Page 127 of The Devil May Care

The words hang between us.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, stroking my hair. “You didn’t. You were scared. That’s all.”

“But they said—” I heard the nurses. I heard them.

“They were wrong,” she says, voice warm as sunlight. “You don’t have to carry that anymore. You don’t have to be alone.”

She kisses my forehead. Her hand cups my cheek. I want to believe in this more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. My mother’s arms are warm. Her fingers comb gently through my hair, just like she used to when I had night terrors as a kid. Except—I was never this tall when she last touched me. She shouldn’t know this version of me. This grown-up me.

“You’ve done so well,” she murmurs, tucking a curl behind my ear. “But you don’t have to try so hard anymore. Just stay.”

And gods, I want to. The air is sweet here. Like summer and honey. Like a childhood I only ever dreamed of having. She reaches for my hand. Holds it. My bones stop aching. The guilt in my chest smooths to nothing.

Vet school? The thought is slippery. I can feel it—something with long nights and too many loans—but it’s dissolving like sugar in tea.

Foster care? No. That wasn’t real. There were no paper-thin walls or musty bedrooms that weren’t mine. No roommates who left. No teachers who stared through me. There was only this—this room, this light, this gentle hum of unconditional love.

“Wasn’t it always supposed to be like this?” she says.

I nod. At least I think I do, but then the hum under my collar sharpens, vibrates like a string pulled too tight. And just for a second, I remember a fluffy orange paw batting my face. Crumbs in my bed from late-night study snacks. A tail flicking against my screen while I tried to chart pharmacokinetics.

George.

The name punches a hole through the sweetness. And more floods in after: the late shift at the clinic. Crying in the shower with cold pizza in my stomach. Sarai whispering in my ear as she braided my hair. Caziel’s hands on my wrists, his breath against my temple. I gasp. My mother’s grip tightens. Her smile is too still. Too bright.

“Stay,” she says again, voice syrupy.

I pull back and for the first time, I notice the shadows at the corners of the room. Black and oily, writhing. Hungry.

This isn’t real. The tension in her smile. Its too perfect. The shadows behind her don’t match the light in the room. The walls keep breathing when I’m not looking directly at them. This hospital isn’t real.Sheisn’t real. This isn’t how it happened. My mother strokes my hair. Her hand is warm. Her breath smells like mint gum and lemon tea. Her voice is soft and low, the way it used to be when I was sick and curled up on the couch beside her.

“You’re tired,” she whispers. “You’ve been tired for so long.”

I nod without meaning to. My arms feel heavy. My chest, too. I want to fall into her. Just for a little while. But something’s wrong.

It’s the way the corners of her smile don’t move. The way the shadows on her face never shift. The way the seams of the hospital bed don’t crease beneath her weight. I take a breath, and it tastes wrong. Too sweet. Like decay pretending to be flowers.

She’s not real.

The truth hits me with the weight of memory. I saw her. After the crash. In that other hospital room. A body hooked up to machines. Tubes in her throat. Eyes closed. Face swollen and broken. Nothing like the woman in front of me now—and yet I knew. My chest cracked open and I knew. Even before the drawn-out tone and the flat green line, I knew.

She was gone.

The vision in front of me tilts her head. Her smile doesn’t falter.

“Does it matter?” she asks softly. “You’ve been carrying that moment for years. You’ve suffered enough.” She takes my hands in hers. They’re warm. Too warm. “Stay here,” she urges. “Let this be the new truth. We can make it so. You and me. We can have time again. Daddy too.”

The light behind her glows, amber and soft. It looks like sunset. Like safety. Like home. And it hurts Because part of me wants it more than anything, but under the neck of my tunic I feel something else. Heat. A thrum.

The pendant.

It pulses against my chest like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. Like fire pressed to flesh. Alive. Present. True. I reach for it, curling my fingers around the smooth edge. The lava stone pebble scrapes my palm, but Ihold on. I hold on and think of Caziel. His hand brushing my collarbone when he fastened the chain. His voice steadying me when the world tilts. The blade tucked against me hip. The way he sees me when I can’t even find myself.

I think of George. My cat. The one constant through everything. Who curled up on my chest and purred through the storm of therapy appointments I nearly didn’t make. Who laid on the bathroom floor beside me when I couldn’t get up. Who never asked me to be better—just to be there. I close my eyes and say it aloud.

“No.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then the world shifts. The vision flickers. Her eyes go dark, then hollow. The skin of her face pulls too tight, bones peeking beneath like something stretched over a mask. Her fingers stiffen in mine. The room wavers—ceiling tiles melting. The air grows thick and ash sweet.