Begin with You

  Begin with You

  Claudia Burgoa

  Begin with You

  Copyright © 2018 by Claudia Burgoa

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, places, storylines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and-or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, of which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedicated to

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Abby

  2. Wes

  3. Wes

  4. Wes

  5. Wes

  6. Wes

  7. Abby

  8. Abby

  9. Abby

  10. Wes

  11. Abby

  12. Wes

  13. Abby

  14. Wes

  15. Wes

  16. Abby

  17. Abby

  18. Wes

  19. Abby

  20. Wes

  21. Abby

  22. Abby

  23. Wes

  24. Wes

  25. Wes

  26. Abby

  27. Wes

  28. Abby

  29. Wes

  30. Abby

  31. Wes

  32. Abby

  33. Wes

  34. Wes

  35. Wes

  36. Abby

  37. Wes

  38. Abby

  Untitled

  Unsurprisingly Complicated

  Until I Fall

  About the Author

  Dedicated to

  You and all the survivors of despicable crimes. you’re here because the fire inside of you burned brighter than the fire around. Stay strong. You’re loved.

  Epigraph

  “I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self-respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her, and it is the beginning of everything.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Prologue

  I can pinpoint the moment when Abigail Lyons lost her optimism. It was the day her grandmother died. That’s when I began to talk about myself in third person, imagining the worst that could happen and learning to dissociate when my brain couldn’t handle the input.

  It was the same day I stopped laughing with ease and speaking my mind confidently. At sixteen though, that’s when I went quiet for good. The day I lost all hope, became swallowed by loneliness—leaving nothing more than a scared bundle of nerves who wanted to jump out of her own skin. At twenty-three not much has changed. But I try to hide my flaws and fears. Somedays I’m brave enough to fight against my mind to conquer the latter. Other days, I’m not so lucky.

  Like my fear of flying with a bunch of strangers. As the plane takes off, I close my eyes, hold onto my bracelet, and count the crystals. I’m not a fan of airplanes. They’re too small, there are too many people on board and anything could happen during the flight. Though, according to my best friend, Wes, the probabilities of dying in a plane crash are one in eleven million. He once explained to me that it’s more likely to be hit by a meteorite, drown in my own bathtub, or get mauled by a bear in Yellowstone than die in a plane crash.

  He might be right about those statistics. But logic doesn’t apply to my phobia. Every time a plane takes off, my heart beats faster than a cheetah hunting for her next meal and sweat drips down my back. Honestly, I’m not afraid that the plane will lose altitude or collide with another aircraft. I fear that I’ll crash emotionally during the flight. The question for me isn’t whether or not the pilot loses control. My mind is asking, what if I have a full-blown panic attack in an environment where I don’t have control or any means for emotional release?

  When the pilot announces that we’re allowed to turn on our laptops and move around the cabin, I put on my wireless headphones and turn on my music. If I’m lucky, the two glasses of wine I downed before boarding, plus the one I drank before takeoff, might help me sleep during the almost three-hour flight. If I’m asleep, I won’t have to think about the people around me. Or the possibility of him finding me once I’m back in Denver.

  My throat tightens at the mere thought of seeing him again. I shut my eyes, squeezing them hard. My body trembles. It’s been so long that he shouldn’t have any effect on me. I count, controlling my breathing. But it’s impossible to calm myself when the images of what happened that night come back. The voices are back too. My heart beats wildly.

  Please, God, help me.

  Not now.

  “Run, Abigail, run,” I hear her desperate voice.

  I’m frozen in place. He’s getting closer to our room. This is my only chance to escape but I can’t move. My legs don’t respond. It’s like they weigh hundreds of pounds. The air thickens as his heavy steps get closer. I lift my gaze and I see him, staring at me with those swamp colored green eyes and a mocking smile on his face.

  “Try running,” he says with a daring glare and a smug tone. “Try to escape me, and if by some miracle you do, know that I’ll find you.”

  1

  Abby

  Abby Age Seventeen

  I grit my teeth harder with every breath I take. Are we far enough from…? I wrap my arms around myself. Don’t think about it, stay quiet, don’t call her attention. Let her believe you’re just in mourning.

  The mansion, hidden in the exclusive Cherry Hills neighborhood, looms proudly behind the iron gates. It’s flanked by rows of evergreens and Aspen trees. At its threshold stands a delicate marble fountain. Ms. Graves drives forward and stops right in front of the opulent porch. I take a deep breath and climb down from the large SUV, dragging in a plastic bag, the few belongings I was allowed to take with me.

  This place is how I always imagined palaces from fairy tales would look. I’ve lived north of Denver my entire life and the only times I left the area were for fieldtrips to the museums. Never in my dreams could I have imagined that there were homes nestled around the city that looked like this. The double front doors feature frosted glass framed by elegant wood, and on each side stood stone statues of lions. Two benches with matching planters hold bright flowers soaking in the sun of the late summer.

  Too good to be true, I mumble under my breath as I continue following my case manager.

  Who in their right mind would welcome me into their house? My mother barely accepted me. What makes Ms. Graves think that these people will be willing to shelter me after everything that’s happened? But then again, maybe they don’t even know my history.

  Don’t say a word, Abigail, or you’ll pay.

  Terror overwhelms me. I drop my gaze to my feet counting my toes several times. My body shakes uncontrollably as the door opens. A middle-aged man wearing a blue suit smiles at us.

  “Ms. Graves?” I jerk at the sound of his deep male voice.

  “Yes, and this is Abigail Lyons,” she says straightening her back.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lyon
s,” the man standing in front of me greets. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He opens the door wider for us, stepping aside. I follow right behind Ms. Graves.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ahern will be with you in just a minute,” he says, giving us a sharp nod and walking away.

  Ms. Graves squeezes my arm gently. “Everything is going to be fine,” she assures me.

  Poor, naïve Ms. Graves. She’s only prolonging my agony. She doesn’t understand that no matter where she takes me, I won’t be safe from those monsters. I not only fear them, but the memories. The ghosts remain by my side. They’re choking me with their cold hands and squeezing the life out of me. I have no idea why I even fight them. Sooner or later they’ll win.

  “Think positive,” she mumbles, sounding like one of those life coaches who try to make you believe that anything is possible. “This is your second chance. You’ll find happiness.”

  Huh, happiness might happen to others perhaps … I don’t know if it’ll ever happen for me.

  At this moment, however, I can only concentrate on two things: tying to remain silent and blocking the past from my mind. I just can’t do the latter. All my thoughts continue to scatter. Nothing has made sense since …

  I hold my breath and count slowly, pushing aside everything that’s happened over the past few days. One, two, three. I focus on the marble floor while my nails dig into the sensitive flesh of my arms.

  “What happened to you was tragic,” she continues.

  Tragic?

  She has no idea what happened to me at home or for how long it went on. Until a couple of days ago, my life was a cross between Kiss the Girls and Silence of the Lambs.

  “I understand that you don’t want to talk about it, but you might want to change your attitude,” she snaps.

  Her patience has run thin.

  Take it easy on me. You heard the psychiatrist, lady. After what I witnessed, it might take months if not years to recover my speech.

  So, what if I’m faking not being able to speak? It’s the only way I can assure my survival. I learned this by reading novels. It’s good to store useless information. I didn’t know that one day all of it would become useful. If only I could escape this town. There’s no way I can emancipate myself and create a new identity here. I should go blonde and try to make enough money to buy those colored contacts. I’d choose green. With my dark brown eyes, it would be almost impossible to fake a pure blue.

  “You’re very lucky.” Her jaw clenches and her nostrils flare.

  The woman has shed the sheepskin and is showing her inner wolf. Everyone has an inner wolf; some just hide it better than others.

  “The Aherns stopped fostering children a couple of years ago, but they made an exception for you.” She gives me a once-over and scrunches her nose. “This is your chance to start anew.”

  I nod twice, pretending to understand what’s at stake. She’s just praying that I don’t become a burden for her. That after today, she doesn’t have to see me or hear from me ever again. Unless someone asks her where she sent me. My lip quivers when I realize that I’m not safe. Not here or anywhere. If only I were smart enough, I’d hack the database and erase my name from the system—erase any record of my existence.

  “Everything will be okay,” Ms. Graves reassures me with that fake smile that reminds me of my mother’s.

  Nothing will be fine, I want to scream at her.

  “Listen, losing your mother and that happening to your sister was horrible, but you can continue with your life,” she pauses, covering her face and muffling a sound. “Everything will go back to normal in no time.”

  Is she crying on my behalf?

  If only I could, I’d set her straight.

  Lady, you don’t know shit. Ava wasn’t my sister! I scream inside my head.

  Mom … well, that happened nearly a year ago.

  I hold my breath as a shiver runs down my spine. Fear. Despair. My heart races as I realize that I almost said something.

  Don’t speak, I repeat several times.

  “Normal,” she repeats.

  For fuck’s sake, this woman is clueless. Does she even know what normal is for me? My life has been everything but normal since my grandmother died and left my mother to take care of me. After being cared for by a woman who was like Mother Theresa, I was left behind to hang out with one of Satan’s demons—and a stupid one for that matter. For the past few years, I hated my life, my mother, and myself. When she died, I was afraid that her husband would send me to a foster home. Now, I wish he would have. At least it would have kept me safe from … them.

  The sound of tapping heels speeds my pulse. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. The horror stories from the foster kids I met at school haunt me. My head pounds, and I hug myself.

  “Finally, you guys are here,” a cheery female voice says. “You must be Abigail.

  “I’m Linda Ahern, and please, you should just call me Linda.” She’s almost as tall as my five-foot-five. Her green eyes crinkle when she sees me. Her olive skin tone makes her look younger than Ms. Graves. Her light brown hair is styled in an elegant bob.

  “We’re so excited!” she says with more enthusiasm than a cheerleader in the middle of a Broncos game.

  This kind of happiness can’t be real. I lower my head wishing myself away. If only I had Dorothy’s red shoes, I could tap them and … where would I go? Certainly not to Oz, or home. I’d rather be here than home.

  You don’t belong here, Abigail.

  Mom always said those words. It was her mantra. She regretted having me. I ruined her life and those of everyone else around me. It won’t take long for these people to realize that I’m a burden. I’ll adapt though. I just need ten months. When I turn eighteen I’ll be able to leave this place, Colorado, and everything that happened here behind me.

  Unless these people grow tired of me before I can escape. I should start planning. I scan the room. The fancy painting on the wall looks like the ones at the museum. The crystal chandelier right above me. I stare at it. One, two, three, four, five … my lungs loosen up, the air comes in and out more easily. Counting each prism soothes me.

  “Mom!” A loud, rough voice interrupts my counting, making my entire body jolt.

  I stretch my neck and spot a tall guy coming from the living room at the other end of the house.

  “Sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He’s nearly a foot taller than me, has broad shoulders, and looks young. His short dark hair is combed to the side framing his piercing blue eyes. He looks like an actor, a model.

  “Wes, dear. I was expecting your father.”

  “There was an emergency at the office, so he asked me to come.”

  Her green eyes dim for a second before her smile returns. My heart hurts because I feel her sadness.

  “He’s sneaking into the garage, isn’t he?” Mrs. Ahern rolls her eyes and smiles. This smile doesn’t touch her eyes though. “You’ll excuse my husband, Abigail. He’s excited to meet you, but it’s difficult to get him away from his work.”

  “Almost impossible,” Wes confirms with a sharp nod.

  “Abigail, this is my son Weston,” she introduces me, but the guy doesn’t try to shake hands or say a word to me.

  I nod and wonder if I should curtsy to please them.

  “I’m sorry. Abigail is quiet and impossibly shy,” Ms. Graves glares at me as she apologizes for my silence. “She hasn’t spoken since…”

  The long pause becomes a silence that lingers around us, thickening the atmosphere. I swallow hard before it chokes me.

  “Would you like me to show her to her room, Mom?” Weston looks at his mother who nods in return.

  “Please, Abigail, why don’t you follow me while Mom talks to Ms. Graves.” He’s too proper for a guy his age. I’d guess he’s in his early twenties.

  Who knows? His mother looks young too.

  My gaze shifts from Ms. Graves to Mrs. Ahern waiting for th
eir input. All I really want though is to get the hell out of this place. It isn’t where I want to be. Actually, I don’t even want to be anymore.

  “Go with him, dear,” Mrs. Ahern’s sweet voice reminds me of Grandma. “Your room is ready. We can talk after I show Ms. Graves to her car.”

  Either her tone or the goodness in her gaze convinces me that I’m safe. Maybe it’s just an illusion, but for now, I’ll allow myself to trust this woman.

  — — —

  I follow Weston, my gaze fixated on the marble floor. Once I reach the first step, I come to a halt. I lift my chin and find myself in front of a wide staircase that splits into two right at the first landing. One goes left and the other right, which is where Weston waits for me, giving me a reassuring smile.

  We climb the stairs, the clicking of his shoes echoing throughout the house.

  “Mom bought you some clothes,” he says trying to fill the silence.

  My posture goes rigid at his statement. These strangers bought me clothes? Why would they when they don’t know me?

  When I was ten—before my life crumbled and I became who I am today—I thought everyone was good. Or at least, my grandma made me believe that everyone’s heart was good and pure—just that some people forgot to listen to theirs. I also thought that she was a wise woman who knew everything.