Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)
Read Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) Online
Authors: A.C. Dillon
An Autumn Brody Book
Collide
The Autumn Brody Series
Change Of Season
Waiting For A Star To Fall
A.C. Dillon
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 A.C. Dillon
Cover Design: Shardel (
http://www.SelfPubBookCovers.com/Shardel
)
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 151420200X
ISBN-13: 978-1514202005
The dream always ends the same way.
It begins in different locations each time. An empty classroom on the Casteel Prep campus. The beach near my house. A performance of Cirque du Soleil staged on an aircraft carrier in Lake Ontario, even. The acrobatics were all the more daring as lithe bodies twisted, turned and were tossed over the murky waters with wild abandon. I remember thinking that it was a shame my father couldn't come, as he'd never learned to swim.
The dream begins in any number of places, but it always ends here: a standoff. My very own version of a classic High Noon sort of scene. I press my palm to my chest, struggling to steady my frantic heart. The woman presses her hand to the gaping wound in her own, helpless to stanch the crimson cascade marring her lavender dress. My hand raises to shield myself from her, a desperate and childish attempt at Hide and Seek. 'I can't see you, so you can't see me.'
Her own hand strains across the divide, her parched lips sealed, yet her voice thunders in my skull. “Let me in.”
I shake my head, stagger backwards. I can't do this again. I won't. That part of my life was an anomaly, the once-in-a-lifetime hell I don't care to revisit. It nearly drove me mad. Maybe it did, despite my doctor's assurances. After all, I'm standing here, silently arguing with a spectre.
“It's the only way,” she insists.
It's a lie. It has to be. I feel the ice in my veins, feel it claim my fingertips, then my hand. My wrist surrenders and I rub it furiously with my other palm. Contagion. Foolish. I lose my other hand to her now. I stumble on feet that prickle and sting.
"No, no, no," I plead. "Anything but this."
It's all words, just words. Syllables strung together in denial. I'm gifted with words, or so I've been told. But words, though they can be as sharp as knives, are not the weapons I need. There is nothing to pull me back from the precipice. I'm going to fall into her empty irises. I'm going to become her.
I shut my eyes tightly, thinking of my love. My constant. I imagine his warmth, how it sweeps over me like a summer's day. I think of the softness of his hair when I tousle it to annoy him. I think of how I feel when his body presses against mine, how he whispers my name with the reverence reserved for saints. I pray for him and open my eyes.
But this time, the dream isn't ending. There are no sweat-slicked sheets, no covers tangled about my twitching limbs. He isn't here to soothe away the terror that claims me in the darkness. But she is still here. It is just me, staring her down as she edges forward, and I understand now that she speaks the truth. There's no getting away from it, not this time.
I'm going to die.
She knew she should shrug off the covers and prepare for the day ahead, but she was helpless to resist the treasure trove beside her bed.
Caressing the lid of the plastic tote, Autumn Brody smiled to herself and opened it with a faint
click
. A bevy of trinkets and souvenirs of a life lived awaited her. She liked the sound of that—
lived
. Because at one time, nearly a year and a half ago, it was all so uncertain. Tied to a leather chair beneath ground, surrounded by the preserved hearts of young women slain in calculated fashion, she'd escaped the clutches of a murderer whose hold on reality had been irrevocably relinquished.
She'd survived.
Lived
. And, as if to express her gratitude for a second chance, she'd embraced that word in every possible sense.
The contents of the tote slowly emerged, a fortress of familiar photos and totems of travels surrounding her pajama-clad legs. A brochure from the sky-diving school where she and Veronica had taken the plunge for her friend's birthday. A scrapbook of concert and theatre ticket stubs and programs, including images of their encounter with Neil Patrick Harris in Los Angeles. A key card from the Montreal hotel where she and Andrew had stayed during the Osheaga festival last summer. A flush crept over her cheeks as she found the room's complimentary rubber duckie, a memory of unhurried kisses in a hot tub by candlelight playing like a film inside her head. A shiver rolled down her spine as she remembered the feel of his mouth moving up her bare thigh.
"You're so beautiful,"
he'd whispered, flicking his tongue gently against her damp flesh.
"I pinch myself every day, just to make sure I'm not dreaming."
"Don't ever wake up, then," she murmured aloud, echoing her reply before they'd made love at last.
Andrew Daniels... Almost two years ago, she'd run into him—literally. She'd run from him at first, a terrified rabbit of a woman. But he had persisted and remained steadfast like the bravest of storybook knights. And while she was quick to insist she was no damsel in distress, his unconditional love had healed her fractured trust in men. Flipping through an album of photos from the previous summer, she traced his features with her fingertip.
Faith
, she mused. He'd given her faith.
Strength, too—she'd been able to count on her selective yet powerful group of friends for that. Her testimony the previous December at the trial of Professor Douglas Kearney had drained her. Three days of detailing her kidnapping, drugging and near-death at the hands of a teacher she'd trusted. Three days of describing the way her wrist cracked as she hit the concrete, at how she'd jammed a scalpel into his neck in desperation. How she'd been unable to cry for help, muted by laryngitis. The cross-examination and its implications of a student crush turned vindictive had turned her stomach and it was all she could do to make it to the pristine courthouse bathroom before emptying its contents during a recess. Her father had been barred from the room, such was his rage at the snide implications.
"It's what defense lawyers do, Daddy," she'd tried to explain, the remnants of acid scorching her throat. "He just sees it as a job for a client."
Neither of them had felt better. But Kearney had been convicted and sentenced to six consecutive life sentences, along with another twenty years for the crimes against Autumn. Her mother assumed her daughter’s gasp of shock was a reaction to the lengthy prison term, and Autumn let her believe it. Hell, Autumn believed it.
Better that, than admit she'd seen Nikki Lang, the ghost of Kearney's last victim, standing behind the judge and nodding in satisfaction.
She reached for a silver disc in a paper sleeve, absently flipping it over.
Funeral For A Friend
, the label read. Andrew had found it for her in the Film Program archives. She had yet to watch Nikki's final school project, but knowing it was near brought her a strange comfort. It grounded her. It made Nikki more
real
, less.... ghost.
Reality. The living. These were the things Autumn clung to. And while it was often easy to forget about the months of sliding chairs and sobbing in her dorm walls, there were moments where she wondered if maybe
it
wasn't done with her. Little things—lights glimmering in the dark courtyard beneath her window at school, or flashes of motion in the periphery of her vision—left her ill at ease. By day, she shrugged it off like a smothering blanket and stayed in the safety of the sun.
PTSD
, her therapist insisted.
Flashbacks.
Autumn chose to believe her. It was easier.
An envelope fell out of a second photo album pulled from the tote and she grinned at the return address:
Forked Creek Press
. Her publisher. She didn't need to pull the letter free from its sheath to recall its contents, but she did so anyway. A little guidance from her Creative Writing instructor and an introduction to his editor had catapulted her grade eleven novella from class assignment to a full-length debut novel, soon to be released.
Dissected
, she'd called it, opting for a simple word with dual meaning. Set in a medical school, her protagonist struggled with the invisible wounds of an abusive relationship, dividing her from self and family until she faced off against a looming killer on campus.
Write what you know, and write when you need to let go
, George had told her once. She'd taken it to heart.
A soft mew and padding of paws drew Autumn away from her reverie. Scrambling to tuck away her belongings, she beamed at the petite black cat slipping through the cracked door.
"Good morning, Pandora," she cooed quietly. "Come see Mommy."
The feline happily complied, nestling beside her right thigh and rolling onto her back in submission. Autumn stroked her belly and chin softly, humming a random melody for her pet. Bonded since the moment she'd brought her home from the local shelter, Autumn doted on the cat, even more so since the death of her dog at the hands of an abusive ex. Guilt flooded her as she thought of her lost companion.
Chris Miller.
He had yet to face justice for his crimes, thanks to a tangle of judicial red tape. Having fled parole in Calgary, the authorities there were reluctant to play nice with Ontario's desire to prosecute him for stalking two women. After the media circus of the Kearney case, Autumn didn't care to rush the process. He was behind bars and that was enough for her to feel safe.
Pandora chirped and Autumn giggled, scratching her tiny chin. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I stop worshipping you for three whole seconds? My bad, Pan."
"Well, she knows you'll be leaving her for the rest of the day. Can you blame her?"
Autumn startled at the sound of her father's voice, running her free hand through her tangled hair as she looked up. "How long have you been there?"
Neil gestured to the photo album on the bedside table. "Long enough to see you've been feeling nostalgic."
Autumn blushed. "It's silly, I know.”
"No, it's not." Neil settled on the bed beside her, his gaze fixed upon her. "It's the end of an era, kiddo. You're graduating. An adult."
"I don't know about that, legal definition aside.”
"No, you are honey... You've grown up and accomplished so much in the last few years, and you did it in the face of serious adversity. I'm proud of the woman you're becoming, Autumn. Your mother is, too." A tear slid down his cheek, ignored as he reached to touch hers. "Just promise me one thing, alright?"
"Anything, Daddy."
"No matter how big you get, how wise, how grown up, remember that this will always be your home, and you will always be my little girl.”
Autumn threw her arms around his neck, ignoring Pandora's chirped protest and burying her damp cheeks in her father's shirt. "Everywhere I go, I take you and Mom with me in my heart."
"And we carry you with us," Neil echoed hoarsely. "Your mom's making waffles, by the way."
Autumn laughed, drawing back and wiping her sleeve across her cheek. "It isn't the first day of school. It's the last."
"She says it's a full circle, or something like that. Come get them before they get cold." Drawing a deep breath, Neil rose to his feet. "Happy graduation day, Autumn."
Autumn rose slowly from the bed, tucking the stray photo album back into her tote on her way to the window. On the sidewalk below, a young girl skipped along beside her parents, a teddy bear swinging from her hand. She grinned, thinking back to her childhood walks on the beach with her trusty stuffed tiger.
Hang onto your innocence
, she silently told the passing child.
And if someone takes it, you fight and you reclaim it.
A lesson Autumn had learned in the hardest of ways.
"Happy graduation day," she whispered to her reflection.
Go out and live it to the fullest
.