Under His Roof

CHAPTER XII

Monday morning arrived cold and gray, the pale light filtering through my bedroom curtains. I woke up with my mind instantly returning to the front porch from yesterday, remembering the quiet weight of the Bible in Zeke's hands and the lingering touch of his fingers against mine.

I sat up, running a hand through my messy hair, and immediately felt a wave of irritation at myself.

I do not like him, I insisted, tossing the quilt aside.

He was still the same stubborn, brooding guy who was keeping half my life hidden in a metal trunk.

Downstairs, the middle class realities of the Bennett household hit me all over again. Mrs. Bennett had left a plate of plain toast and scrambled eggs on the counter before heading out to her shift. The toast was slightly burnt at the edges, and the store brand coffee tasted like warm mud compared to the artisanal roasts my mother used to import.

I sat at the wooden table in my silk robe, picking at the crust with a sigh. My feet were still sore from walking up the paved hill in yesterday's heels, and my back ached from the stiff mattress.

I missed room service, soft Egyptian cotton sheets, and mornings when I didn't have to wash my own plate.

"If you stare at the toast any harder, it might actually turn into a croissant."

A raspy voice came from the doorway.

Zeke stood there holding his keys, wearing a dark work shirt with the collar open. He looked thoroughly unbothered by the early hour.

I glared over my shoulder, holding my chin up.

"It's cold, Zeke. And this coffee is basically colored water."

He walked over to the counter and poured himself a mug without flinching.

"It's breakfast, princess. You eat it, or you stay hungry until noon."

Before I could fire off a retort, Mrs. Bennett called from the back laundry room, asking the two of us to carry several heavy wooden storage crates out to the garage to clear space for the weekly cleaning.

"Great," I muttered, standing up and tying the belt of my robe tighter. "Manual labor in the morning. Just what my hands needed."

"Don't strain yourself," Zeke said, picking up two heavy crates at once with easy strength. "We wouldn't want you to break a nail."

"I am perfectly capable of carrying a box," I replied, rolling my eyes as I picked up a smaller wooden crate filled with old glass jars.

The box was surprisingly heavy, the rough wood digging into my bandaged palm. I wobbled slightly as I tried to shift the weight against my hip, letting out a frustrated breath.

Zeke set his crates down near the back door and turned around.

He didn't make a sarcastic comment this time. Instead, he walked over to me.

"You're holding it wrong," he said quietly.

Before I could move away, he reached around me and adjusted the way I was holding the crate. His hands briefly covered mine against the wooden edges as he shifted the weight higher and closer to my chest.

His chest was close behind me, and I suddenly became far too aware of how little space there was between us.

My breath caught.

I looked up slightly and caught the line of his jaw. Zeke paused too, his gray eyes meeting mine when he turned his head.

For a second, neither of us moved.

The kitchen suddenly felt much quieter than it had a moment ago.

Zeke cleared his throat and stepped back.

"Like that," he muttered.

His voice sounded rougher than usual.

He picked up his crates and walked toward the garage without looking back.

I stood there for a few seconds, still holding the crate against my chest.

My face felt warm.

I hated that.

An hour later, we were sitting on the back porch steps, taking a short break. The morning sun had started breaking through the clouds, warming the cold air.

I sat with my knees pulled up to my chest, staring at the overgrown backyard.

"I miss my old house," I said softly.

The confession slipped out before I could stop it.

Zeke glanced over from his spot on the railing. I expected him to make another joke about my expensive lifestyle, but he didn't.

"I miss my room," I continued quietly. "I miss my piano. I miss having friends who didn't look at me like I was a news headline."

I swallowed.

"Everything was easy back then. I didn't have to wonder who was lying to me."

Zeke didn't laugh.

He didn't make a sarcastic remark about my wealthy background either.

He simply listened.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small paper wrapper. Inside was a warm pastry from the local bakery, the same kind I had wanted yesterday.

He placed it on the wooden step beside my foot.

He didn't say anything.

He just leaned back against the porch post and looked out at the yard.

I stared at the pastry.

He remembered.

A strange warmth settled in my chest.

I had spent eight years believing Zeke hated me. But maybe there was more to him than the angry, guarded person I had convinced myself he was.

While Zeke went inside to answer a phone call, I stepped into the hallway to return an empty storage bin to the closet.

That's when I noticed an old wooden box near the bottom shelf.

It was filled with community newsletters and camp flyers from Cedar Ridge.

Curiosity won over caution.

I crouched down and started flipping through the dusty papers. Near the back, I found a summer camp brochure from 2018.

I opened it.

One page was dedicated to the advanced lake program. There was a group photograph of the campers who had earned the blue water sports jacket.

I scanned the faces.

Evan Carter was there.

Zeke was there.

Two other local boys stood beside them.

Then I reached the fifth name.

Thomas Brown.

My eyes narrowed.

I stared at the name for several seconds.

That wasn't the name on the ID card.

The ID card had said Thomas Brown.

My fingers tightened around the brochure.

Someone had changed something.

But why?

"Where did you get that?"

I jumped.

The brochure slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor.

I turned around.

Zeke stood at the end of the hallway.

His expression changed the moment he saw the paper.

His gray eyes darkened, but instead of anger, I saw something else.

Fear.

"Why can't you just let this go, Daphne?" he asked quietly.

I looked directly at him.

"Because it's my memory too, Zeke."

My voice shook, but I forced myself to continue.

"I have a right to know why a boy vanished from my life."

The words seemed to hit him harder than I expected.

Zeke looked away, his jaw tightening.

"That day..." he began.

His voice was quieter now.

He took a step toward me.

"That day at the lake, you..."

He stopped.

I held my breath.

"What did I do, Zeke?"

For a moment, I thought he was finally going to tell me.

Then his expression closed again.

"Forget it," he said.

He turned and walked toward the front door.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

I stood in the hallway, watching him leave.

He had been one sentence away from telling me the truth.

That night, I lay awake in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the clock ticked past midnight.

The house was completely silent.

Then I heard a quiet rustling sound near my door.

I sat up.

A small piece of thick paper had been pushed underneath my bedroom door.

I climbed out of bed and pulled the door open.

The hallway was empty.

I looked down at the paper in my hand.

It wasn't a note this time.

It was an old, faded photograph.

The picture showed the edge of the lake on that sunny afternoon in July 2018.

Thomas Brown stood near the wooden dock, holding the blue water sports jacket.

Beside him was an eleven year old girl with dark hair.

Me.

I stared at the photograph.

I was reaching toward Thomas, handing him a folded piece of paper.

My stomach twisted.

I turned the photograph over.

Written across the back in dark blue ink were four words.

You asked him to save you.

My blood ran cold.

I stared at the handwriting.

It wasn't Zeke's.

It wasn't the mysterious person's handwriting either.

I knew those letters.

I had seen them before.

On old school assignments.

Birthday cards.

Notes I had written to myself.

My fingers began to tremble.

It was my handwriting.