Free I Will Not Run by Elizabeth Preston Page A

trying not to think of sex. But the muscles between my thighs were starting to respond.
    It was a ploy. I tried to tell myself that. He wanted to discuss Buttercup’s death and this sensual thing he was doing to my fingers was supposed to distract me. Damn it, it was working too, but not as much as he hoped. I guess some things aren’t smoothed over so easily.
    I cleared my throat but left my hand where it was. “No, you’re wrong, Dom. My sister’s death wasn’t an accident.” I drew in a deep yoga-style breath, held it for a few counts then slowly let it out again, searching for calm.
    “I was there when Bruno gave her the car. He threw the keys at her and Buttercup caught them and smiled up at him like he was the kindest, most generous man in the world. I ran up and snatched the keys out of her hands, knowing she’d hate me for it and I’d be the bad guy again. Bruno knew what he was doing, no mistake. He got a kick out of driving a wedge between my sister and me. He likes upsetting my family. You’ve gotta believe me, Dom. Bruno doesn’t do anything by chance.”
    He said nothing more about Buttercup, and neither did I. Instead, I sat there, staring into the next field, my lips pinched together in a tight angry line. While I gazed into the distance, I let the memories come flooding back . . .
    It was Buttercup’s birthday. She was excited, of course she’d talked about nothing else for weeks. We spoiled her, and why not? She was my sister, my younger sister—ten years younger—and she had more troubles than most. Everyone that met Buttercup thought she was way younger than she really was. I put her immaturity, her babyish ways down to her Asperger’s Syndrome. She was diagnosed about ten years back. They said she was only mildly affected but it was enough to make her different. Buttercup had always seemed out of kilter with everyone else. According to the doctors, being an ‘Aspie’ meant that she had trouble responding to people appropriately. If someone said, “How are you?” she’d rattle on, telling them really truly how she was.
    And she was hopeless at reading non-verbal communications as well. She could recognise a happy smile and crying eyes but not much in-between. A troubled look went right over her head. I guess, because she didn’t understand facial expressions or gestures, she seemed way younger than her nineteen years.
    But somehow she sensed that Bruno would give in to her birthday pleading. All she had to do was keep nagging and she’d get her own way in the end.
    “Please, pleeeeease, Bruno. Please buy me a car.”
    I put my arm around her and tried to lead her away. “We’ll buy you something else, hon. How about a trip? You and I could go away on a holiday together. Somewhere overseas maybe. I’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
    “I want a car. I want one this year and don’t pretend you’ll give me one later, because I know you won’t. It’s the only thing I want.”
    She could be as stubborn as a five-year-old sometimes, stomping her feet. Bruno enjoyed her tantrums and if they upset me, then that was even better.
    “But you don’t know how to drive, Tuppence,” he taunted. “Now, if you think you could learn, then I might just buy you something small with four wheels.”
    I glared at him, my nails biting into my palm. But I couldn’t let him see how freaked I was at the thought of her behind the wheel. Still, I couldn’t very well say nothing either. This was important, imperative, top priority: Buttercup must never be allowed to drive.
    Later, when we were alone, I said, “She can’t have a car, no way, you know that, right?”
    “Do I look friggin’ stupid? If I buy her a car, she’ll drive herself into a tree.”
    My face sweated up just thinking about it. She’d slam her foot flat to the floor, over-steer, and never recognise the danger she was in. But if I insisted, pushed my point too hard, then I risked pushing Bruno into doing the exact opposite of