had a good example of a loving relationship. All she’d ever known was turbulence, and as much as she wanted something safe and solid with Holden, she wasn’t entirely sure how to get there.

“So what do you think?” he asked her, leaning back to look into her eyes and swiping the last tears from her cheeks. “Want to write down a few stories?”

“You remind me of Mrs. McClellan,” she said, sniffling through a deep breath, then grinning at him.

“How so? She as handsome as me?”

“Full of yourself.”

“The most beautiful girl in the world was in my bed all afternoon. I get to be cocky.”
She rolled her eyes at him, gesturing to the porch with her chin and reaching for his hand. “Want to sit outside a while?”

He let her lead him outside. He scooted his rocking chair next to hers, and they both leaned back, letting the low sun warm their faces as they rested their bare feet side by side on the rough-hewn railing.

Griselda closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of wildflowers and fresh air. “Mrs. McClellan wants me to go to college.”

“College?” he asked in surprise. “College. Wow. That would be something, Gris.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said softly, and she marveled at his words, unable to stop the terrifying burst of hope in her heart that sang, I’m not alone. I’m not alone anymore.

“I have a little money,” she said, realizing that her Holden fund was now available to be spent. “Not enough for college . . . but almost thirteen thousand saved.”

He was silent for so long, she opened her eyes and turned to him. He stared at her in awe.

“You’re rich,” he said.

“It was all for you. To find you. I was saving up for this private investigator in New York. Supposed to be the best.”

“For me?” he asked. His fingers reached for hers and squeezed. “You d-didn’t give up.”

“Never.”

“Well, I think you should go to college, Gris.”

She shrugged, looking down at the notebook. “I don’t know. Some colleges have writing programs, you know? For people who like writing stories. And Mrs. McClellan talked a little bit about scholarships. I don’t know, though. I don’t know anyone who ever went to college except for her.”

“You shared your stories with her?” Holden asked.

“I make them up for Pru. I guess she overheard.”

Holden grinned, squeezing her hand again. “I love that.”

“So does Pru.”

Drawing her hand away from his, she opened the new notebook on her lap and uncapped one of the pens. She opened the cover, and wrote neatly in the middle of the first page:

FAIRY TALES

by Griselda Schroeder

She stared at her name, wondering what it would feel like to really see her stories in a book, in print, to know they were read to children before bed, ensuring sweet dreams. One of her foster mothers, Kendra, had told her she was good with kids, and Mrs. McClellan thought she had talent. Of course, Holden, who’d always loved her stories, would encourage her. Maya would get on board too. But was it actually possible to change your whole life like that? To make your dreams come true?

Her stomach clenched, and she closed the notebook, looking out at the flowers. It was simply too much good at once. She didn’t trust it. She wished she could, but she didn’t. Girls like Griselda didn’t get new beginnings and happy endings—it was safer to anticipate disaster than embrace happiness. And yet . . .

She turned slightly to look at Holden, whose head was back against the chair, eyes closed. The bruises around his cheek and eyes had improved a lot since yesterday. The discoloration over the lid was already gone, and though the reddish black below his eyes was still visible, it was turning yellow now. His cheek was still swollen, but like his eyes, the discoloration was already improving. His lips—lips that had touched hers so lovingly all afternoon—were pillowed and perfect, and his nose and cheeks were dotted with freckles. Just over the left side of his lip, closest to her, there was a larger, darker freckle, and suddenly she longed to kiss it, to own that tiny part of him just in case she ever lost the rest.

“Holden?” she asked softly, still staring at his face. “Why’d you stay so long with Caleb Foster?”

***

He was grateful that his eyes were closed so she couldn’t read them as his stomach dropped. He’d known this question was coming, of course, but he dreaded having to answer it. He could barely get his own head around the conflicted feelings he had for Caleb. He didn’t know how to explain them to Gris.

He took a deep breath, turning to her and opening his eyes slowly. Her face, so beautiful in the golden sun, made his lungs freeze with fear and longing, and he held his breath before letting it out with a hiss.

“I’ll try to explain,” he said. “W-will you try to understand?”

She nodded slowly, her body shifting in her rocking chair to face him. His eyes dropped briefly to her breasts then skated up to her lips, praying that those parts of her wouldn’t be forever off-limits to him after this conversation.

“K-kiss me first?” he asked, a feeling of panic almost choking him.

“Tell me first,” she answered, sitting back, staring away from him, out at the meadow.

So he did. He told her about waking up on Caleb’s front porch, a fresh grave in the front yard, blood on Caleb’s shirt.

“He told me you were d-dead. He changed our names. I was c-crying for you, so he knocked me out again,” he said, his hand instinctively touching his temple. “When I woke up, it was n-nighttime and I was sitting in his t-truck. I don’t know where we were. Somewhere in western West Virginia, I guess. Maybe K-Kentucky. The first few w-weeks . . . I don’t r-remember them all that w-well.

“D-during the day, we’d drive. S-sometimes we’d s-sleep in the truck. S-sometimes he’d get a motel room. When we s-slept in the truck, he handcuffed me to the s-steering wheel. When we s-slept in a motel, he handc-cuffed me to the bed. Said I needed to be ch-chained up until R-Ruth had loosed her power over me.”

“Holden,” she said softly, and he turned to her, watching tears run down her face.

“He drank a lot. M-most nights. Wherever we were. He’d ch-chain me up first so I couldn’t run.” He looked at Griselda, feeling stunned by the force of the memories, that dead feeling he’d lived with for so long coming back to him as he relived those days. “N-not that I would’ve run.”

“Why not?” she asked, her face contorting with confusion as she smoothed her tears into her hair.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to hold her, but he didn’t dare reach for her. It was hard to keep talking, but he did his best to explain.

“B-because inside . . . I was d-dead.” He swallowed. “You were g-gone. My f-folks and gran were long g-gone. Didn’t m-matter what he d-did to me. I didn’t c-care.”

“What . . . What did he do to you?” she asked in a terrified whisper.

“He fed me,” said Holden, looking out at the wildflowers. “He gave me a place to s-sleep.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “He never t-touched me wrong.”

“But he still beat you?”

Holden shook his head, clenching his jaw. “Only w-when I mentioned you.”

She was silent as she absorbed this. “He just . . . stopped?”

“Yeah,” said Holden, nodding. “He said he’d c-cut the c-cancer out of our lives, and I was s-saved.”

“Because I was dead.”

Holden finally turned to her and whispered, “Yeah.”

Her forehead creased as her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Did you . . . God, Holden, did you . . . like him?”

“Sh-short answer? I hated him.”

“Long answer?” she asked.

“It’s c-c-complicated,” he said, his heart racing faster as he tried to figure out how the fuck to explain his actual feelings.

“I need to hear it,” she said, her voice low and thick, her tears still falling. “I want to understand.”

Holden swallowed painfully, clenching his jaw before nodding. “In his m-mind . . . he thought I was Seth. He truly b-believed it. And he truly b-believed that killing Ruth would save Seth.” He winced as he looked at her. “I know it sounds c-crazy, but in his own way, he was p-protecting me . . . uh, Seth.

“When we went to diners, he’d order his food, then turn to me and ask, ‘What’ll it b-be, little b-brother?’ all p-pleased and p-proud that I was w-with him. And the waitresses would look back and f-forth between us, at the age difference, and s-sometimes s-snicker, and I’d f-feel . . .” He felt the old anger surge up. “. . . mad. B-because he was just t-trying to . . . you know . . .”

She’d dropped her glance to her lap halfway through his remembrance, but now she looked at him, her face white and destroyed. “He wasn’t,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “your brother. He abducted us. He tortured us.”

“You th-think I don’t know that? I was th-there, Gris.” He shifted in his chair suddenly, showing her the crisscrosses of mangled scar tissue on his back. “You th-think I d-don’t remember? I remember!”

He turned back to find her red-faced and furious.

“Do you? ‘Ye’ll live in darkness till yer evil ways is purged! Till yer worthy o’ the light.’ Remember that? ‘Can’t be no cleft in yer remorse! For the wages o’ sin is death!’ Death! My death!” she ranted, tears streaming down her face.

“I kn-know the f-fucking words as well as you!”

“Then how? How could you feel . . . affection for him?”

“It w-wasn’t f-f-fucking affection!”

“What was it then? When those waitresses snickered? What was it? What was it when you thought of him shooting me in the back?”

“Hate!” Holden screamed. “F-f-fucking hate!”

Birds that had been sunning on the roof took flight, their wings beating against the warm summer air, seeking sanctuary.

“Well. You sure as hell didn’t hate him enough to leave.”

“I was th-thirteen years old, ch-chained to a bed or steering wheel every n-night of my f-fucking life for two years. Even if I c-could get away, where the f-fuck was I going to go?”

“Back to D.C.?” she suggested angrily.

“B-back into the system so someone like M-Miz F-Fillman could m-m-molest me in my sleep?”

“Not all foster parents are molesters,” said Griselda, her voice losing some of its conviction.

“Enough are,” answered Holden. “Or d-drunks. Or they b-beat on you. Or they f-forget to f-feed you.”

“Fine. The system isn’t paradise. But it had to be better than staying with a child abductor! An abuser! A crazy fucking madman!”

“I was d-d-dead inside. Everyone—everyone—I had ever loved was d-dead,” he said, his voice breaking and eyes burning. “He didn’t b-beat me. He f-fed me. I had a warm place to sleep. By fifteen, we were settled in Oregon, and I enrolled in high school.”

“As Seth West,” she said.

Holden nodded.

“You took his name.”

“After t-two years with him? What the f-fuck did it matter?”

“It mattered because your name was Holden. Maybe I could have found you if you’d still been Holden.”

“You couldn’t have f-f-found me, Gris, because you were f-f-fucking d-d-dead!” he yelled. He took a deep breath as she stared back at him, their gazes in a deadlock.

She stood up, dropping the notebook on the chair, her face disgusted and sad and furious. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t follow me.”

“D-don’t f-fucking leave. Gris, talk to me!”

“I can’t,” she said, putting her leg over the railing and following it with her other, and his heart clenched because he suspected it was so she wouldn’t have to risk touching him as she passed by his chair.

“Please,” he said softly to her retreating form, but she never turned around.

***

Griselda walked purposefully through the meadow, refusing to look back at him despite his quiet plea, which threatened to break her fucking heart in half.

Not only had he stayed with the Man, but he’d developed some sort of—what? Holden refused to call it affection, but it sure as hell felt like that!—softness for Caleb Foster. Almost as though some part of Holden had believed himself Seth West and had accepted Caleb Foster’s protection, and even, when snarky waitresses giggled at them, returned it.

This was the man who had abducted them, tortured and terrified them, whom Holden believed had killed Griselda, murdered her in cold blood and buried her. She’d been dead only two years, and Holden was living it up with Caleb, eating his food, sleeping in a space he provided, going to high school like the holy hell of West Virginia had never even fucking happened.

That’s not fair, her heart whispered gently, interrupting her inner tirade.

She stepped out of the meadow and into the woods, the not-too-far-away sound of a stream drawing her to the left.

He’d been kidnapped too—because of you! her heart reminded her—and he’d endured more than his fair share of beatings. He’d been brave, but she knew he’d been as terrified as she. He’d tried to escape and failed while she had succeeded. He’d essentially been abducted again, this time alone, with no one for comfort, and his dearest friend dead. He said he’d felt dead inside, and Griselda believed it, her tears falling faster as she imagined his thin wrist shackled to the truck wheel, to motel beds, freedom close but never possible. He’d reminded her that he was only thirteen, still a child, and he’d lost everything and everyone that mattered to him. And yes, he could have escaped and gone back to the system, as she suggested, but he was right. She flinched, remembering Mrs. Fillman’s hand on Billy’s thigh at the park. Holden, with his blond hair and all-American freckled face, would have been easy prey.

Caleb Foster fed him, offered him a warm place to sleep, didn’t beat him, and eventually let him attend high school like a normal kid.

She couldn’t imagine it had been a good life, but she knew, as he did, that it could have been worse.

The sound of trickling water was louder now, and she came on the stream she’d been seeking—not too wide across, maybe fifteen feet, and not too deep either, but clear and clean, with some big rocks for sitting by the shore. She sat down on one, took off her sandals, and stuck her feet in the water.

I’ll make you come. I’ll hold you while you sleep. I’ll change for you. I’ll live for you. I’ll never let you go.

Did she believe him?

I’m whole. You make me whole.

After these revelations about Caleb Foster, could she trust him?

I’ve always loved you, Gris.

She sobbed, and her body came alive as she thought of the reverent way he’d touched her, looked at her, made love to her.

You won’t leave me? he’d asked. And she’d answered, Never.

And she meant it.

She’d held on too long, hoping to find him again, and finding him was too miraculous, too right, too good to give up, because he’d succumbed to some fucked-up version of Stockholm syndrome. She could allow him to have some gratitude to Caleb Foster for keeping him alive.

And then it occurred her.

Despite everything Caleb Foster had done to them, she had to admit, she felt some gratitude too.

She was grateful that Caleb hadn’t shot and killed Holden that day. She was grateful that he’d taken care of Holden so Holden didn’t run, ending up in some fucked-up foster family that could have broken his spirit. She was even grateful that Caleb had taken such good care of his truck so Holden could return to West Virginia.

She’d long held the belief that Caleb was an irredeemable monster, and he was, but she also couldn’t deny that things could have been worse for Holden. He could have been killed. He could have been further abused. He could have been starved or trafficked or any number of other unthinkable horrors. Instead, as Holden pointed out, he’d been fed, he’d had a place to sleep, he hadn’t been beaten anymore, he hadn’t been molested. He’d survived.

Her lip twitched in objection because she despised Caleb and didn’t want to humanize him, but once the window to that train of thought had been opened, she couldn’t close it. The Holden who had made love to her today was, in some part, a product of the care he’d received from Caleb during their years apart, and for that she could be grateful.

“Still pissed?”

Startled, she looked up to find Holden standing behind her.

“I told you not to follow me,” she said, turning back to the river.

“Not good at listening to directions, I guess.”

“Obviously,” she said, slipping her sandals back on and standing up to face him. He’d thrown on a long-sleeved flannel shirt and buttoned two buttons, but his feet were still bare and his jeans were still undone.

He looked at the river, eyes narrowed. “What if you came across someone out here? Some perverted hunter who wanted to hurt you?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You might be feeling better, but you still have two bruised ribs. You’re not in any shape to be my protector. You’re weak.”

“Like hell,” he said, his eyes flaring.

She huffed. She didn’t want to be mean to him, but it would take a little time to understand what had happened to him and how it had made him into the man he was now.

“I hate it that you stayed with him,” she said.

“I know. Sometimes I do too.”

“But I can also understand. What Miz Fillman was doing to Billy . . . I’m glad that didn’t happen to you.”

“I didn’t like him, Gris,” he said gently, reaching for her. He put his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest, and she didn’t resist him. “I was a broken kid. And yes, he was evil, but to my mind he was the least of possible evils.” He sighed against her hair, holding her tighter. “So I stayed.”

“I don’t want to judge you for it.”

“Then don’t,” he said. They stood silently for a while before he spoke again. “I’m not weak. I want to take care of you, Gris.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said softly, unwilling to surrender completely.

“I’m strong,” he whispered near her ear. “Let me do it instead.”

She let her muscles relax against the warmth of his chest, cherishing the solid comfort of him, memorizing the feel of him holding her so tenderly. Placing her cheek on his shoulder, she looked out at the river.

“It’s an awful lot to digest, Holden. So much has changed all at once.”

“So take your time,” he said, one hand rubbing her back. “We’ve finally got time, Gris, and I ain’t g-going anywhere.”