Kara "He's dead," Cameron said. "He's dead because of me." His voice had gone flat. When my eyes snapped to him, horrified at what I heard, his face had gone blank. Devoid of any emotion. A mask. I waited for him to tell me more, but he had gone silent. He was staring intensely at a spot in the distance, but when I looked over, there was nothing there but an empty field. "Cameron," I said as gently as I could, but he didn't react. As if he had already retreated to a place where I couldn't find him. I reached for his hand, holding onto him, but he pulled away from me. I stepped back in response. I didn't think he'd moved away from my touch before. I understood why he did. He needed space right now, but still, his reaction stung. I noticed his skin that was always warm had turned cold. It was clear that he was in great pain, but he was trying his damndest to hide it from me. He moved a few steps ahead of me. Maybe so I wouldn't see his face. "Why are we here?" I asked. It was as if he hadn't heard me. Slowly I walked beside him. Not too close, but close enough to see his face, to reach out and touch him if he needed. I noticed that his lips had gone pale, his blue eyes had darkened. He was still staring at the same spot in the distance, as if he was watching a scene play out in his head. Maybe he was. I had no idea how long we stood there. It could have been a minute or half hour, but he hadn't said a word. I didn't say anything either, just waited for him. It was unusual for me to be silent, no matter the occasion, but I could sense that whatever happened here made a huge impact in his life. He said it was hard for him to open up and I had a feeling he had never talked about this to anyone before. What the hell happened here? I looked at him again and saw a man—a tall beautiful man with a broad back, carrying the weight of the world on his strong shoulders. But a body and heart could only take so much. One of them was bound to feel exhausted sooner or later. And someday his strength would give out. What would happen to him then? "Cameron," I said gently. "Tell me what happened here." When at last he looked at me, his deep blue eyes glistened with intensity. I couldn't explain why I felt his pain right there and then, as if it was a solid thing floating in the air. It wrapped around us, covering the field with sorrow. "We were supposed to meet that day," he began. His voice, unlike his blue eyes, was hard and cold. "But I couldn't get away." He fell silent once again and turned away from me. I could tell it was hard for him to talk about it. I looked back at the field again, wondering why he bought the land if something horrific happened here. Was it out of a sense of guilt? Of responsibility? A self-imposed punishment? But he said he'd been content here too. That it had only been the place where he had been happy. There were so many questions swirling in my head, but I didn't want to spook him with them. I noticed though that he responded better when I asked him questions, so I asked, "Why couldn't you get away?" I realized he was making those lengthy pauses before he spoke because he was gathering his thoughts. Whereas I blurted out whatever came to my mind without thinking, he carefully arranged his thoughts before giving them to me. My dad was the same. I understood it. I understood him. He breathed in long and deep, his back muscles shifting as his chest expanded and deflated in time with his breaths. The muscles in his arms flexed and the veins stood out as he curled his hands into fists. I could tell it was in anger. I just wasn't sure if it was directed at himself or something else. "I couldn't get away because I was locked up," he answered. My head snapped up. "What?" "Raven locked me up in the house. And this time I couldn't get away because if I tried and she caught me, there would be hell to pay." "Your mother locked you up in the house." His jaw clenched. My heart started to beat fast and that familiar feeling of anger rushing in my veins was taking over. I imagined Cameron as a kid, alone, lonely, hungry, locked in his house. What kind of mother did he have that she would do that to him? What kind of childhood did he have? "Did she hurt you?" I asked quietly. "Not really," he replied, but he sounded impersonal. As if he was answering an interview question. "Not physically, no. She'd hit me sometimes when she was drunk, but that was because I was in the line of fire. She never hit me directly. She said she loved me too much." "No, she didn't!" I was breathing hard. The feeling of wanting to hit something was getting stronger by the minute. "How could she love you too much when she abused you? She—" "It doesn't matter," he said. It doesn't matter? "How can you say that?" "It's over. She can't control my life any more even if she tried." I seethed. "Where is she now?" "You're amazing, do you know that?" Now he smiled at me, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're so angry for my sake."