The memories, everything, live inside her head.
It's like she can't remember a time before this, before Rosie and Jack and Holder. But she can. Rick and Adrian simmer beneath the surface and being trapped in a continuous cycle of homes (it never stops, never has stopped) burn just beneath that. But it's as if Rosie ( and Holder too, his name burned into her skin) has always been there, settled into her mind when she was a little girl. Rosie Larsen was there in the dark space between everything and nothing (She can almost hear her laugh in her ears). Holder's hand was pressed against her shoulder like he was keeping her in place, keeping her there. And his voice stretched over her name like he was protecting it. She never needed protecting. The lies live in her bones.
Her thumb slides over the spines of his books, her teeth worry her lip. He's by the window, smoking, watching the rain as it licks at the glass. She takes a deep breath. She feels as if she's breathing him in.
Rosie's backpack lays in the seat between them, Holder's hands grip the wheel like he's trying to force his thoughts into it.
Linden, he's saying but his voice doesn't quite reach her and she looks out the window. He sighs.
She wants to say everything, but she says nothing. She thinks he understands.