Disclaimer: I don't own them. :(

Thanks to mingsmommy for the wonderful beta and princessklutz04 for reading and nudging me along. :) All mistakes are my own.

Thank you to everyone who's been reading thus far. :)

Walking along the shore, the sand seeping between my toes and the cool ocean water licking my skin, I turn back and realize I've walked farther than I thought.

Since I found my mother's recipe in the cookbook, I've wondered what else from my past has survived the renovation. After being in the house for a few weeks (has it really been that long?) I find myself more at ease. The uncertain atmosphere which enveloped me when I first entered the house and followed me for several days has dissipated somewhat; I still have apprehension whenever I step into the kitchen.

But I don't know if I'm ready to uncover the secrets the house still holds. I hid things to keep them from the prying eyes of my father, but also to try and convince myself that my life was normal; if my secrets were buried, then they really didn't exist.

My father found the journal I kept and the intensity of his rage during that moment was the first time I'd ever felt threatened by him. Most of the abuse he dealt Daniel and me was emotional, the same way most of the abuse he dealt our mother was physical.

But this…this was scary.

"What the hell is this, Sara?"

He was angry. The pages of my most secret thoughts were being waved in front of me, and all I could think about was the fact I couldn't finish my last entry.

I don't answer him and continue to stare at the floor, hoping he'll just give up and go away. A bug crawls near my toes and I shudder.

"Are you listening to me, you dumb bitch?"

I'm only ten and already I've heard more swear words than most people my age. Some kids think it's cool to finally use ass or shit. I've been hearing it since I was five and it's not cool at all.

His cold, hard hands clamp down hard against my shoulders and I look up at him in surprise and fear. My eyes are big, as he leans in closer to my face and I can feel the heat pouring off his skin.

"I'm taking these, you understand?" he asks, seething, his hot breath rushing over my skin.

His breath smells like alcohol.

Giving me one last shake, he crumples the torn pages and walks from the room.

The water surges forward and splashes my legs and I shiver from the cold. Looking back towards the house, I make my way back, grabbing my shoes on the way.

I'm greeted with silence as I enter the house; both Mary and Frank are out for a quick shopping trip and the other guests remain quiet in the comfort of their rooms. Leaving my shoes at the front door, I pad softly up the stairs and close my door with a soft snick.

Sitting on the bed, I look down at a spot on the floor just left of the small dresser. I carved a small 's' into the corner so I'd remember which board held my thoughts—not that I'd forget, but mostly to remind myself that something in this house belonged to me.

My father always used to yell that everything in the house belonged to him. He was the one working, bringing in the money while my mother did a piss poor job of helping with the B&B. But this, my floorboard, that was mine.

Picking up my phone, I dial Gil's number and without giving him a proper greeting, I blurt out, "You ever bury something from your past?"

I can almost see his eyebrows furrow in thought, the slight purse of his lips and hear the thought in his voice. "My mother buried our cat in the backyard. I was eight."

I shake my head, "No, something you bury to try and convince yourself it's not real."

He's silent for a moment before his voice rings through the receiver, soft and honest. "I tried to bury my feelings for you. I…thought I would never be good enough for you, so I suppressed those feelings." His voice drops, "But I always knew they were there."

"Yeah," I breathe, staring at the floorboards beneath me. "What happened when you uncovered them?"

"I got you."

I bite my lip and try to keep from crying. "Yeah, I got you, too."

"What are you trying to uncover, Sara?"

Walking over the floorboard and hearing its slight creak, I bend down and test its looseness. It gives under my touch and I sit down on the floor and stare at it like I'm about to open Pandora's box.

Maybe I am.

When I speak, my voice is so soft, I wonder if he can even hear me. "When I was ten my father found my journal and got so furious, I thought he'd finally go after me." I swallow hard. "After that, I started hiding my journals under the loose floorboard in my room: they were my secret with the house. I'm staring at it right now."

"What happens next?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "If I uncover them, I'll be faced with my past. If I don't, I'll know they're there and they'll still haunt me."

We're both silent for a moment, both of us content enough to listen to the soft sounds of our breathing. I suppose it's not so different than if I were at home. I've often found myself entranced with the sound of Gil's breathing as we eat, read books or just before we fall asleep; the cadence and inflection is so uniquely him.

It may be strange to notice something so trivial in the person you plan to spend the rest of your life with, but we never followed conventional dating patterns. We slept together before he could work up the courage to ask me on a proper date.

"I'm afraid." The raw fear in my voice scares me, and I feel weak for revealing something so…real. "For as long as I can remember, I've been trying to hide my past, hide who I am, or was, I don't even know. And now…now all I have to do is flip over a lousy floorboard and I'm faced with everything I've tried to keep away."

"I can be on the next plane out, Sara. We can do this together."

I smile. "No, I need to do this myself."

"I thought you'd say that, but I wanted to offer." He continues then, his voice is soft and steady. "You're one of the strongest people I know, Sara. Not many people can face death everyday of their life and handle it as well as you have. I've seen you at the hands of bad people and never once did you give up." He pauses and swallows heavily. "And you never gave up on me."

My throat feels tight and I blow out a long breath to keep from crying. "Yeah, okay," I rasp, "I can do this. I, uh, can I call you back?"

I know he's nodding. "Of course, Sara."

"Okay."

"I love you."

A smile pulls at my lips. "Love you, too."

I hang up and test the floorboard once more; it shifts beneath my fingertips. Taking in a deep breath, I know if I don't do it now, I never will. With minimal force, the board lifts up, old dust and spider webs lining the underside. As I set it aside, I see the bundle of faded papers and my breathing quickens.

My hands shake as I pull them out and a slight paranoia falls over me, as if at any moment my father could storm in and discover my secret. I do look behind me, knowing if Mary walked in, she probably wouldn't approve of me dismantling her floor.

I put the board back in its place and taking the faded memories of my childhood with me, I sit on the bed. Unfolding one, I begin to read my own childish scrawl:

April 4, 1982

The fighting's getting worse. Mom tells me everything is fine, that Dad's just stressed about work and that things will get better. But I know she's lying. I'm eight, not stupid.

Just once I'd like us to be a normal family.

June 16, 1982

Dad broke Mom's nose today. I came home from school and they were fighting. I could hear their screams before I even walked in the door. They were even yelling about anything important. Just how Mom is a "stupid bitch". Then he punched her. She screamed, but didn't cry.


Crying always makes him angry. He's always louder when someone cries.

I sift through my past; each entry more painful to read than the previous, because I know the fighting only gets worse. It escalates way past the point of bruises and broken noses. It escalates to death.

For almost three hours I read and reread entries, tears falling onto the faded paper, but it's almost as if they belong there. Too long I spent trying not to cry, trying to be brave. As if being brave would protect me from the reality of my words.

Emotionally spent, I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a few days. But wallowing in self pity never got anyone anywhere, and I can't allow myself to slip backwards. I want overcome my past, not be overwhelmed by it.

I gather all the pieces of paper and head back downstairs and slip on my shoes. I nearly break into a run and before I know it I am standing knee deep in the frigid ocean water, sand seeping between my toes. One by one, I rip the entries into pieces and scatter them into the rolling waves.

I feel slightly manic and I'm torn between wanting to laugh or cry. Hot tears still roll down my cheeks, but I'm smiling as I continue ripping my memories and send them to the mercy of the water. The ink bleeds and fades into the paper, as if erasing itself from existence.

Throwing the last one in, I feel emotionally lighter than I've ever felt and I pull my cell phone from my pocket. Hitting redial, I smile as his voice fills my ear. And I say the only thing I'm capable of saying.

"I'm free."