The tires slice through the wet pavement, sending up sprays of water as we speed down the road. I grip the seat in front of me, heart hammering, breath shallow. The storm is alive around us,the rain deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the storminsidehis car.
Then, through the downpour, the shape of a building emerges from the haze. A small school, barely visible through the curtain of rain.
Damian pulls into the parking lot, jerking the wheel hard. The SUV skids slightly on the slick pavement before coming to a sudden stop.
The second the car is in park, he’s out, the door slamming behind him. Bridger and Cody move just as fast, but I’m frozen for half a second, my eyes locked on what they see.
A lone figure sits on a metal bench in front of the school.
Motionless.
The rain soaks her completely, plastering thin fabric to her frail frame, her graying hair clinging to her face in wet, tangled strands. Her hands rest limply in her lap, fingers curled inward, shoulders slightly hunched, as if she doesn’t even feel the storm raging around her.
She looks just like the woman in the photograph. The one surrounded by the three boys, her face stern but warm, sharp-eyed, full of life.
This is her. This is their mother.
And she lookslost.
A lump forms in my throat as I shove open my door and step into the rain. It hits me like a wall, soaking through my clothes in seconds.
Damian is already in front of her, kneeling, his voice low, urgent. “Mom.”
She just blinks up at him, slow and distant, like she’s seeing him through a fog.
Oh, God. She doesn’t recognize him.
For the first time since I met him, Damian looks…small. Lost.
My throat tightens painfully.
Damian kneels before his mother, hands raised slightly, palms open in a slow, careful movement like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Mom, it’s me,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s Damian.”
She stares at him, her face twisting, eyes darting frantically between him and his brothers standing behind him. Her lips tremble, her fingers twitch in her lap, and for a split second, I think she recognizes him.
Then shescreams.
A raw, broken sound that makes my blood turn to ice.
She scrambles back on the bench, her whole body shaking, hands flying up in a defensive position. “Get away from me!” she cries, her voice shrill with terror. “Stay back! Don’t touch me!”
Damian’s entire body stiffens, pain flashing across his face so fast I almost miss it.
Bridger takes a cautious step forward. “Mom, it’s okay?—”
“No!” she screeches, swinging her arms wildly. “Stay away from me and Clay!”
Clay?
I don’t know who that is, but the name seems to anchor her fear, twisting it into something deeper, something more primal.
She pushes herself off the bench so fast she nearly falls, her legs unsteady, her thin frame swaying like a branch in the wind.
Damian stands quickly, reaching for her. “Mom, please?—”
She lashes out.
Her frail hands slap against his chest, her nails clawing weakly at his arms, her panicked breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “Get away! You’re not supposed to be here! Clay said to stay away!”
