Fall from Grace by L. R. Wright Page B

and mopped his face. “Where’s Mother?”
    â€œGone inside,” said Warren.
    His dad glanced through the open patio doors into the empty family room. “So,” he said quietly to Warren. “How’s Annabelle?”
    Warren felt very weary. He took out the photograph. “Here,” he said, handing it to his dad. “See for yourself.”

Chapter 15
    S TEVEN FELT THE late-afternoon sun on his back as a series of hot breaths, as though it were a large animal following him, silently following him up the steep incline. It burned into his back, and then he passed among trees through shade and coolness, and emerged once more into sun, felt it sear his skin through the thin white T-shirt.
    There was a path, of sorts, that led steeply upward, curving around the carcasses of fallen trees, brushing against banks of ferns, steering him through a tunnel of greenery that smelled rank and moist despite the heat. He climbed confidently, though he’d never been here before, never been on this side of the cliff before. It was like being backstage in a theater. So this is what holds it up, he thought, as he climbed, his camera hanging around his neck.
    He was sweating in the heat but he didn’t mind; he could feel the wetness gathering in the middle of his back and under his arms, soaking his T-shirt, and he didn’t mind; he liked the feeling that he was working hard, it reflected his hope that perhaps, finally, he could be once more deserving of reward.
    On either side of the path grew brush and ferns and tree trunks and stinging nettles. Steven heard nothing, as he climbed, except his own labored breathing, and the scuffling of his sneakers on the hard-packed trail. He climbed on, aware of the money belt hugging his waist, aware of the muscles in his thighs and calves, aware of his sweat.
    He had to stay calm, he told himself, and speak reasonably, and if he did that, everything was going to be okay. Staying calm and speaking reasonably, that was the important thing. He would make his declaration, and present his offering, and he would be respectful and repentant.
    He’d gone over and over it in his mind, while lying in bed staring at the ceiling; while walking the streets of Sechelt; while mowing his mother’s lawn. He’d been going over it for days, and finally he was calm, finally he was ready.
    Suddenly he stumbled, and threw out a hand to break his fall, but his feet went out from under him and he had to scuffle on his hands and knees to keep from tumbling down the path. “Shit,” he muttered, breathless, his camera swinging wildly from its leather strap, striking him on the chin. He edged cautiously off the path and clung for a while to the slim trunk of a young fir tree. Then he checked his camera, brushed dirt from his legs and hands and started upward again, moving more slowly, taking more care.
    The sun watched and waited and from between the trees pitched shafts of fire at his back; they struck at the nape of his neck and started a headache there. He could see it in his mind—a flame of an ache created by the sun striking against the bones of his neck.
    The sweat was dripping from his forehead and when it got into his eyes it stung.
    He hoped he would arrive first. He was feeling shaken and uncertain, now; rattled by almost falling, and by the heat-ache in his neck. The words he’d had ready had fled. He knew he could get them back again but he needed a little bit of time.
    He wiped sweat from his face and floundered upward, assailed by the sun. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding and his head hurt. This was not an easy climb at all, he thought, and tried not to feel angry about that.
    Then the path turned, abruptly, and he was on even ground, standing alone in a clearing. Tall grass, sun-dappled, grew beneath the trees. It was very quiet. His breathing sounded loud in the stillness, and his heart was making a lot of noise, too.
    But he would