New Year’s Eve. The city will roar, and so will my enemies.
I stand in the east hall, facing her closed door. A faint trace of her shampoo lingers, citrus and clean. The ribbon’s gone. I’m hopeful she’s still wearing it.
I send her a text.
I meant what I said. Your line is law. Come home when you’re ready.
I check my weapon, grab my coat, and step into a day that will demand blood or grace. Likely both. The city waits, cold and sharp.
I carry the weight of a vow, a monster, and the hope that she will still choose me.
CHAPTER 36
CASSANDRA
A few hours earlier…
Iwake in the dark, feeling like the house has pressed a hand over my mouth.
The fire in the suite is dead. The vents hum. A pipe knocks and settles. I lie very still, my heart pounding as the memories come back in a flood I can’t dam—a knife too close, gunshots, Damien’s voice, the basement, the man in the chair.
My hand goes to my stomach. Small. New. Dependent.
The thought is a flashing sign in my head—I can’t bring a child into this.
I sit up. The bandage on my forearm tugs. Outside the tall window, a slice of sky looks like the color of steel. The house is silent in that heavy way big houses are, like it’s listening to see what I’ll do next.
I have to leave.
I get dressed, hair in a low knot. I pack light and fast: phone, charger, wallet, ID, insurance card, the sample box of prenatal vitamins the nurse gave me. Clara’s tiny photo album—the one with the Santa hats and the crooked cake.
My sketchbook goes on top. I remove the red ribbon and the diamond bracelet from the night stand, wrap both in tissue, and shove them deep so I don’t have to look at them.
I pause at the door. The coat he wrapped around me the other night hangs on the chair. I don’t touch it. I can’t. If I touch it, I might lose my nerve.
Healthy baby. Living sister. Everything else is noise.
I open the suite door and step into the hall, moving quietly down the back stairs and through the mudroom.
I ease the garden door open, close it gently with both hands, and breathe in the cold. Snow crusts the edges of the flagstones, the trees like a line of dark shoulders against the sky.
The gate is high, but snow has drifted against one brick column, creating a makeshift step. I climb where the drift gives me six stolen inches. The metal is colder than I expect. I swing a leg, catch my boot, swear under my breath, and drop to the other side in a soft explosion of powder. I crouch and listen for a beat. Nothing. I run.
The road outside the estate is a thin black ribbon between pines. My breath fogs white as my boots crunch over the snow like they know where they’re going. I don’t. I just move. At the sign for the bus stop, I stand under a dead street lamp, head down, hands in pockets. The bus grumbles up at the edge of dawn, and I climb on, pay, then take a seat at the back, keeping my hood up. No one looks twice.
From the bus stop, I catch the first subway into Queens, then the one that will carry me to Brooklyn. The train car is filled with construction guys, suits, and ghosts like me. I keep my phone off. Every time I catch my reflection in the window, I look away.
When I close my eyes, I see the basement, the man in the chair, and Damien’s face. I press my palm to my stomach and breathe through my nose. In. Out. Counting helps.
By the time I push out of the Franklin Avenue station, the city is waking up and thawing around the edges. Salt trucks on the road. A deli prepping. The scent of coffee and baked goods. Murals lifting their bright chins. Bodega neon blinking to life. I keep my head down and my pace steady, the way you do when you want to be unremarkable.
My apartment now feels like a stage set someone put in storage. The building wears its chipped paint like a badge. Inside, the hallway smells like dust while the radiator clicks and sputters. Our door sticks and then gives. The apartment welcomes me with the old, thrifted couch and the plants I bullied into thriving for Clara, though they’re looking a little weepy seeing as no one has been here to care for them. It makes me want to cry, which I refuse to do until later.
I move fast. I open the closet and grab a large duffel bag, throwing in two pairs of jeans, three sweaters, leggings, bras, underwear, socks. A warm robe. My mother’s earrings I never wear but can’t lose. The sewing kit I’d allowed myself to splurge on. Bathroom essentials. I add my old sketchbook and a roll of pencils.
I stop and place my palm on the frame with the photo of Clara and me on the stoop our first summer here, cherishing it. Then I put it face-down.
My hand is on the zipper when I hear footsteps in the hall. Heavy, certain, purposeful. My heart flips. The knock that follows is the kind that demands to be answered.
