I move through the clean interior of my home, my hand trailing over the surfaces. Inside: spotless. Outside: wrecked. A contradiction I don’t care to unpack. My fingers drift to the scar, hot and new, but I shove away the thought before it becomes anything poetic.
I unlatch the rear gate before he arrives—my delivery instructions always say, “Leave at back door”—then slip out of sight before the driver gets here. No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’m still breathing. And I need it to stay that way. Not until I’m ready for the payback that ends things permanently.
The kid drops the bags by the back door. Headphones in, working fast. Maybe he’s intimidated. Maybe that’s useful.
Once he’s gone, I relatch the rear gate and haul the groceries inside. I eat simple meals—meat, vegetables. No booze. No indulgences. I need my body and my mind clean. I need to be a weapon when the time comes.
A two-hour gym workout is just what I need. No thoughts about anything other than the next weight set, sweat dripping down my body, plastering my shirt to me.
Every so often, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I hate the fade. I hate what it reminds me of. And if I ever step back into civilization, it’ll be the first thing people notice—before my size, before my presence. A dead giveaway to a past I’m trying to bury six feet under.
I’m almost done with the workout when my doorbell rings.
I freeze and then move swiftly across the room. Grab my gun and stride into the hallway, finding a window that gives me a vantage of the front door.
If they’re here now, then it’s time for war. But they wouldn’t use the doorbell. Neither would Julian. He knows to text.
When I see her, I set my gun down.
Celine, Julian’s kid sister. Never seen too much of her since Julian likes to keep his two lives separate. I remember her as a bright-eyed girl playing nurse…now she’s a real one. Good for her. Not sure why she’s on my doorstep.
She’s not… unattractive. Her soft brown curls frame her face, her coat tugged tight over curves she probably has no idea she’s showing. She’s holding a hamper. And suddenly I see her in a warm house, cocoa on the stove, laundry at her hip?—
No.
I slam the image out of my head.
Being trapped in here is making me insane.
I call Julian. The doorbell rings again.
“Your sister is here,” I growl.
He sighs. “I’m sorry. She wanted to check your injuries. And when I mentioned you’re not celebrating Christmas, she almost cried.”
“God damn it, Julian. I thought you wanted her kept away from this.”
“Well, you’re not going to tell her what we do, are you?”
The doorbell rings a third time. She’s persistent.
“She guessed something about our life. Last month. I saw it in her eyes. She knows.”
“She doesn’t,” Julian snaps. “She might suspect. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’twantto know.”
A fourth ring.
I hang up and stride to the door.
She steps back, her eyes snapping wide when I fill the doorway, my gym shirt sticking to my heaving chest.
“Inside,” I snap.
She laughs, tilting her head. “Excuse me?”
“We’ll talk inside.”
