Текст книги "Devil Smoke"

Автор книги: Max Henry

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

CROSSROADS

Bronx

The confliction is real, and it crushes me with the weight of indecision like an invisible vice. Gunter needs her, but she needs me more. I keep telling myself that what they have isn’t love. Well, it isn’t for her. But fuck it all, if I don’t recognize a man who’s tied heart and soul to a woman. Working with the thug tonight showed me that Tommy’s right—he has a heart.

Things were so much easier when I completely hated the guy. Now that the lines have grayed, I kind of wonder if Eddie knew what he was doing, throwing us together for the night.

Ryan sighs in my hold, and I squeeze my arms around her tighter, resting my chin on her shoulder. We haven’t moved from the hallway since the others left. She doesn’t seem to want to.

“Tired?” I ask, brushing my nose against her ear.

“Yeah, I am a little.”

I draw in her scent, rubbing my cheek against the side of her head and loving how fucking soft her hair is against my face. “Let me settle you in to bed. You’ll need rest.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Didn’t say you had to. But you can at least close your eyes for a bit.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d rather wait in the living room.” She twists in my hold, wrapping her arms about my waist. My hand finds it way up her back to knot in the hair at her nape, holding her to me while she speaks. “You know, I’ve never seen Gunter cry.”

“I can believe that.”

“Even when his mom left, or when his dad went to jail. Never.”

I rub my fingers in soft circles on the base of her scalp, massaging. “The thought of death is a lot harder to process, darlin’. It’s irreversible. Have an argument with somebody, and you can apologize. Steal, and you can make amends. But death? There’s just no changin’ that.”

“I know.” Of course she does, you moron.

I coax her head from my chest, tipping it back with my hold in her hair. “You want to tell me what you were talkin’ about before? What happened?”

Her eyes glass, and she offers me the weakest fucking smile. “I do, actually. I think it’s time I got this shit off my chest.”

“Come on then, let’s get comfortable.” I tuck her under my arm and lead her toward the living room.

“Do you think Tommy will be okay?” She looks to me as I guide her to a seat, hope all up in those bright blue eyes of hers.

I want to tell her yes, that he’ll walk through that door in a few hours with a fucking big bandage and a story to tell. But I’m not sure. Images from Ty damn near dying on me flash through my mind, and I’m forced to swallow away all the welling emotion just to be able to speak a fucking word. “I don’t know.”

She nods firmly, taking the pain that comes with such uncertainty and tucks it away for later, settling herself into the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. “Don’t be all proper and sit over there away from me. I need you close right now.”

“Whatever you say.” I drop down beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She turns in to me, lying her legs over my lap. Just how it should be.

“I was eleven.” Her eyes fix to some random point on the wall opposite. “I thought because I was in double digits that I was old enough to be treated like an adult, that I was all grown up.” She chuckles bitterly. “Most eleven-year-olds are pretty life smart, but I wasn’t. I mean, shit, I’ve met seven-year-olds who are cutting up the goods for their big brothers or sisters to deal, you know? There are kids out there who have more experience with how shit life can be than I have even now.”

“The world is pretty damn fucked up,” I agree.

“My point is, I should have been able to get on with it. I should have been able to sort my shit out after it happened, but I’d just never seen anything like it.”

I rub her arm a little, trying to offer comfort the way I’ve seen Malice do for Jane “You sure you’re okay to talk about it?” If it fucked her over that bad back then, then how’s she going to deal now?

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need to talk it through with somebody who can see sense in a situation. Gunter’s not exactly a great listener, and Tommy? Well, until tonight the most gruesome thing he’d ever seen was when Gunter broke his arm on his BMX as a kid.” She gives a small chuckle before continuing. “The nuts of it is, a man I’d been raised to call my uncle shot my mom and dad, and then burnt our house to the ground.” Her breathing stills, her arm going rigid under my hold.

I swallow away the profanities ready to spill over, and answer with a simple, “That so?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I don’t know.” Ryan sighs, playing with the creases in the T-shirt I’m wearing absently. “I don’t know why a guy who could love me like a daughter would do that to our family. I’ve tried so damn hard over the last five or so years to find out why, but nobody has the answers.” Her throat bobs against my side as she swallows. “Except Eddie.”

Stroking the hair from her face, I ask her about the one piece to her puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “How can a guy who’s only been in the country for three years know about your past but nobody else does?”

“He found something out from Big Mike before he killed him. Mike used to supply Harris’s club with weed.”

“Who’s Harris?”

“My uncle.”

“Oh, right.”

“He was a member of the Devil’s Breed. That’s all I remember about him; that damn cut he wore all the time—I never knew what the picture on the back represented until a few years ago. I was a kid, you know? It was just a devil on a leather vest to me.”

Devil’s Breed. “You must know about Horse then, right?”

“The old guy who hangs out at the Lion? Yeah, I know about him—know he’s one of them.”

“So . . .?” Why hasn’t she just asked him?

“Harris is dead. There’s no point talking to Horse about it.”

I can see how that puts a dampener on things. “He might still have the answer, though.”

Ryan pulls herself up to sit, looking me square in the eye. “You do know the basic rules of MC, right?”

“I know enough bikers to understand a few, yeah.”

“So you know that members don’t discuss club business with anyone, let alone a woman, and more so a woman who doesn’t belong to the club?”

Of course. How fuckin’ stupid are you, Bronx? “What if I asked him?”

She sighs, as though explaining this to me is physically taxing on her. “He wouldn’t tell you either; you’re not a member.” She pats my leg with a kind of finality. “Eddie’s my only option.”

Right. I rub a hand over my head. There has to be a way around this, to know for sure. King? One of the Saints? Sure, they aren’t the same club, but there’s a kind of brotherhood between bikers that doesn’t exist between a civilian and a patched member. It could work. “What if I told you I know a few guys who might be able to help?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Who?”

“How much you know about MCs outside of the Devil’s Breed?”

Ryan tucks her legs up, leaning an arm on the back of the sofa so she can face me. “I’ve heard a bit about the other clubs around here. Talked to a woman at a party one night that reckoned she was a club whore for a while. Now she had some interesting stories to tell.” Ryan smiles.

“You heard about the Fallen Saints?”

“Group from Lincoln, aren’t they?”

“That’s the main chapter, yeah.” I get up and pace to the far side of the room, excitement coursing through me as I fiddle with a picture of Gunter and Tommy as kids on the mantelpiece.

What the fuck am I doing, though?

You know what you’re doing, dick. Yeah, I’m only about to reveal the whole gig to Ryan. King’s threat circles through my mind, but I shove a gag in that fucker’s mouth and asshole him out the door. He said it best—when all I can think about is Ryan, I need to tell her that and let her be the one who decides how this will play out. It’s time I stopped beating around the bush and gave her the truth. Let the cards lie as they will and deal with the fallout when it happens.

“You okay?” she asks, breaking me out of my head. I turn back to find her kneeling on the sofa, her hands on her thighs while she watches me curiously.

“I’ve got some things I need to tell you, but before I do, understand I’m tellin’ you not only because it might help you out, but because I can’t keep lyin’ to you.”

Her brow twitches, and she slumps back into the cushions, unfurling her long legs. “Lying.”

I nod, unable to look at her. I can’t risk seeing the pain or betrayal on her. That shits guts me every time. I can’t get it from her, too.

“What have you been lying about?”

“Why I’m here.”

She lets a laden breath out through her nose and frowns. “I don’t know if I can hear this now. I mean, with Tommy and everything. I can only take so much in one day, Bronson.”

“Don’t call me Bronson anymore. Please.”

Ryan pinches the bridge of her nose, squinting her eyes closed. “Let me guess—that’s the first lie.”

“It’s pretty much the whole lie,” I affirm. “The rest is circumstantial.”

She shakes her head, still pinching her nose while uttering a quiet ‘fuck’s sake’. “No more, okay? I can’t take more right now.”

“I want to help you.” I’m seconds away from falling to my knees and begging.

“Well, you’re not. In fact you’re making me want you to do anything but help. Shit!” She jerks her hand away from her face, throwing her head back and growling at the ceiling. “Is there a single fucking person on this planet who can damn well be open with me?”

“I’m trying to be,” I say, my tone a lot harsher than intended.

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Right after you fucking lied to me while you were busy shoving your tongue down my throat. Get out.” Her arm flings out toward the door. “Get the fuck out—now!”

“Ryan . . .” I hold my hands up, pleading.

“No, Br—whatever your name is. No! I gave you the truth and told you something about me that hardly anyone knows, and you know what? I feel like a fool for doing so, given you’ve been playing me this whole time.” She stands from the seat, fists at her side. “What are you after? Money? Drugs? Eddie’s spot?”

“All of it.” Her face reddens. “But none of it’s for me.”

“What? You’re going to tell me you’re a modern day Robin Hood, or something?”

I laugh coolly at the image of myself in green leggings. “Yeah, I guess so, when you put it like that.”

“Nobody puts this much effort into a job without getting paid,” she states, crossing her arms over her chest a few steps short of where I am. “What are you getting out of it? What’s your reward . . .”—her eyes search the carpet for something—“Jesus, just tell me your name so I don’t keep going to call you Bronson.”

“Bronx,” I murmur. “It’s Bronx.”

“Close enough, I guess.” She closes her eyes briefly, clearly trying to compose herself. “Tell me what you get from this. Give me something redeeming about you, Bronx, because fuck it all, I really want a to forgive you for this and go back to what we were starting.”

“I get my life back.” The answer was automatic, a raw truth, but saying it out loud slots something into place inside of me. I get my life back. Settling this deal with Carlos doesn’t just get the fucking drug lord off my back, it settles debts, and evens the playing field for everyone. It gives me space to breathe, room to move, and time to decide what the fuck I want out of the rest of my life.

Who do I want to be when these hands are no longer capable of fighting for a living? When arthritis sets in after years of neglect and my joints scream at the simple task of stirring my coffee, what then? Who will I be without the ability to fight and maim?

Ryan tips her head to the side, her brow furrowed as though she’s trying to work me out. “What makes you say that? Has somebody got a hold over you?”

“More or less.” I shrug, taking a step sideways to slump onto the arm of a chair. “Heard of Carlos Redmond?”

“Yeah, and of his son, Sawyer.”

Fuck—hasn’t everyone? “Yeah, well his old man, Carlos, wants me dead as collateral unless he gets what Eddie took from him back.”

“Like that’s ever going to happen.” She scoffs, turning away with her arms still firmly folded over her chest.

“You know what kind of man Carlos is, right?”

“Been told a few stories about him. He’s a brute—uses pain and fear to get what he wants.”

Reaching out, I take one of her hands, forcing her to drop her arms and step towards me. “Bear in mind, that to tell a story those people got to walk away with their lives. Imagine what he does to the ones who aren’t so lucky.”

“Am I meant to be scared by this?” she asks, staring down at our joined hands. “Am I meant to cower in fear so you can cuddle me better?” Her tone is scathing, disbelieving, and nothing short of spoilt.

I shunt her hand away, causing her to step back, cradling it with wide eyes.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Tears form in her eyes, and I know I’m being an asshole given she still doesn’t know if Tommy’s going to make it, but fuck—she needs to learn.

“Because of you,” I answer. “You’re so fuckin’ naïve. You play your games with these men, but I don’t think you quite get how fuckin’ serious this is.”

“I think I do,” she mumbles defiantly.

“Bullshit!”

Ryan takes a couple more steps back as I launch off the chair, ripping the T-shirt I wear up by the waist to show her scars that outside of Malice and Ty, only the women who’ve shared my bed have seen. “See that?” I ask, jabbing angrily toward a series of raised lines on my flesh. “Stab wounds.” I let go of the fabric and start untying the drawstring on the sweats. Her eyes flick between my face and my hands that are furiously fumbling with the cord. A gasp escapes her as I drop the sweats to my knees and turn my left leg outward. “See that?” She nods, eyes on the mass of scarred and reddened flesh—a reminder of times when I wasn’t quite so experienced. “That’s what happens when a .308 round takes hold of your leg. Skin grafts, physical therapy, months of shit to deal with.” Her tears spill over, her fingers to her lips as she backs away again. “And you know what?”

“What?” The word is barely a breathless whisper.

“That’s what happened when I got on the wrong side of men half the fuckin’ monster cunts like Carlos are. You want to know how sadistic and sick the fucker is? Go find Sawyer and ask him how his mother died. Go find Sawyer and ask him what his old man did to try and kill him.” Turning away from her, I jerk the sweats up, re-tying the drawstring.

She sobs openly now, and her mouth drops open with each loud hiccup. But fuck, I proved my point. I opened her shielded eyes to the world she’s toying in. She thinks that she’s learnt a lot about the underworld since she’s been running with this crew—she’s wrong. So fucking wrong. The bitch is a little girl playing with a box of matches she’s been given, and the damn things are yet to burn her.

“These men will literally gut you in your sleep if you cross them, Ryan. You can’t do this shit alone. You want information about your uncle? Fuckin’ look somewhere else than Eddie, because even if he dishes up the facts for you, what you think he’s going to do to your lying, scheming ass when he’s done? Huh? You wouldn’t get more than ten steps away from the sick fuck before he stuck a bullet through your skull.”

I twist around to take her in, her puffy eyes and shaking shoulders. She holds a hand up, her palm out when I try to approach. “No.”

“I’m sorry I made you cry, darlin’. I really am, but shit, woman, I want you so fuckin’ bad, and the thought you could get hurt because you’re too fuckin’ proud, stubborn, or both to accept help irritates the fuck outta me. Let me help you,” I plead.

Her arm slowly drops, leaving her hand hanging at her side, the other still covering her mouth. She sniffs hard, sucking in all the snot her crying’s caused. And yet she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve seen.

“Come here,” I say, opening my arms.

Ryan pushes off the spot, but instead of coming in for a hug, she runs away from me. I chase after her, dodging the end of the sofa to follow her up the hall. She’s not avoiding this. I won’t let her go all bat-shit crazy on my ass and barricade herself in the bathroom or the like.

She bolts into the bedroom we were in before, the one I assume she shares with Gunter, and tries to swing the door shut behind her. I deflect it with the heel of my hand, sending it careening the other way until it bounces off the wall. The noise is a distraction, making me turn my head for the briefest of seconds to make sure the fucking thing isn’t about to swing back at me.

It’s the split-second she needs.

Satisfied the door’s not about to knock me the fuck out, I look back at her and find the business end of a gun pointed at my head. “What the fuck?”

“I’m not going to ask you again. Get out.” Her hands shake, and I’m more worried she’s going to shoot me by accident than on purpose.

“Lower the gun and I’ll leave.”

“Leave, and I’ll lower the gun,” she counters.

“Fuck, woman. You’re goin’ to shoot me before I have a chance to get out the front door the way you’re shakin’.”

Ryan bends at the knees to scoop my blood-stained clothes in one hand, the other keeping the gun on me. “Isn’t that generally the idea when you point a gun at someone? You’re going to shoot them?” She tosses the clothes in my direction.

I catch them, bundling them in my arm. “Shit, Ryan,” I hiss under my breath, backing away. “I’m going. I’m gone.”

I walk backwards until my spine finds the doorframe, and then sidestep to carry on up the hallway. Ain’t no way I’m giving a distressed woman my back when she’s pointing a handgun at me. I reach the living room and lift my free hand in surrender. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she hollers. “Get the fuck out before I’ve got a mess to explain to Gunter.”

“Fine,” I snap, shaking my head. “I’m out, Ryan. I tried to help, even when it meant fuckin’ up my own reason for being here, but you threw that shit in my face. So I’m out. Completely out.”

Her chin quivers, visible from even this distance before she starts crying all over again. I take a step sideways and then finally turn around to head out the front door and leave her to her crazy self. She’s most likely watching me from a fucking window while I put my helmet on, feeling proud that she managed to stand up to me. Shit, she might be hurt that I actually did it—I left. But as much as I told her I’m out, she doesn’t know that much about me still, and one fact she’d know if she bothered to get close is that I never quit. And I most certainly never walk away from a person in need.

I might have told her I’m through with this, but that was only to try and make sure she didn’t follow. If I’m going to take what I know and rip this crew to shreds to find the answers for her as well as deliver to King and the Saints, I need Ryan out of the way. I need her safe—well, as safe as she can be. And as much as it makes me sick to think it, right now, the safest place is with Gunter.

ECHOES

Ryan

He closes the door so damn softly behind him I have to strain my ears to make out the sound. Somehow, I manage to get the safety back on the gun, dropping the Desert Eagle to the ground where I stand. I look down at the quivering hands that hang loosely by my sides. I threatened to kill him. What the fuck was I thinking? I have no qualms about threatening somebody’s life like that, but his? What are you doing, Ryan?

Why do I care so much if he lives or dies? The asshole lied to me about who he was, and why he was here. He’s using us, getting close for some fucking scheme to take over Eddie’s crew, and I couldn’t give a single shit about it.

Because you don’t give a shit that he lied.

I don’t. As much as I delve inside and try to dredge up some semblance of anger toward him, there’s none. I didn’t kick him out because he used me, or because he lied . . . I kicked him out because I’m hurt and confused.

I wanted to run away with him when I thought he was an opportunist named Bronson. I still want to run away with him even though I know he’s a con-man named Bronx. Why did I tell him to leave? He knows people who can help. I should accept the offer. I’d be a fucking idiot not to. But he’s also right in that my damn pride’s getting in the way. I don’t want his help because he angered me by being right; he pointed out a sad truth to me—that I’m a silly little girl playing with men who’ll hurt me just as easily as they’d turn their head to sneeze.

I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve been so blinded by my goal that I didn’t realize the road I was taking to reach it was eroded and dangerous. You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan. And right now, I feel deserving of whatever shit is heading my way because of it.

Pulling in a few deep breaths, I steady my racing heart and bend down to retrieve the gun. I don’t even know if it’s loaded—I just knew Gunter kept it tucked between the mattress and the end board of the bed in case of an intruder. Squeezing the release, I drop the magazine into my hand and suck in a sharp breath as I empty the contents. Seven bullets stare back at me, accusing, and reminding me all over again how dangerous and stupid what I did was. I could have killed him. What would I have done then?

Slotting the mag back in, I place the heavy handgun back in its spot and hotfoot it up the hallway to where I left my bag behind the sofa. Pulling my phone out, I type out a quick message to Gunter, asking what’s happening. I didn’t take note of the time when he left, so I have no idea how long they’ve been gone. What have probably been mere minutes feel like days, the weight of the unknown a heavy load to bear. How long does it take to find out? Having never been in this situation before, I’m in over my head when it comes to knowing what to expect. And yet, Bronx was so damn calm. He said he’s dealt with it before. What is it he usually does? Because it’s obviously a whole lot more real than what Gunter, Tommy, and I have been playing at.

I stand for what seems like hours, phone in my hand, willing a reply, but nothing comes. The plastic cover bites into my palm, I’m gripping it so damn hard. With a heavy sigh, I throw it on the sofa and head into the kitchen to get something to eat. All I end up doing is staring into the fridge for what also feels like forever before moving on to do the same with the cupboard. Time for a smoke instead.

The night air is warm and humid, clinging to my skin like a second layer as I step out the back door. My hands still tremble as I light the stick, taking a long drag and staring out at our ghostly gray back fence while I exhale. It’s empty out here, quiet, and solitary. It’s exactly how I like it. My parents’ murder may have confused me, left me hollow and searching for an answer, but the events of that night also taught me one valuable lesson that has helped me throughout the tough times over and over—all I need is myself to get by. Although a twisting in my gut tells me that isn’t quite true any more.

I want answers, but more than that I want him. Why is that so hard to admit? Why do I fight it? Why do I keep telling myself I’m strong and independent when my security blanket called Gunther proves otherwise? If I could do this alone, I would have walked out of here when Eddie took over and made it clear he wasn’t one to share information very freely. I would have walked right up to the gates of the Devil’s Breed after I met that whore and offered to do the same for a chance at learning something, getting a glimpse inside, and possibly finding Harris.

But I didn’t. I stayed with Gunter, telling myself I was being some fucking martyr to the cause, convincing myself that I was being clever by finding out what I needed to know without whoring myself to the Devil’s Breed for the truth. But that’s exactly what you’re doing here. I’m not clever—I’m a fool.

Tears run down the side of my nose, and over my lips to wet the filter of my cigarette. I pull in the last few drags and then drop it in the bucket on the back step. Standing here, alone, I’ve never felt more exposed. The mask I held up to even myself has been thrown aside, and I’m not sure I like the girl behind it. She’s scared, weak, and alone. She’s a fake. The clothes I’m wearing feel foreign, my tattoos taking on a whole other life. This isn’t my skin. This isn’t that girl who cowered by the fence as the house burned. This woman, she’s a stranger, and if I want to know her, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

I drop to the step, tucking my face into my knees as a gentle breeze kicks up, tangling my hair around my shins. To go forward, I’m going to need to go back, and that means facing up to what really happened and forcing myself to look beyond the obvious to find the parts of that night I’ve kept buried from myself because it was just easier to go on that way.

Somewhere in my memories lies the key to why Harris did what he did, and I need to be brave enough to find that . . . on my own.

“Okay, honey. I’ll be up to see you soon.”

I turn and leave my parents alone with Harris, keeping my chin tucked down, my eyes to the floor. Their voices carry up the stairs behind me, joking, laughing, like they have so many times before. Everything’s sure starting out the same, so why am I worried?

An hour passes with me lying on my bed, a book propped up on the pillow as I read by the lamplight with my radio playing. Downstairs is quiet, and I’m comforted by the fact they’re probably all down there sharing a drink while they talk around the coffee table. It’s a scene I’ve walked in on plenty of times before: Mom leaning on Dad’s shoulder while Uncle Harris takes up the entire sofa—one end for him, and one end for his feet.

Only the calm doesn’t last long. Something thuds loudly against a wall and my father’s yelling, words I can’t make out over the woman’s voice belting out my speakers. I close the book I was reading, and set it under the lamp, sliding off my bed to cross the room to my radio. Halfway there I still, my heart a thousand hummingbirds beating against the walls of their cage—my mother is screaming.

Leaving the radio as is, I run to my closed bedroom door, halting as my fingers wrap around the handle. Harris told me to stay in here no matter what I heard. But is this what he meant? I don’t want to get in trouble for going down there when I shouldn’t, but I don’t want to stay up here when my mom’s hurt. I inch the door open, leaning my face against its hard edge as the argument continues.

“How long have you known, Cathy?” My father sounds sad, and for the better part, hurt.

Whatever my mom says is lost halfway between where they are, and myself, her words quieted by the walls of the house.

“Why?” Dad cries out. His next words are so vastly different from the last. Instead of pain and anguish, I hear the hate and determination in his tone. “You fucking bastard!”

There’s scraping of furniture, dull thuds, and my mother hollering at them to stop. My best guess is Dad and Harris are fighting, but about what? What could have best friends become such heated enemies after one night?

“No, no, no!” Mom’s shouting. “Don’t!”

A gun fires, and I lurch off the door. My already tested heart seizes, and then restarts in the race of its life. Every inch of me is on fire. My head pounds, and my limbs tingle.

“What have you done?” Harris yells.

There’s crying, but I can’t make out who it is. I want to say it’s Mom, but the sound is just so wrong. Another gun shot—another blow to my stressed heart. The crying has stopped, but somebody’s moaning, talking to himself.

It takes three tries for me to connect my shaking hand to the handle, two to get it open and myself through. I put a first foot on to the landing when heavy footsteps pound toward me. I should run, just like Harris told me to, but I’m frozen. Bile ebbs and flows in my throat, my stomach having a hard time deciding what to do as well.

Dark brown hair crests the steps, moving higher to reveal the hardened face I always thought to be my idea of what comfort is. I’ve trusted the eyes that are now fixed to me with my life. I’ve loved that gentle smile since I can remember. So why would now be any different?

“Hey, baby girl. You remember what I told you?” Harris comes to a stop before me, bending one knee so he’s slightly lower than I am and placing his huge hands on the outside of my shoulders. I look down into his face, searching it for an answer to the question I don’t need to ask.

“I remember.”

“Now’s time to run, okay? You go straight down those stairs, and you don’t look back. Can you do that for me?”

I nod rapidly, but I’m not so sure I can. My feet are lead weights, my legs useless sticks of chalk.

“Got anythin’ you wanna take with you?” He smiles, a hand moving to cup my cheek.

“I . . . I don’t think so. Where’s Mom?”

“Sleeping.” He smiles, but his eyes are telling me so much more, and it’s so much worse. “You run somewhere safe, baby girl, and I’ll come find you when the time’s right.”

What does he mean ‘somewhere safe’? Aren’t I safe with him?

Harris gives me a gentle push, coaxing me past him, and something kick starts in my legs. I take the stairs two at a time, finding he already has the front door open. I run, just like he told me to, but I don’t go far. I can’t. I need to see what he does; I need to see who’ll walk out of there.

Tucking myself into a ball, I hide between some of my mother’s flowery bushes and our front fence, watching the front door like a hawk. Hope wedges in my throat, a pill I can’t quite swallow as I wait to see if Mom will walk out okay. Or Dad. I’d take either of them, just to know they’re okay. I just want somebody who’ll hold me and make the confusion go away.

Time passes, and it seems nothing happens. I stare at our wooden home, wondering what Harris is doing inside. Is he trying to help my parents? A light catches my eye, and I know without a flicker of a doubt he’s doing no such thing. The evidence of what he’s been up to dances in the upstairs window—my parents’ room. Within minutes, smoke pours out the front door, and the crackle and pop as things ignite echoes out with the grey plume. Still, there’s no Mom, there’s no Dad, and there’s not even a Harris. I watch as my family home goes up in flames, I flinch as windows explode from the heat, and I cry as the first parts of my life begin to crumble under the pressure.