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T he Reckoning .

All crime is legal on the night of the Reckoning. Truly, anything goes. There are no rules and nothing is off-limits when The Exodus plays their games. Animalistic sex, murder, and kidnapping are all surface-level shit when it comes to the event that happens only once a decade.

While this information isn’t common knowledge, the locals have their suspicions. Most of them are smart enough to hide at home tonight, turning their heads the other way as The Exodus members rip their way through Vail and the forest surrounding it. Less people are killed this way, but death is inevitable when one of the deadliest societies comes out to play.

My father was one of the higher ranking members within the society, an elder they called him, for as far back as I can remember. He wasn’t a kind man, best known for his dirty money and big-time drug deals, but he always admired me through the most adoring eyes when he came home. Not once did I fail to greet him at our front doors, his favorite red bow wrapped tightly around my wavy brown hair. He opened his arms wide, inviting me in as I ran to him as fast as my legs could carry me, eventually falling into his familiar warmth. His home visits were short, but always the highlight of my week.

Knowing when he’d be home, my mother prepared me for his arrival without fail. She kept her one and only wild child well-groomed and doll-like on the days of his return. An unexpected bone cancer diagnosis crippled her fingers, eventually making them too brittle and weak to raise from the soft threads of her hospice bed. My father’s business meetings were relocated to the west wing of our family home following her diagnosis, which kept him home far more often than before, but it was hard to be happy when we were falling apart.

Soon after my mother’s death, papá’s little girl grew up, getting in the way of his business meetings one too many times. It didn’t take more than a few months for his eyes to darken, replacing the love they once held for me with hate. I lost count of how many times he left me with a bruised face and fractured bones, forcing me to choose between missing school or applying heavy concealer to large sections of my body.

He always kept me here. I don’t know how many times I tried to escape, running as far as the densely populated New York City, but he always found me. I’ve never understood why he put so much effort into holding on to me when he couldn’t bear to look at me. I suspect part of the reason was because I look remarkably similar to my mother, and their love was so deep it was almost unfathomable, intangible to most of the population. Anyone who saw the two of them together understood just how far they’d go for one another.

Perhaps it was the pain of missing her that made my existence insufferable. Not knowing when to shut my mouth created trouble a few too many times as well, but I couldn’t help myself when he ran drugs through our kitchen at every hour of the night. Countless strangers wandered the halls of our home, and it was no way for a young woman to live.

At the end of the day, he used countless connections across the United States to control me, and I couldn’t escape them. I couldn’t escape him.

It was less than unfortunate when he was killed over two years ago. Myocardial infarction, rupture of myocardium. In simple terms, a heart attack, smack dab in the middle of our kitchen. At least, that’s what the coroner wrote on the death certificate less than twenty-four hours after peeling his stiffened body from the floor.

I must admit, the thought crossed my mind more than once, but I didn’t kill my father. I watched his men clean up every speck of evidence of struggle long before the police arrived. Clearly, there was more to it, but I didn’t ask, not when I found myself suddenly free .

It was never my intention to be mixed up in the dealings of the Exodus, but fate has a funny way of changing plans. I should have left after inheriting everything, dirty money and all, but I couldn’t get myself to leave the casita my mother put her heart and soul into. Her clothes still hang in their closet, and I don’t know what I’d do if they were anywhere other than here. Her scent faded significantly over the years, but it’s still there, laced within the fibers of the threads. When I close my eyes, holding them to my nose just long enough, I can still find her. It’s harder and harder each time, but I can’t stop. If I move them somewhere new, I fear I’ll lose her forever. I can’t take back a mistake like that, so I’ve stayed here, completely alone .

Tonight’s Reckoning is the first to happen since the death of my father. On the nights of previous Reckonings, he would send me down the bunker beneath our twenty-thousand square foot mansion, thinking I was too ignorant and unaware to understand that there was more at play than an awkward movie night with several of his guards. I knew , though. Much of my time was spent listening through the vents, learning the dirty secrets he tried so hard to keep away from me, like The Exodus .

My view of the city lights is duller than normal, not twinkling and vibrant like Vail normally is. The locals know better than to show themselves tonight. They’re hiding, just as I did in the previous decades, but tonight is different. I won’t be joining them in their efforts to stay concealed for the next ten hours.

No, not me.

A silky black dress clings to me, showing off my curves and the body I’ve worked so hard to sculpt. My mother’s gold bracelets jingle along my wrists, perfectly paired with the diamond studs I refuse to take out. My hair is thick, more wavy than curly, and I’ve left it down for what I’m predicting to be an eventful evening.

I’d like to say I’m not nervous, but the truth is, I am. My palms are sticky and slick as I wait for him.

Greyson Matthers.

Heir to the Matthers estate. Multi-millionaire. Unthinkably intelligent. Man responsible for an unsettling portion of the missing-persons posters plastered across the state of Colorado and beyond. He just so happens to also be the hottest fucking person I’ve laid eyes on.

He’s coming for me tonight . I’ve known for quite some time. I’ve made a habit of brushing off the anticipation and pretending it’s not there, but that ball in the pit of my stomach has grown so large that I’ve been unable to ignore it for weeks. Hiring a personal trainer took some of the pressure off for the first few months, but as it gets closer I feel the imposter syndrome slipping in, feeling like I’ll never be good enough, almost as though no matter what I do tonight, I’ll fail.

Greyson began dropping hints last fall, about a year ago. The first few were subtle, and I almost missed them. The first of many was confusing. After a night out, I returned home to find one of my father’s empty champagne flutes placed in the middle of my kitchen island. At first, I thought perhaps one of the housemaids moved it while dusting and forgot to put it back, but a small crack in the stem and a drop of blood inside the glass immediately made my stomach churn. What I’ve always believed to be the sign of The Exodus is melted into the base of the flute. The only time my father brought it out was the night of the Reckoning. None of the maids would be reckless enough to be so sloppy with my father’s belongings. He may no longer be earthside, but we all still fear him.

A month later, as I was wringing my wet hair out from a long shower, I noticed the same sign drawn into the fogged glass, and it only became visible once there was enough steam in the bathroom. Anger got the best of me, and I wiped it away before I could get a good look at it. It was stupid, but the reminders of my father were too much to handle. For longer than I’d like to admit, I questioned whether or not I was imagining things or simply tricking myself into thinking my father had come back to haunt me, but I eventually realized it was more than that when notes began appearing in my mailbox. They were all unstamped, so I knew the post office wasn’t the one delivering them.

“328 days…”

Another arrived two weeks later. “314 days, my sweet gazelle.”

I didn’t know what it meant for months, not until I received one with the sign of The Exodus stamped on the back. My fingers trembled as I pulled out my phone, searching for a date calculator online and asking it what day was 273 days from then. My world stopped spinning as I put the pieces together.

The Reckoning.

He was sending hints about the Reckoning. Six months ago, he showed his face for the first time, stopping by at night to watch from the end of the driveway as I trained in the lawn with John, one of my self-defense coaches. We moved training to the back of the house, but it didn’t stop him. He appeared within the shadows of the forest surrounding my yard. He watched everything, observing my strengths, my weaknesses. The unease of his presence wore off after I realized he wasn’t going to make a move until the Reckoning.

As of three months ago, Greyson is everywhere I go, spending what seems to be all of his time watching me, studying everything I do. When he took it public, he watched from a distance for several weeks, but once I was able to completely ignore him, he switched, blatantly stalking me in broad daylight. He made it impossible to avoid his dark gaze.

Oftentimes, I find myself staring for far too long. Even though I know his intentions are ill, he’s become the one constant in my life, and I’m beginning to find comfort in his presence. He’s dangerous; I know that. He’s going to kill me, but there’s something so intriguing about his commitment to pursue me.

He knows I won’t call the police. I can’t. Not when half the police department supports The Exodus. Another one of my father’s dirty little secrets I learned while listening through the vents. The desire to call for help wore off long ago. When he’s ready to take me out, he will. There will be no stopping him.

His final note was delivered by hand three days ago. His lips were silent as he approached, catching me in the middle of a routine jog around the property. My mouth was dry like cotton as he gently placed the folded paper between my fingers, leaving as quickly as he came. A shudder ripped through me as I opened it, reading the black, inky words.

“It’s almost time to play. Die, or join us. See you soon, my sweet gazelle.”

He no longer needed to count down the days until the Reckoning. He saw the intensity of my training pick up each day. The words on the paper were accompanied by a small portrait.

The face of his father was the final piece of the puzzle.

He isn’t doing all of this because of something I’ve done, but for what my father did before he died. It’s been six years since my father slaughtered William, Greyson’s father, on the front lawn of their family estate. William had been trying to separate himself from The Exodus for quite some time, but The Exodus doesn’t let anyone go. Tasked with removing the problem, my father handled it. Greyson was bound by rope and beaten senseless, forced to watch as his father was dismembered. William’s blood was transferred into champagne flutes, which my father and his men toasted with and passed around to share. It was certainly among his favorite murders and he spoke of it often with his men, laughing as though they hadn’t inflicted a trauma too deep to heal from.

Greyson wasn’t seen around town for months, likely taking time to heal from the wounds and broken bones inflicted upon him by my father and his men. During his absence, I felt sorry for him. We’d both been forced away from the world to heal from my father’s wrath, and I was able to relate to him on a deeper level than most without ever exchanging a single word. I understand what it’s like when you can’t face the world, too ashamed to show the bruises covering your face. People change their perception of you all too quickly when the black and purple flesh is exposed.

Like you’re weak .

Not good enough. You let someone do that to you.

I’d assumed Greyson was the man responsible for my father’s death, but why would he continue to seek revenge after killing him? I now believe I was wrong, and it was more likely a drug deal gone bad.

Whoever it was, it wasn’t Greyson Matthers, and he’s still out for blood. My blood.

The night of the Reckoning is here.