Oh.
Christian’s eyes stay on the road, but his voice is quieter now. “Kai is made of rage, Adeline. And hate. He wakes up with it. He builds with it. He wins with it.”
He glances at me then.
“And that’s why no one can stop him. Because he is nothing but will. And wrath. And the kind of madness this world was never ready for.”
His brows furrow, and his grip on the wheel tightens. There’s a long pause, and I’m not sure if he’s going to say anything else.
“But why? Why is he so angry?” I ask gently.
I’ve never seen him behave that way, is what I want to say.
But in fact, I don’t really know him at all.
Christian nods slowly, as if considering something. “It’s easier to be furious,” he says, “than it is to admit you’re broken.”
That hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Because he’s right. And I’ve seen it enough times in my own house to know. Anger is a mask we wear to hide the hurt underneath. Sometimes, it’s easier to lash out than to let anyone see how deeply you’ve been wounded. I guess, maybe, that’s what it was like for Mason during his episodes—if you could even call them that.
My chest tightens, and I glance down at my hands, suddenly restless. “That never really goes away,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
Christian glances at me briefly, his expression thoughtful. “We’re all products of our past, are we not?”
I’m about to reply, but that’s when I realize the car has stopped and I see my house.
We’re here.
***
When I finally arrive home after an excruciatingly long day of work, it’s already dark.
Placing the keys down in their usual spot, I quite literally drag myself to the kitchen to restock the fridge. I try to focus on that instead of the note burning a hole in my thoughts. Work was a disaster. Rick yelled. Edna complained. I barely managed to focus on anything, and it showed.
I’m so exhausted. All I want is to collapse into bed and forget today ever happened. But responsibilities call. Or more like yell.
Should I tell Naomi and Sam about the note?I think as I slowly make my way up the stairs. A part of me thinks that maybe it might be better to keep it to myself, but the other part also knows it would be better to tell them. But would it, really?
I guess we did promise to tell each other everything… but it’s not like they haven’t broken promises to me before.
When I step into Naomi’s room, she’s plucking her eyebrows in front of the mirror. Sam’s at the desk, engrossed in whatever she’s scrolling through on the computer.
“Hey,” I say, my voice tired.
“Hey,” they reply in unison without looking up. I wander over to Sam, peering over her shoulder.
She’s looking through articles about our father.
My chest tightens, and I’m about to tell them about the note, but before I can say anything, something pulls my eyes to the window.
My heart stops.
A figure. Outside. Facing our house, standing still in the dark.
Pure fear. Cold fear. “Oh my god,” I mutter, my heart slamming against my ribcage, my mind trying to make sense of what exactly I’m seeing. Who in their right mind would stand out there in the dead of night, watching our house? Why are they here? What do they want?
Sam glances at me, frowning. “What?”
I manage to point toward the window, though my fingers tremble. “Look,” I say.
