I swerve around one particular biker who is performing the sign of the cross, bringing his hands together in prayer. I hurry down the hall before I hear what he has to say.
Carter is more valued here than I thought.
I find Otis and swoop him up.
“Mommy,” mutters his tiny voice, eyes cracking open.
“It’s okay, buddy. Hold tight. We’ll be home soon.”
“Carmen?” Skipper cuts me off. The confusion on his face turns into pain as he looks down to see Otis swaddled in my arms. His thick, iron-gray brows turn in. He looks betrayed. “You’re going?”
“It’s best for all of us. Please, promise me you’ll forget about me?”
“I can’t make promises I can’t keep.”
I zip under his arm and make it to the door, where I catch a snippet of conversation.
“Let her go.” It sounds like Vex.
I don’t stick around long enough to hear the rest.
23
CARMEN
Carter Trescott has beenin my house. Once. Fucking once.
And the walls are tainted with the memory of him.
The abandoned mugs of lemon tea are still on the bench, stone-cold collecting fruit flies. About a dozen of them are dead in each cup, floating around in the piss-yellow. I stare at the black dots and feel the gunshot vibrations in my bones again.
BANG! BANG!
One after the other on a continuous loop, until I hear Otis crying, “Mommy!”
“I know, baby.” I sooth his fidgeting by bringing him into a hug.
I leave the mugs alone and walk into the living area to dump myself on the couch.
The couch where it happened.
He’s mine.
Otis is mine.
Don’t lie to me.
Their playful laughter shudders my bones more than the gunshots from last night. In the corner of my vision, I notice the box of toy soldiers. I keep my vision straight for as long as possible, until I can’t help but turn and look at them, and torture myself even more.
What started out as pretend-violence, became real violence.
Otis doesn’t scramble down from my lap to take the soldiers out of their cardboard box. Instead, he watches the action figures with me.
“That man.”
“Which man, buddy?” I force my voice up a pitch.
“The bad one.”
