“Right,” she says, dragging the word out like she doesn’t believe me for a second. She steps closer, eyes flicking to the mirror where I’ve tucked the photo. “You know, he’s going to be at the wedding.”
The words land like a stone in the pit of my stomach. I knew, of course. It’s a small town; there’s no way he wouldn’t be there. But hearing it out loud makes it real in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I return to my suitcase, pretending to dig for something so I don’t have to meet her gaze. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Cassidy doesn’t move, and I can feel her watching me, waiting for me to crack. When I don’t, she shrugs and heads for the door. “Just thought you should know. Wouldn’t want you to be blindsided.”
Her footsteps fade down the hall, leaving me with the suffocating weight of her news. My hands tremble as I reach for the photo again. I sink onto the bed, my legs too weak to hold me up. I stare at the picture like it holds the answers to all the questions I’m too afraid to ask.
What happened to you, Ray?The thought echoes in my mind, bringing a flood of memories I’ve spent years trying to bury—the way he used to laugh and always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. The boy in the photo feels like a ghost, a shadow of someone I once knew but can never reach again.
And yet… there’s this pull, this inexplicable need to see him, to know if there’s anything left of the boy I loved.
Loved?
The word catches me off guard, sharp and unforgiving. I shake my head, trying to banish the thought, but it clings to me, refusing to let go.
The snow outside the window glitters in the pale light, soft and silent. Somewhere out there, he’s living a life I can’t even begin to imagine. A life filled with danger and darkness, with secrets I’ll never understand. And yet, I can’t stop wondering if he ever thinks of me. If he ever looks back on those summers by the creek, those moments when the world felt simple and safe.
I don’t want to see him. I can’t handle it. But as I sit there, staring at his photo, I know it’s only a matter of time before our paths cross. And when they do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep the past where it belongs.
4
RAY
Pete’s chest rises and falls softly as he sleeps, his little face slack with dreams. I sit on the edge of his bed, brushing back a lock of his auburn hair, the exact same shade as my late wife’s. His strands slip like silk through my fingers, much like Nadya’s used to. There goes that damn piercing ache in my soul again. I take a few deep inhales, exhaling slowly and audibly. It dulls the pain enough for me to yank my mind out of the hurtful memories.
I focus on Pete’s room. It’s a sanctuary of innocence—walls painted in soft whites, dotted with drawings he’s proudly taped up himself. A chuckle escapes me as I take in spaceships battling against an orange sky and pink and blue dinosaurs playing fetch with a little boy with flaming red hair. The bedspread is rumpled, striped in a faded blue pattern, a worn teddy bear clutched in one hand. A pile of toy cars glints in the corner, where they catch the shimmering glow from the fireplace. It’s a small space but warm, quiet, and safe—precisely the opposite of everything I’ve ever been able to give my son.
“You’re my world, buddy,” I say softly as I lean in and plant a kiss on his rosy cheek. He can’t hear me, but I don’t care.
For a moment, I just breathe in his scent. It’s impossibly comforting—soft and clean, like the faintest trace of baby powder still clinging to his skin. It’s a scent that carries the innocence of endless giggles and the warmth of bedtime stories. It reminds me of when Pete was just a tiny bundle in my arms, fragile yet full of life, and even now, it feels like home.
I try pretending that this right here is all there is for Pete and me—this room, his quiet breaths, the smell of cookies faintly drifting up from the kitchen. I allow myself to believe that our life can be perfect like it is in those fucking Christmas movies.
But it’s a perfect lie I’ve been telling myself and my son.
The buzz of my phone shatters the calm like a bullet through glass. My chest tightens as I glance at the screen. The name glowing there isn’t one I can ignore—Dave Boyle.Those words alone are a trigger, yanking me back to the blood-soaked streets of Boston and the endless nights I spent hunting men who didn’t deserve to live. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth as I slide my thumb across the screen and bring the phone to my ear, my other hand gripping the edge of Pete’s mattress.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Ray.” Dave’s voice is rough, gravelly, like the scrape of steel on pavement. “It’s been a while.”
I exhale as I stand, letting my eyes linger on Pete one last time before I leave the room. “Yeah, it has,” I reply, moving down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking faintly beneath my steps. “What’s up?” I ask in my regular tone now that I’m away from Pete.
“Ouch! Where’s your Christmas cheer, man?” Dave teases me, but his sense of humor does a poor job of masking his concern for me. After all, this time of year used to be my favorite. Now it really sucks balls. “Just checking in. Making sure you’re still breathing.”
I descend the stairs, gripping the polished wooden railing. The staircase spirals down into the foyer, where the light from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows glints on the glass panels of the railing. The house’s sharp angles and modern lines are clean and cold—nothing like the life I’ve tried to scrape together since moving back to Mammoth Lakes. As I step into the open living room, my boots land heavily on the floor, the vast space too sterile to be called home.
“Still breathing,” I mutter as I cross the room, the soles of my boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. The Christmas decorations my neighbors keep urging me to put up are nowhere to be found. The room is bare, save for the white sectional couch and a low coffee table cluttered with Pete’s books. A sleek fireplace set into a slate-gray wall flickers weakly.
“Good to hear,” Dave says after a pause, his voice weighted with meaning. “Listen, I just… I know you’re trying to keep your head down, but I wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten what’s out there. We’ve been working hard, using all the Syndicate’s resources, but we still have no clue who that motherfucker Dracul is.”
My throat tightens as I drop onto the couch, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I know.” My gaze shifts to the massive black front door, a fortress between this fragile peace and the chaos outside.
“You heard anything about him?” Dave asks, his tone dropping into something darker, deadlier.
“No.” My reply is clipped. “And I don’t want to.”
