Page 27 of Shrapnel

He sat up and crawled to her, collapsing in her arms. She stroked his thin back, brushing the knotted hair from his face with trembling fingers. His mother curled around him protectively, her tears soaking the back of his shirt.

“Oh baby…oh I’m so sorry…”

Jamie didn’t wake with a start. He never did. His eyes opened and he took stock of the room.

There was no trace from the nightmare—save for a prickling of sweat on the back of his neck and his fingers gripping Owen’s couch cushion in a death grip. Swallowing, he forced his fingers to relax. His joints ached from how hard he was holding on and there was a familiar ache in his jaw.

He stared up at the ceiling, tracing lines between the plaster. His version of star gazing. Judging from the pink light coming from the window it was just past dawn. Sitting up, he pulled the blankets off and ran his fingers through his hair. It felt clean, dark strands sliding through his fingers and leaving behind the scent from shampoo he didn’t recognize.

It had been a long time since he had that nightmare. Or was it a memory? He couldn’t be sure. Probably both. So much of his youth was like that.

Standing, he stretched his back and then folded the blankets he had used. His bag was in the same place by the door. Setting the holster aside, he unzipped the duffel and began digging through the contents. Clothes soiled with dirt, sweat, and blood were stiff to his touch. Extra magazines and loose bullets were tangled in the cloth. He found his cell phone at the bottom under a wet wad of cash.

Powering it on, the thing practically buzzed out of his hand with notifications.

Most of them were from Elijah. He must have noticed the disturbed foyer and guessed Jamie was home. There were two from Grant and another from Noah. He ignored Noah’s text—it was just the middle finger emoji and some poorly spelled insults.

Grant just wanted him to check-in. He figured out a long time ago that Jamie didn’t adhere to a strict itinerary when left on his own, and rarely enforced any sort of rigidity. He would stop by the estate this afternoon.

StabbyBitch: Are you back? Did you come to the apartment?

StabbyBitch:Where are you?

StabbyBitch:Jamie, I’m worried. Just tell me you’re ok.

StabbyBitch: Grant said you’ll check in when you’re ready. But I just want to know if you’re hurt and where you’re staying. Just let me know you’re safe.

Jamie smiled at the perfect punctuation. He sent back an eggplant emoji, followed by the winky face with its tongue out.

Tossing the phone back into the bag he glanced down at the clothes he was wearing. He was still wearing Owen’s old clothes. They were soft, the fabric of the t-shirt pilling up from a thousand washes.

Much like Owen himself. Well worn, soft, and reliable. When Jamie didn’t have a place to go last night, his feet carried him right to his door. He could have commandeered one of a dozen rooms at the Weaver estate or one of their safe houses in town, but he didn’t want to. If he had to see one more sterile, impersonal room then he was really going to lose it. His mind might not have registered it, but his body craved something soft, well-worn, and reliable.

Slipping on his shoes, he grabbed the duffel bag and slipped out the front door. Jamie glanced around the apartment’s hallway. There were no security cameras. He would have to fix that. Unslinging the duffel, he pulled out his cell phone again and brought up a delivery app. Owen liked sugary coffee and everything bagels with strawberry jam. He wrote a note to leave the bag on the door and then tipped the driver.

Whistling, he made his way out of the apartment.

6

You Can Set Yourself on Fire

The medical examiner’soffice was a squat little brick building in the middle of town. Downwind from a variety of fast-food restaurants, the smell of fried foods was thick in the air. While the contents might be macabre, the building itself was neat and orderly. Benign shrubbery was trimmed neatly, and the red brick was a lovely contrast to the deep green.

Elijah locked his car and took stock of the empty parking lot. The paint lines had long since faded and parking was a free for all, which didn’t seem to be a problem for the rarely used lot. A gravel drive extended towards the back and Elijah assumed that’s where the bodies were offloaded.

Noah’s jeep pulled in next. He parked it next to Elijah’s sedan. Through the tinted glass Elijah could see the sour look on his boyfriend’s face.

Things at White Sand Mesa were not great. From day one Noah had been fighting a losing battle. Luther was a monster, but he was a monster loyal to the Mesas. Everything he did had been to give White Sand Mesa more power. To the members of the White Sand Mesa, his crimes were forgivable. What did they care if his actions had hurt outsiders?

His death had been a blow. Noah had been the heir—they were more than prepared for him to begin exerting his power. Perhaps they even knew his ascension would only come at the death of his uncle. But that was years away. Noah would have had the benefit of Luther’s guidance.

Instead, Noah had shown up freshly 18, covered in his uncle’s blood, and dragging White Sand Mesa into a bloody battle they had no stake in.

It had not sat well.

Four assassination attempts later, Noah was holding onto his leadership by the tips of his fingers. He was lucky that the majority of Luther’s inner staff had accepted him—members like Harvey whose opinion was highly regarded amongst the Mesas. Even so, Noah was constantly justifying himself. Every success he had was overshadowed by doubt and disagreement. Where someone like Grant had the confidence and the power to shut down the rumors, Noah didn’t.

And now there were the murders.