Forbidden - Karla Sorensen Page 0,2

haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Somehow, I managed a smile. “Would you?”

“I’d make a bitch of a ghost.” Her frame was wracked with a rib-rattling cough.

Lifting her featherlight hand up to my mouth, I kissed her knuckles. She smelled like medicine. Her fingers were cold against my mouth, and all I wanted to do was warm her. Fix her.

And I couldn’t.

The helplessness had me wanting to wreck everything. Especially when she kept talking. Her words were so much worse than the knife; it was like a hundred of them. The girl next door, who I’d known for more than half my life, who’d had my heart for almost a decade was going to leave a gaping hole, and I didn’t want to think about the fact that I couldn’t fill it.

“You have excellent taste, Aiden Hennessy,” she said quietly. “You must if you chose me.”

I gave her a look. “I think it was you who did the choosing. The way I remember it, at least.”

She hummed, eyes falling closed. “That’s right. I had excellent taste.” She slid her hand over my cheek and down the line of my jaw. “That’s why you should trust me.”

“I do,” I whispered.

“Good.” Gently, she exerted pressure on my chin until I couldn’t look away. “That’s why I answered Anya’s question. Because you two will be okay, and she needed to know that. You will be happy again, even if I’m not there.”

“Beth.” My voice cracked on her name, eyes burning dangerously. “Please.”

“You will be okay without me,” she repeated, her own gaze clear and strong.

It was like she pulled the knife out—every single one—and everything they’d held in came pouring out in a messy rush. I dropped my head onto the side of the hospital bed, and while my wife stroked the back of my head, I wept.

Chapter One

Aiden

“It’s a little crooked.”

A slow sigh escaped my lips, not that my daughter could hear with the unicorn-covered blankets pulled up past her nose.

Hand on my hips, I stared at the offending item. “I don’t know, gingersnap. It looks like it did last night, right?”

That stumped her for a solid thirty seconds. Her blue eyes stared straight up, unblinking and unwavering, and I could practically see her trying to dig up reasons the hot pink tulle canopy was off center and thereby unacceptable. If it was unacceptable, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Her eyes darted toward me, then back up to the pink cloud. “Did Uncle Clark measure it?”

“Uncle Clark measures everything.”

The sound of her giggle was muffled by the mound of blankets. But nonetheless, I heard it, and something eased in my chest. Bedtime had been our biggest struggle in the two years since Beth died. It began about six months after we buried her and with just little things at first.

Daddy, can you move that lamp a little closer to my bed? It’s too far away, and I can’t see it.

Can I have one more blanket over my feet? They’re cold, and I won’t be able to sleep if they’re cold.

Can I get one more stuffed animal from the playroom? Four isn’t enough, and I think I need five to sleep.

Over the next year, the things that bothered her got a little bit bigger and a little bit harder to accommodate. But it faded as we rounded the eighteen-month mark. Her bedroom stayed untouched, and I was able to slip out after reading her a story, saying a prayer, and wishing a good night to each and every plush character that filled the queen-sized bed with her.

Then we moved from California to Washington to be closer to my family so I didn’t have to raise my daughter completely solo. So Anya could have grandparents and her uncles and aunt around. And the first night in our new home—where we’d been for the last two weeks—it began again.

“How about this,” I said slowly. “I’ll go downstairs and see if Uncle Beckham brought his tape measure over, and he can check Uncle Clark’s measuring skills. Sound good?”

She nodded, tufts of white-blond hair sticking up around her head.

Carefully, I bent over and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Love you, gingersnap.”

“Love you more, daddysnap.”

My lips curled into a smile.

“You’re coming back after you talk to Uncle Beckham, right?”

“Yes.”

Anya sighed, slipping the covers down a couple of inches, enough that I could see the gap where her two front teeth used to be when she smiled at me. “Okay.”

The bedtime routine was a dance the two