The moment before violence is the clearest I ever feel; the air sharpens; time slows; my heart steadies.
This is it. For Riley, and for every woman Pike preyed upon. For every nightmare I’ve ever had about failing the people I should’ve protected.
I tighten my grip and step forward.
Then — CLICK.
I freeze.
That sound isn't in front of me. It’s behind. Close. A gun’s hammer being cocked. Cold steel presses against the back of my skull.
Viper’s voice slithers into my ears.
“Don’t move, brother.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Riley
The parade is everything Ironwood Falls promised — a technicolor daydream painted on the spine of an old logging town: fire engines spinning showers of candy, floats bearing grinning homecoming queens in tiaras, a marching band in blue and gold uniforms tight as armor, rainbow streamers trailing from battered pickup trucks, clowns on unicycles weaving through the chaos. Laughter bounces down the main drag. Kids with superhero faces sprint beneath the bunting, hot dogs in hand. Parents with cell phones corral the little ones into herds for photo ops. The air is thick with sugar, popcorn, and genuine joy.
And yet…
I can’t breathe.
Breaker left half an hour ago, but the second his bike disappeared into traffic, something inside me tightened. It comes as a cold hook beneath my ribs, a ravenous whisper in my blood, a shadow that slithers its way around my throat and squeezes.
Something’s wrong.
I try to shake it off.
It’s nothing, I lie to myself, again and again. But I can feel it deep in my soul. I try to shake it off, pressing my nails into my palms until white moons appear, but the dread only grows. Myheart is a trapped thing. My breath comes shallow, each inhale a little more ragged than the last.
I glance across the way where the club’s ol’ ladies are gathered. Claire is chatting with Bianca at a booth selling homemade soaps. Molly and Alessia stand a few feet away, Molly’s laugh rising above the din as Alessia gestures with a queen’s grace, her sunglasses enormous and glamorous even in Oregon gloom. Stacy slouches against a bike rack, lemonade in hand, glancing at her phone between sips, the picture of casual boredom.
They all look relaxed, safe, and normal.
But the longer I stand here, the more the world feels like it’s tilting.
I shift closer to the curb. A brightly decorated float goes by — a giant papier mâché trout courtesy of the town’s fishing club — and the crowd cheers.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
There it is — that feeling. That sick sixth sense I developed because ofhim. The feeling that crawled under my skin in parking lots. The feeling that made me check over my shoulder every five seconds.
It’s here. It’s back.
He’sback.
My breath catches, sharp and ragged.
I try to tell myself it’s just nerves. That Breaker leaving stirred up old trauma. That my mind is playing tricks. That I’m safe here, in public. But every instinct in me that has been honed by fear and sharpened by survival screams for me to run.
I glance around for Claire again, to ground myself, but she’s vanished behind a cluster of Girl Scouts shilling cookies. Molly is mid-argument, her face turned away, her ponytail a red flag in the breeze. Alessia and Stacy are both blocked by a wall of denim jackets and Little League uniforms. I’m alone in this seaof people, more alone than I was in any cheap motel or midnight parking lot.
My pulse pounds in my ears. The parade noise fades, replaced by a cold, heavy silence only I can hear. I taste metal in my mouth. The crowd jostles and morphs — every tall man in a ballcap becomes him for a split-second, every pair of sunglasses hides a threat. I retreat a few steps, then a few more. Someone behind me bumps my shoulder, and I jump as if I’ve been shot.
“Sorry!” a mother says as I whirl on her, with a look on my face that makes her flinch in fear and pull her child closer, as if to shield them from me.
