“Can I volunteer for your campaign?”
Lee catches my eye from across the room and grins. I grin back.
This is what home feels like. Not just a place, but people fighting for each other. People who show up. People who stay.
“Come on,” Bones says. “Let’s get you home. Reckon you’re all sweaty and need a shower again.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me and I laugh, letting him lead me outside.
The night air hits my face, cool and clean, and I stop on the steps to look back. Through the doors, I can see them—my dad with his hand on Josie’s back, Duck being mobbed by future voters, Lee arguing with Kya about something that’s making them both laugh. Bones’s hand finds mine, warm and steady, and I think about all the years I spent running from this place.
I thought Stoneheart was a cage. Turns out it was the key.
Not because of my surname or because I was born here. But because I chose it. Chose them. Chose this messy, complicated, sometimes scary, but beautiful life.
And I’m never leaving again.
28
BONES
“Are you sure we should be doing this?”
Emma’s standing in front of the bathroom counter, shirt off, hair pulled over one shoulder as she looks at me via the mirror. I trace my fingers along her shoulder blade, featherlight, stopping at the spot about three inches down and two inches away from her spine. The action reminds me of that night, almost a year ago now, when we stayed in that roadside motel and she demanded to know where it was.
“Stone said if it’s not out by tonight, he’s reconsidering my rank.” I pull on a glove to apply some numbing cream to the area, rubbing it in gently. “But if you want to talk to him, insist on keeping it, I’m not gonna stand in your way.”
She bites her lip, looking conflicted. “I mean, we won the zoning battle. But it’s not the first time Summit’s come back using different tactics. What if?—”
“I know.” I pull the glove off my hand and cup her face. “Believe me, I know. But this is your dad’s call, and he’s right—keepingyou chipped like a dog isn’t fair to you. I shouldn’t have done it the way I did. I abused your trust, and I’m sorry for that.”
“Bones,” she whispers. “You don’t need to . . . I mean, I know I was furious at first. But then . . . All those nights after when I was alone, and having nightmares. It gave me comfort.”
“I know it did.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “And I’m going to fix that for you. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
She nods. “OK. You can take it out.”
Her bare back is a smooth curve, pale and strong under the bathroom light. The scar from where she tried to remove the tracker herself is a jagged line next to the tracker’s little bulge on her skin. I can’t help but touch it, thumb following the line from shoulder blade to spine. She shivers, and not entirely from anticipation.
We’ve been debating this for weeks. The original implant was done during a moment of pure fear—when she stopped wearing the swan necklace with the original tracker in it, and I couldn’t breathe thinking about all the ways the world could take her from me. I told myself it was protection. Told myself I was keeping her safe.
But the truth? I put this in her skin because I couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing where she was. Because loving her from a distance made me desperate and stupid and willing to cross lines I shouldn’t have crossed.
And now, with Summit beaten back and Carlos feeding hogs on some farm up north, it’s time to give her back what I took.
“You ready?” I ask, and she nods but doesn’t look away from the mirror. Her face is pale, but her eyes are locked on mine in the glass, stubborn as always. That’s my swan.
I line up the tray—sterile gloves, scalpel, gauze, tweezers, tiny metal dish for the tracker itself. Everything prepped and as clean as I can make it, because if I’m going to do this, I’m not half-assing it. I take a slow breath, then start by dabbing on more cream.
She’s so still, even when I press into the numb spot to test it. I almost wish she’d flinch, or make a joke, but she just stares at me in the reflection, like she’s daring me to chicken out or something.
“You want music?” I ask, not sure if the distraction would help.
She shakes her head. “Just get it done.”
The removal is quick—local anesthetic, small incision, tweezers, done. The tracker drops into the dish with a metallic clink. I hold the bloody gauze for a few seconds longer than necessary. Maybe part of me wants to keep my hand on her, to keep her anchored to me a little longer. When I pull away, the cut is barely more than a shallow slit, already beading up with a single line of blood. I wipe it clean and seal it with some suture tape. Then I cover it with a bandage and set about cleaning the mess, my hands moving on autopilot while my brain runs in circles.
“So that’s it?” Emma’s voice is smaller than I expected. “It’s out?”
