Dave exhales sharply. “Believe me, I get it. After what happened—” He cuts himself off, but he doesn’t need to finish. We both know what he means. The images I’ve pieced together from that night haunt me, even though I wasn’t there. Nadya’s lifeless body crumpled on the ground, her sky-blue eyes empty, her auburn hair tangled in a pool of blood. I’ve imagined it too many times, tortured myself with the thought of Pete’s screams—terrified, heart-wrenching—as they dragged him away. I wasn’t there to save my son from that nightmare. I wasn’t there to protect my wife.
“No need to elaborate, boss. I know what you mean. You almost lost everything that day.” I stop and swallow hard to untie the knot in my throat. A bitter taste fills my mouth as I recall that Dave managed to rescue his woman and their daughter. I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts. I won’t let my own pain cloud my feelings for a man who’s always treated me with respect. I clear my throat and say, “Look, I know you worry about me and Pete. But we’re fine. I’ve got my son to think about now.” I close my hand into a fist on my knee. “That’s all that matters to me.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “And what happens when the past comes knocking? You can’t keep it away forever?”
I glance out the window, the faint glow of Christmas lights from the neighbors’ houses painting streaks of color across the snow. Sophia’s face flashes in my mind—her wide, green eyes and the way her voice used to wrap around my name like a promise. She’s back now, just a few blocks away, stirring up memories I don’t have the strength to bury.
“I can’t,” I admit, though the words feel hollow. “I’ll handle it when the time comes.”
“You sure about that?” Dave doesn’t hide his skepticism. When I don’t argue, he adds, “All right. But you know where to find me if shit goes south.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks, boss,” I mutter.
“Sure thing,” he replies and ends the call.
The silence that follows is deafening, pressing down on me like the weight of the years I’ve spent working with the Boyles. I sit there, staring at the flames in the fireplace. My mind drifts again to Sophia, her name a whisper in the back of my mind. I don’t understand why I’ve been thinking about her. I shouldn’t be dwelling on memories of our time together, yet her image is a living, breathing reminder of everything I can’t have.
The faint sound of Pete moaning upstairs pulls me back to the present. He must be having one of his nightmares again. I push myself up from the couch, climbing the staircase again. My heavy steps echo the choices I’ve made and the lives I’ve ruined. When I reach Pete’s room, I lean against the doorframe, watching him. His sleep seems peaceful once more.
“I’ll keep you safe, son,” I promise. “No matter what it takes.”
But deep down, I know this peace is a temporary illusion in many ways. And with Sophia back in town, the fragile walls I’ve built around my heart are already beginning to crack.
5
SOPHIA
The scent of gingerbread wafts through the air, warm and nostalgic, carrying a bittersweet pang that always takes root in my chest this time of year. I sit at the large wooden table in my mother’s kitchen, helping her assemble a gingerbread house. The prosthetic replacing my left forearm makes the task tedious—delicate icing work and balancing cookie walls aren’t exactly what it was designed for—but I manage. The frustration grows, though, when the icing bag slips, smearing a crooked line on the snowy rooftop I’m trying to craft.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath.
My mom stands at the counter, hands dusted in flour, as she rolls out another dough sheet. Her gaze flickers to my prosthetic for the briefest moment—a heartbeat, no more—and then away. The titanium structure lies beneath a natural-looking layer of silicone. So it’s not the sight of my bionic arm that Betty’s trying to escape. It’s the memory it brings to her mind.
She doesn’t say a word, of course. Nobody does. The charred mess of my left arm and what happened the night I lost it have been a forbidden topic in this house for almost a decade. She wouldn’t raise it now, especially during Christmas. Especially with my sister’s wedding looming.
“Try not to overthink it, sweetie.” My mom’s voice is gentle, like I’m still ten years old, fretting over lopsided frosting trees. “Gingerbread houses aren’t supposed to be perfect.”
“Maybe not,” I reply, smoothing another line of icing along the base, “but they’re also not supposed to collapse on the first snowfall.”
Mom chuckles softly, her laugh warm and familiar, like the crackling fireplace in the living room just beyond. I glance at her—her auburn hair, streaked now with gray, is swept neatly to one side, and her lips are painted the same vibrant red she’s worn for as long as I can remember. She looks timeless here, standing in this kitchen, its honey-toned wooden cabinetry and polished granite countertops illuminated by soft golden light. Outside, snow blankets the ground, visible through the wide windows that frame the dining area. The rustic stone fireplace anchors the open space, casting cozy waves of heat, while the table nearby is set with plates and Christmas candles. It feels like stepping into the past, where every detail whispers of home. I stare at the counter in front of me, at the center of the kitchen, which holds the mess of gingerbread crumbs and powdered sugar I’ve just created. I shake my head, turning my attention back to my work. My mind doesn’t stay there for long, though. It wanders, inevitably, to him.
Ray Flanagan.
His name flickers like a dangerous flame in the back of my mind, scorching and scaring me all at once. It’s absurd—I’ve barely thought of him in years. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But now that I’m back, just a few blocks away from where he lives, memories of him creep in, uninvited.
He’s just the boy from down the street, I tell myself, but the words feel hollow.
“You’ve been quiet,” Mom says, breaking the silence. “Thinking about work?”
“Yeah, actually,” I lie. “Dee called on my way into town. The drummer fromThe Experiment?”
Betty’s features brighten. “She’s such a sweetheart.”
“She is,” I say, smoothing another line of icing along the roof of the gingerbread house. “She wanted my input about a festival gig they’re doing in February. It’s huge—great for their new album. Balancing it with their tour schedule will be tricky.”
Mom turns from the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full managing all that.”
I chuckle. “That’s the job. Keeping them on track, making sure they don’t burn out—or kill each other.”
