And now she had a knife to Johanna’s throat.
The truck’s headlights cut through falling snow, illuminating the empty road ahead. Eight minutes to Valor Ridge if he pushed it. Eight minutes for his mother to lose what little grip on reality remained. Eight minutes for Johanna to bleed.
His mind flashed to the knife block in his mother’s kitchen, the empty slot where the butcher knife should have been. A six-inch serrated blade, recently sharpenedbecause his mother insisted on keeping her kitchen tools in perfect condition even as the rest of her life unraveled.
“Fuck,” he muttered, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. Bishop whined. “Sorry, buddy. It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll all be okay.”
He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the dog.
The truck rounded a curve too fast, and he corrected, tires skidding on black ice.
Jesus. He had to get control. He couldn’t help anyone if he ended up in a ditch.
The turn onto Ridge Road loomed ahead. He slowed just enough to make it without sliding, then accelerated again. Through the trees, the lights of Valor Ridge appeared—warm yellow squares against the darkness, Christmas lights blinking along the roofline. Everything looked so fucking normal, like his mother wasn’t holding a knife to someone’s throat.
He cut his headlights as he approached, rolling to a stop at the edge of the property. The truck’s clock read 12:17 AM.
Christmas Day.
Some fucking holiday.
Boone slid from the cab, and told Bishop to stay. The last thing he wanted was to put his almost ten-year-old dog in danger, too. He moved quickly toward the main house, sticking to the shadows. As he rounded the barn, the scene on the porch came into view.
His mother stood with her back to the railing, knife pressed against Johanna’s throat. Blood trickled down Johanna’s neck—not a lot, but enough to make Boone’s stomach twist. Walker stood in the doorway, hands raised, his expression carefully blank. Jonah hovered just behind him.
His mother was a ghost of herself—skeletal thin, her once-beautiful face hollowed out, eyes too large in their sockets. Her gray-streaked hair hung in clumps around her face, and shewore mismatched clothes, one foot in a boot, the other in what looked like a bedroom slipper. A harsh tremor ran through her arm, making the knife wobble against Johanna’s skin.
“Mom,” Boone called, stepping into the light. “I’m here now.”
She whipped her head toward his voice, the knife momentarily pulling away from Johanna’s throat. “Boone?” Her voice hitched, childlike and confused. “Where’s my boy?”
“It’s me.” He took another cautious step forward, hands raised to show he carried no weapon. “I’m right here. Let Johanna go.”
His mother’s gaze skittered over him, brow furrowing. “No, you’re not my Boone. My boy is little. Just a little thing.” She pressed the knife back against Johanna’s throat, harder this time. “What have you done with him? What did Nash do to my baby?”
Christ. She didn’t recognize him.
He moved closer, stepping into the circle of porch light. “Mom, look at me. Really look. I’m grown now. I’m not a little boy anymore.”
She squinted at him, her pupils blown wide and black—meth, most likely, or whatever pills she’d managed to get her hands on. Her free hand reached out, trembling, before dropping back to clutch Johanna’s arm.
“No.” She shook her head violently. “No, no, no. You’re trying to trick me. My Boone is small. He needs me. He’s waiting for me to tuck him in before Santa comes.”
The last time his mother tucked him in, he’d been eleven. Before his father died. Before she started disappearing into herself for days at a time. Before the drugs and the long stretches of psychosis.
“Mom,” he tried again, softer this time. “It’s Christmas.Remember? We were going to have dinner together tomorrow. You and me.”
“Christmas,” she repeated, the word hollow. “Yes, he’s waiting for Santa. My little boy. He wants a remote control truck.”
Johanna stood perfectly still, her eyes locked on Boone’s. The blood on her neck had dried to a dark streak, but the knife still pressed against her skin, indenting it with each erratic twitch of his mother’s hand.
“Leonora,” Walker said from the doorway, his voice gentle in a way Boone had rarely heard. “Your son is right here. He’s grown into a fine man.”
“You!” she snarled, attention snapping to Walker. “You did this. You poisoned him against me. You made him hate me!”
“Nobody hates you,” Boone said, taking another step. He was close enough now to smell her—unwashed skin, the chemical bite of meth, something sickly sweet underneath. “And nobody poisoned me against you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
“Then why did you leave?” The question came out broken, a child’s plea. “You left me alone. Everyone left.”
