Tall.
Lean.
Wrong.
My pulse spikes.
My breath stops.
It watches me.
Not moving.
Not hiding.
Just watching.
I draw my piece so fast the metal scrapes the leather holster.
One shot.
Cracking through the hollow.
Birds explode upward.
Leaves roar.
But the figure is gone.
Vanished between the gravestones like it stepped backward into a shadow.
I run down the hill, boots slipping, heart thundering.I search between stones, through briars, behind the mausoleum.Nothing.No tracks.No snapped branches.No blood.
Just cold.
A crawling chill, like grasping appendages.
I'm a bundle of nerves by the time I return to the Lockup.I grab a bottle from the bar and don’t stop drinking until half the bourbon is gone and the burn settles into something numb.
I collapse on my bed, cut still on, boots half unlaced.The bottle slips from my hand, rolling onto the floor with a soft thud.
Sleep drags me under, but it’s not peace waiting for me.
It’s her.
Becki.But not the Becki chained to a cot and spitting venom at the bars.
This Becki is the girl from the beginning.
Barefoot in the churchyard.Eyes bright with secrets.Laughter caught on her lips like a prayer.
She steps close, hair brushing my jaw, her breath warm on my neck.
“You were born for fire,” she whispers.“You’re not scared of father.”
Her fingers slide under my cut, palms splayed on my chest, feeling my heartbeat like she’s memorizing it.
“You want to hate me,” she murmurs, voice trembling but sure.“But you remember.”
