Delaney's Shadow Read Online Free PDF

barged into it.
    Max aimed a kick at the pile of debris. The remains of the painting skidded across the room, bleeding more smears of crimson until it came to a stop against the far wall.
    Instead of relieving his frustration, the kick only fed it. He followed the trail the painting had left, his bare feet leaving bloody red footprints. He snatched up what was left of his work, twisting it between his hands, snuffing out the last possible spark of life until the paint oozed between his fingers . . .
    The hair rose on Max’s arms. He went motionless, fighting to contain the rage that waited to be released. He could feel it pulsing through him, tempting him, tightening his fists until the muscles in his arms started to tremble.
    It would be easy to let go. It would feel good to let the ugliness out. It had felt so good before . . .
    Max looked at the crimson that spattered his shirt and stained his hands.
    And he remembered the second time he’d picked up Virgil’s belt.
    Bile gathered in his throat. He dropped the canvas and backed away, coming up against the wall with a thud. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands high into his armpits as he pressed into the unyielding plaster.
    “Damn you, Deedee,” he said through his teeth. “I’m not that boy anymore.”
    He had thought the past was under control. And it had been, until she had slipped into his mind and right through the walls that preserved his sanity.
    Max didn’t want to remember. Forgetting was how he survived.

THREE
     

     
    THE SCREAM RENT THE MORNING. DELANEY JERKED HER head up, sending her sun hat tumbling to the ground behind her. The blackbird at the edge of the woods took to the sky in a sudden blur of wings, and Delaney struggled to breathe, unable to draw enough air into her lungs. What was that? What on earth had just happened?
    There was another scream, this one followed by high-pitched squeals of laughter. Delaney leaned to her side to look past the trunk of the oak tree. A pair of children raced around the house, their giggles trailing like banners behind them. A plump woman in shorts followed, calling their names as they dodged behind the roses, admonishing them to behave. Her words sounded as if they were coming through a tunnel. Delaney watched her usher the girls back to the veranda, distantly aware they must be some of Helen’s guests, yet the scene seemed as unreal as the vision of Max.
    Was this how insanity started?
    She dropped her head into her hands. Think logically , she ordered herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation for the . . . the incident she had just experienced.
    Yet her mind was still reverberating in shock from the loss of contact with Max.
    No, she hadn’t lost him. He had severed the link himself. This hadn’t been any gentle fading, the way it used to be. His image hadn’t gradually dissolved into the mist when they were finished with their game. He had rejected her.
    What did this say about her ego, her self-esteem? Her own fantasy had told her to get lost. Worse than that, he had told her to get the fuck out of his head.
    Her Max never would have said anything like that. Sure, he used to be mischievous at times. That was all part of his charm. But he was never bad or mean or . . .
    She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Stop. Max wasn’t real. He was imaginary. He was a creation of her own subconscious. He had no free will, no control, no existence. Therefore she was the one who had rejected herself.
    Did this mean she had created a tall, well-muscled, dark-haired man as a fantasy and then had made him reject her? Why? Because there was some suppressed prude inside her who felt guilty over the fantasy? Because she didn’t feel she deserved it? Because she felt disloyal to Stanford?
    No, that was all wrong. She was doing this because of Stanford. She had to remember. She owed him that much.
    Then why had her subconscious severed the link with Max? Was there something buried there that she would be better