I wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the walls down. Anger surged, hot and sharp, burning through the grief. I was angry at Mom for leaving, for walking out without a word, leaving me with nothing but questions and a hole where her love should’ve been. Angry at Dad for dying, for building an empire I didn’t understand and leaving me to carry its weight. Angry at the world for reminding me, every damn day, that I was Byron Dane’s son, with his eyes, his fight, his curse.
I paced the room, my fists clenched, the anger a living thing I couldn’t outrun. I needed work, the only thing that ever made sense when life turned to shit. My duffel was in the truck, packed with supplies—bandages, sutures, cash, contacts for doctors who didn’t ask questions. I’d find someone to help, some corner of Charleston’s underbelly where I could lose myself in fixing what was broken, because I sure as hell couldn’t fix this.
I stormed out of the house, the door slamming behind me, and climbed into the truck, my hands shaking as I started the engine. I didn’t see the rental sedan parked a ways away, its headlights off, its driver watching as I peeled out, too consumed by my thoughts to notice the shadow trailing me back to the city.
The road stretched dark and empty, Sullivan’s Island fading in my rearview, but the ghosts followed, their weight heavier than the duffel at my feet.
I drove toward the North End, where the city’s polish gave way to cracked pavement and desperation, the pull tugging at my gut like a compass.
My phone buzzed again—Sloane, probably worried, maybe pissed—but I silenced it, shoving it into the glovebox. I couldn’t talk to her, not now, not when I was this raw, this lost. The anger was still there, simmering, mixed with a grief I didn’t know how to name.
I thought about Dad, about the stories my brothers told—his strength, his secrets, the way he’d built something out of nothing and left us to figure out what it meant. Sylvia’s words, her fear, made me wonder what he’d done, what kind of man could leave a woman like her so shaken after all these years.
I gripped the wheel tighter, the truck rattling over potholes, and tried to focus on the mission—find someone who needed me, fix something, anything, to keep from falling apart.
The North End was quiet, the streets littered with shadows and broken dreams. I cruised slow, eyes scanning for the spark, the pull that always led me to someone in need.
It didn’t take long.
Near a boarded-up convenience store, I spotted a woman huddled under a streetlight, her face bruised, her arm cradled like it was broken. She flinched as my truck rolled up, her eyes wary, but I kept my hands visible, my voice low.
“Hey,” I called through the open window. “You okay? I can help with that arm.”
She hesitated, then nodded, and I parked, grabbing my duffel and stepping out, my anger channeling into focus, into the work that had always saved me.
I knelt beside her, the pavement cold under my knees, and opened the duffel, pulling out a splint and bandages.
“Name’s Charlie,” I said, keeping my tone steady as I examined her arm—sprained, not broken, but painful as hell. “What’s yours?”
She muttered “Lena,” her voice barely audible, and I worked fast, stabilizing her arm, slipping her a hundred bucks and a card with a clinic’s number.
“Go here tomorrow,” I told her. “They’ll fix you up, no charge.”
Her eyes searched mine, looking for the catch, but I just stood, slinging the duffel over my shoulder.
“Why you doin’ this?” she asked, and I shrugged, the anger still there but quieter now.
“Somebody’s gotta.”
I climbed back into the truck, the pull satisfied but the spiral still spinning, Sylvia’s voice looping in my head—You have his eyes.
I thought about the mirror, about the mornings I’d avoided my own reflection, knowing Dad was there, staring back. My brothers had clearer memories of him, his laugh, but I had flashes—his hand on my shoulder, his voice calling me “soldier,” the way he’d looked at me like I was enough. I’d been too young to know him fully, too young to understand why Mom left, why Dad died, why I carried his face like a burden.
The anger flared again, hot and useless, and I slammed my fist against the dash, the pain grounding me for a moment. I needed more work, more people to fix, anything to drown out the ghosts. I didn’t see the rental sedan tailing me, its headlights dim, keeping just far enough back to stay unnoticed.
I drove deeper into the North End, the streets narrower now, the pull tugging harder. My phone was still silent in the glovebox, Sloane’s calls unanswered, and I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t face her—not yet, not with Dad’s shadow hanging over me.
I spotted a kid limping near an alley, his face pale, his shirt stained with blood, and I pulled over, the work calling me like a siren.
“Hey, kid,” I called, stepping out, my duffel in hand. “You hurt?”
He nodded, wary but desperate, and I knelt beside him, my hands moving on instinct, checking for wounds—a gash on his side, shallow but bleeding. I cleaned it, stitched it with supplies from my bag, and gave him cash for food, my voice steady even as my head spun.
“Stay out of trouble,” I said, but the words felt hollow, like I was talking to myself. I’d never outrun this—Byron Dane’s eyes, his legacy, the spiral that was pulling me under.
I stood, the kid already disappearing into the shadows, and climbed back into the truck, the anger and grief still there, unshaken by the work. Sullivan’s Island hadn’t given me answers, and neither had the North End, but I kept driving, chasing the pull, hoping it would lead me somewhere I could breathe.
Sylvia’s fear, her story, had cracked something open, and I didn’t know how to close it. I thought about Sloane, about her touch, her fire, and wondered if she could pull me out of this, if I could let her. But for now, I was alone, the truck’s rumble my only company, the sedan still trailing me, unseen, as I drove into the night, searching for something I couldn’t name.
