Page 3 of Savior

“Two are, but you’ll probably want to measure the third before you leave today.”

“You got it,” the man drawled. “Sure you only want three? They make ‘em even for small windows.”

“Listen, it took me this long just to talk my wife into doing this to four of the windows. She’s not real tickled about what it’s doing to the decor. I don’t want more of them enough to start sleeping on the sofa.”

The workers laughed knowingly, like they all knew just what he was talking about.

My dad shot me a look, pursing his lips at me pointedly. I knew what that meant. Go back to playing and let the grownups talk in peace, that look said.

I turned to Declan and put my Barbie on top of his car track, stomping her around like a giant, kicking a few of his little cars around.

That made him smile. He patted me on the head.

“He’s going to talk about me,” I told him, scooting close. “Everyone keeps talking about me.”

Declan smiled softly and threw his arm around me, like I’d seen his dad do to his mom countless times. “It’s only ‘cause you’re our pride and joy, babygirl. You know that.”

He was purposely misunderstanding, but I leaned into him, taking it for the comfort that it was. I loved his little arm around my little body. It was as reassuring as he meant it to be. He was, after all, the one who had brought me back. I was convinced that I would have been lost forever if he hadn’t.

“You know what happened?” my dad was asking the man quietly. “Why we need to take these precautions?”

The man grumbled something in a sympathetic tone. Another of the workers spoke more clearly. “We heard. Our sympathies. Even with the monster behind bars, I don’t blame y’all for being careful. I personally don’t think I’d ever be able to let her out of my sight again after something like that.”

That made me look at Declan, who seemed to feel the same way. He’d been glued to my side since the incident.

“How is she doing?” the first man asked. “That has to be a lot for any child. Is she . . . recovering?”

“She’s all healed up,” my dad said mildly, but I could hear the tension hiding in his voice.

“What about mentally? Is she . . . stable?”

Declan and I looked at each other. His eyes were very understanding.

“Do you think I’m mentally stable?” I whispered to him, needing reassurance.

He kissed my forehead like he was a grownup instead of a ten-year-old. “Of course, babygirl. You’re our little fighter. You’re doing just fine.”

My adoration for him filled my child self to bursting. I wasn’t sure when it had started—before the incident, certainly—but I knew it wasn’t a fleeting thing. It felt too fundamental from the first time I’d put a name to it.

One of the workmen dropped something.

It struck the floor with a small metallic sound.

I looked over before he stooped to retrieve it. A brass key lay on the carpet, a bit of faded red string wound around its narrow throat.

For just one second, everything in me went still.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Recognition, perhaps, though that was impossible. I had never seen the man before. I had never seen his key.

He closed his hand around it and smiled when he caught me watching. It was an ordinary smile. Friendly. A grownup smiling at a child because that was what grownups did.

“Just the key to my toolbox,” he said.

I hadn’t asked.

The memory ended there.