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Chapter forty-six

Patrick

By the time we pull into the lot, the last traces of light are bleeding out of the sky, and the funeral home stares back at us, dark and waiting.

I kill the engine and the silence booms.

My heartbeat’s too loud.

My lungs are sawing against my ribs.

The windows. The bricks. The cracks in the steps.

It’s all watching.

I reach for the handle.

Stop.

Grip it tighter. Tighter.

No.

My hand’s shaking too hard.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

Levana finally looks at me.

“You can do this, Patrick,” she says. “But I need you to listen to me, okay? And I know you’re not going to like it, but… I need to go into my house first.”

I jerk toward her. “No—what? Why?”

She doesn’t flinch. “My spare keys for the funeral home are inside. They’re in the kitchen drawer. And the key to my front door is still under the plant pot.“

Blood pumps through my ears. “No. No. No, Levana.”

“Patrick. Please.”

My gaze travels down, to where scabbed fingers cradle our babies.

Our babies.

She’s carrying the threads that bind us.

I trust her. I trust her. I trust her.

I nod.

She blows out a heavy breath. “Okay. Let’s grab an extra blanket for Alexander, alright? Make sure he’s even warmer. Keep him nice and comfy.”

We round the car and head to the back. There’s a spare, tucked right behind the passenger seat. She pulls it gently around him, so the slightest bit of his face is left uncovered, but the rest of him is wrapped up safe and warm.

“Come on,” she says as I lift him into my arms. “Stay close.”

We move.

Across the lot. Across the snow-dusted grass. Right to her house.

My eyes scan the shadows for movement, for silhouettes, for him .

Nothing.

She crouches beside the plant pot.

“Hurry,” I whisper.

“I am.” She mutters, scraping up the key with trembling hands.

She stands and fits it into the lock. The door creaks open, but she freezes on the threshold.

Fuck. She’s so scared.

“Go,” I say, breath tight. “I’m right behind you.”

She steps in first. I follow, shutting the door behind us with a soft click.

“Keep the lights off,” I murmur.

She nods, and we melt into the dark.

The house smells like burnt matches, damp leaves, the faintest trace of chemicals.

It smells like her . Like Levana.

She’s right there, she’s right here with me, but it loosens the slightest coil of tension from my ribs.

Her feet are almost silent as she heads toward the kitchen.

I stay by the door, shoulders tense, Alexander cradled carefully in my arms as my eyes flick around the room.

The curtains are open just a crack, and I duck down.

Too many shadows out there.

Any one of them could be someone watching. Waiting.

A bang in the kitchen makes me flinch.

A drawer slams. A cabinet shuts with a click.

What is she doing in there?

“Baby, please hurry up!” I whisper, tight with urgency. “You don’t know who could be out there. Please.”

The darkness outside its crawling toward the door, pooling at the windows, waiting to drag her out of my arms.

The chanting starts again.

“Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly.”

Over and over.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I can’t wait anymore.

My feet carry me to the kitchen without a thought.

“Baby, what are you—”

She jumps, spinning to face me, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

For a second, the space between us is dead air.

“Found them,” she says, holding the keys up between us.

The breath rushes out of me.

“Come on, sunshine. Let’s go,” she says, already heading to the door.

We step out together, keeping low, moving fast.

Past the porch. Down the path. Around the fence.

Right to the back of the funeral home.

She fumbles with the key for a second before the lock gives way, and we slip inside where sterile, silent, thick air hits me like a wall, coiling around my throat, seeping into my mouth and nose.

My skin prickles. My pulse stutters.

“What now, baby?” I ask her. “Where do we go? What do we do?”

Levana turns back to me, her face half hidden in shadows. “You need to breathe, Patrick. Just breathe.”

I nod fast. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

“We’re going down to the cooler.” She tells me.

Down to the bodies. Down to the cold. Down to death.

She moves, and I follow, watching the back of her head, the curve of her shoulders as she leads the way.

The white, clinical light of the cooler flickers overhead as I follow her in, arms still wrapped tight around Alexander. The chill sinks straight into my bones, and I curl my hand around the back of his head, shielding him from the worst of it.

Levana crosses to the wall of steel shelves stacked in neat, cold lines, and pulls one out, metal screeching against metal.

“Here,” she says softly. “This one’s okay.”

I just stand there, frozen, looking down at my boy, still wrapped in his blankets, still nestled against my chest.

“Patrick. It’s okay, I promise.”

No, it’s not.

It’s not.

It’s not.

Don’t put him down. Don’t lay him on that cold steel. Don’t let go.

But I do. I have to. It’s how I save him.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper as I lean forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s just for a little while. Just while Levana finds what you need, okay?”

The second his tiny body meets metal, something snaps.

I stumble back, hand flying to my mouth as the air cuts out of me.

My breathing turns jagged.

Alexander’s on a metal table again.

Cold. Clinical. Steel. Dead.

No. No, no, no. What have I done?

I drop to a crouch, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning.

“Patrick,” Levana says. “Breathe.”

I can’t. I can’t.

“Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly.”

Over and over and over.

She doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t say anything else. Just moves across the room.

Metal clinks and drags. Plastic rustles.

“Hi, Mr. Carter,” she murmurs. “So sorry, I just need to check something.”

A pause. Then another body being moved.

“Hi there, Miss. Moxley,” she says to the next one. “Sorry about the lighting, I know it’s bright. Hang tight for me, just need a peek.”

More metal scrapes. Gloves snap. Flesh shifts beneath fabric.

I rock back and forth, hands still clamped over my eyes. “Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly.”

Levana sighs. “We’re going to have to go up to the embalming room. The match is close, but I need to double check the measurements against the spreader charts. And I need the sizing calipers.”

My hands move, and my eyes flick to Alexander, tucked into a tray beside the two adult bodies.

“I can’t leave him alone,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes. “He’ll be scared.”

Levana’s hand is already reaching for mine. She squeezes, firm and warm, pulling me back to the surface.

“He’s with Mr. Carter and Miss. Moxley,” she says gently. “He’s perfectly fine, okay?”

I hesitate, but she looks so sure.

She knows what she’s doing.

He’s fine.

I trust her.

She tugs my hand, guiding me to my feet.

Our fingers stay locked as we move back through the hallway, up towards the embalming room.

The air shifts again once we’re inside. Somehow, it’s cooler in here. More clinical. It smells like those chemicals that always linger on Levana’s collarbones. The ones that bring me comfort.

I shut the door and stand guard as she crosses the room, rummaging through drawers, opening cabinets, checking the tray stacks.

All I can do is watch.

And panic.

My lungs won’t fill all the way, they tighten with every pull of air like I’m trying to breathe through a wet paper straw.

The walls feel too close. The ceiling too low. The lights overhead buzz louder than they should.

I stagger to the side and hit the counter, sliding down until I’m on the floor, knees pulled up, palms against my skull.

What is wrong with me?

“Patrick.” Her voice cuts through the static. “Patrick, hey—hey, look at me.”

She’s kneeling in front of me now.

“Breathe with me, okay?” she whispers. “Come on. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You can do this. You’re okay.”

I try to follow. I do. But my lungs are spasming, hitching and failing with every attempt.

She takes my hands in hers and presses them against her chest. Her heartbeat is fast, but steady. Steady enough for both of us.

“Everything’s going to work out,” she says. “Just a little longer, and it will be fine. Okay?”

My lungs, my heart, my eyes, my skull, my limbs—it’s all burning. But I manage a nod.

“I love you,” I whisper, voice cracked but true. “I love you so much. You’re such a good mommy and you’ll be the best wife. I love you.”

She presses her forehead against mine, just for a second.

“I love you too,” she says gently. “I’m going to get the stuff now, okay? Then we can go and fix Alexander.”

She pulls away and starts to gather more supplies.

I watch her like a hawk.

Every drawer she opens. Every tool she lines up.

And I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to the door.

Once.

No big deal.

She picks up the sizing calipers. Fiddles with the autoclave.

Flick.

Another glance.

Twice.

My throat tightens.

Because she’s looking again.

Three times.

Too many times.

Mara’s voice drifts through my skull like smoke.

“She’s waiting for someone.”

“She’s going to leave, just like I said.”

“She’s poisoning you.”

I swallow down the nausea. “Levana. Why do you keep looking at the door?”

“Just checking it’s safe,” she says over her shoulder. “That’s all.”

I stand up slowly and take a step forward. “You’re waiting for someone, aren’t you?”

“Patrick,” she spins, holding her hands up. “I swear, I’m not. I was just checking.”

My hand shoots out before I even think about it, grabbing her wrist, dragging her toward me. “Bullshit.”

“Ow—Patrick!” She gasps. “That hurts!”

I can barely hear her. The bloods rushing through me too loudly. Everything’s snapping apart.

The room. The light. Her face. It’s all wrong.

“You’re lying,” I hiss. “You think I don’t see it? You’re going to leave. You’re going to take them from me.”

Her green eyes are wide and wet. “Patrick—please—”

“That bitch, Mara.” My grip tightens. “She took my fucking daughters. And then Alexander died. And now you—you want to leave too? You want to take the babies, Levana? My babies ?”

Rage takes hold of my bones and I shove her, just enough to make her stumble back against the steel edge of the embalming table.

Her elbow slams against it, and she folds slightly, catching herself as a guttural sound escapes her throat.

I’ve never heard her make that sound before.

Pain .

That noise means pain.

Shit. What have I done?

“Baby—” I stammer, already reaching for her. “Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

She turns her face away from me, tears already streaming down it.

She doesn’t want me near her.

I clutch my head and slam my palms against my skull. Again. Again.

“Patrick what the fuck is wrong with you—” I snarl through clenched teeth. “What is WRONG with you?”

My chest heaves. My vision flickers at the edges.

I taste copper.

Blood washes over my tongue.

Cotton fills my throat.

“Why did I do that? Why did I hurt her? What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with me?”