Page 16

The morning light filters through the gauzy curtains, painting golden streaks across the worn pine of my kitchen table. Outside, waves lap against the shore in a steady rhythm that has become the soundtrack to my new life. Far from the suffocating heat of the bayou, far from the nightmare that birthed me.

I glance at the newspaper—a subscription from down south, delivered weeks late but worth the wait to keep tabs on the world we left behind.

FORMER MAYHEM PRESIDENT RELEASED AFTER 15 YEARS HE WAS INNOCENT ALL ALONG!

The image shows a mugshot from fifteen years ago—a younger version of Luke, hard-eyed and defiant, taken the day he was arrested for the armored truck robbery. I finally did the thing Honey wanted me to all those years ago. Free her dad, our dad. A pang of sorrow fills my gut knowing he returned to nothing that was once his home. His children gone, my mother long dead, his club in scattered shambles. That was his reward for fifteen years of paying for his son’s crime. The unfairness was a bitter pill even now.

My son bangs his spoon against his high chair tray, demanding attention in the way only ten-month-olds can. His honey-colored eyes—the exact shade of whiskey that haunted my dreams for fifteen years—crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

“Easy, peanut,” I murmur, wiping applesauce from his chin. “Food’s not going anywhere.”

The tank top I’m wearing doesn’t hide much. Why should it? Here, three thousand miles from Louisiana, no one knows what the scars mean. No one knows what I’ve done. Or survived.

His pudgy fingers reach out, tracing the raised line that runs from my collarbone to shoulder—a souvenir from one monster. I catch his hand, pressing a kiss to those impossibly small fingers.

“Your daddy gave me those,” I tell him, keeping my voice light like we’re discussing something ordinary. “But he won’t give me anymore. And he’ll never hurt you either, peanut.”

Those eyes hold mine, far too knowing for someone who’s barely existed in this world. They’re the same eyes his aunt had—Honey’s eyes. The same eyes his father has, though the darkness behind them is missing in my son. For now.

My mind drifts back to that night in Edge’s house. Misty’s shocked face mirrored mine when I saw this house’s owner in Jace’s kitchen moments earlier. Before that gunshot, before I stole the nearest neighbors truck as camouflage, nobody saw me. Her plea for mercy—no one ever gave me or Honey—was lost as a baby cried. It was as if I could feel Honey guiding my knife as I thrust it into the womb that had carried Jace’s living child. She’d taken my life from me, my sister from me. She’d fed me to the wolves over a man who never earned everything he got by throwing away those he no longer found useful. He was beautiful, but to love him was to lay your neck across the guillotine blade and hope it never cost you your head. Foolish. The horror he left in his wake was what truly made him a monster. “I’m sorry, Naomi!” she cried as she stumbled backwards gripping her stomach. “Jace made me do it!” Her words rang true, he could make common sense leave with that southern charm and gorgeous smile. The warmth in those amber eyes hid the coldest soul. But if I didn’t have any pity for myself I had even less for her. Her eyes grew wide as I grabbed the shotgun propped outside the door and aimed it at her head. “I believe you,” I said. The sound of the shotgun echoed in the tiny confines of the room. The baby stopped crying the moment he was in my arms.

We were going to get this revenge together, but it was never Jace’s to have. It was mine and it was Honey’s and all the other girls who didn’t survive what I miraculously did, and it was fifteen years past due. It didn’t matter if he sold us out to the Jackals or if he ordered Misty to do it. It didn’t matter if he tried to make up for it after, nothing could do that. Not after so many years in hell. Some things, like hearts, can be broken beyond repair. Like trust.

The only path forward was to leave Jace behind. Leave the south. Leave the ghosts. Take this beautiful boy and run from the ruin his father created. His future in that place would have been as cursed as my own.

I knew he was always meant to be mine. Those moments my resolve waivered in my acts of revenge could have cost me this chance.

I stare out at the horizon where sky meets ocean in an endless blue line. “You know, peanut, if things had been different, you might have had an older brother or sister by now.” My hand drifts to my abdomen, flat now but once carrying the evidence of everything the Jackals took from me. “A teenager. Can you imagine? Would you have liked that?”

Peanut smashes another handful of applesauce into his mouth, oblivious.

“Sisters are better anyway,” I decide aloud. “Much better than brothers. Take my word for it.”

The days pass differently here, measured not in pain or survival but in firsts—first tooth, first word, first step. I’ve started keeping track of them in a journal, something to prove we existed, that we were here, that we mattered. Time moves forward, dragging me with it whether I want to go or not.

I’ve been looking over my shoulder less. The nightmares still come, but they’re becoming infrequent visitors rather than nightly tormentors. I can feel parts of myself healing, like scars softening over time. Still there, still visible, but no longer raw and bleeding.

There are moments when I forget to be afraid, when the weight of vigilance slips from my shoulders and I feel something close to normal. Those moments are becoming more frequent. I’m learning to live with what I’ve done, with what was done to me.

I can even live with the truth that I love Jace but I hate him too. I can’t escape that, maybe if I’d had the epiphany fifteen years ago it would have been something I could overcome. But I never will so the only thing to do is to leave it alone and never pick the wound.

Peanut squeals, reaching for me with sticky hands, and I lift him from the high chair. We dance around the kitchen to no music, just the sound of waves and his delighted giggles. This is mine now—this peace, this joy, this life built from the ashes of the old one.

A sharp knock at the door cuts through our moment. I freeze, old instincts flooding back—assess, calculate, survive. But only for a second. Then I breathe, shift Peanut to my hip, and make my way through our small beach house.

There’s a new strength in me now, one that comes not from pain or rage but from purpose. From knowing what I’m protecting. I open the door without hesitation, squinting against the bright coastal sun.

A smile spreads across my face. It’s easier for me to do that now—pleasure, joy, peace. It fills me as the achingly familiar old man grins back at us.