I keep circling that part.
How did one man get the jump on four trained, armed guards?
How did he escape his room without alerting them?
Why kill Declan, an innocent bystander, who had nothing to do with any of this?
Every answer spawns worse questions.
And denial.
Logic lines Jag up dead center.Clean escape.Decoy.Timing too precise to be luck.When we lay it all out on a board, he’s the only piece that fits without forcing it.
But my gut won’t cooperate.As monstrous as Jag can be, he has rules.
In all of Dove’s stories, Jag’s violence had a line.He took out her abusers, molesters, and rapists.Not once did she tell me a story where he killed someone who didn’t deserve it.
Declan doesn’t fit.He was harmless and kind.He didn’t hurt anyone.Didn’t threaten anyone.He wasn’t in Jag’s way.
Jag doesn’t kill innocent people.
Either everything I think I know about him is wrong, or an enemy grabbed both of them.
That thought scares me more than believing Jag did it.
My heartbeat hurts.Every thump feels personal.I lie awake listening to it, half-expecting it to give up before I do.
I can tell Monty’s worried about me.Every time his eyes land on me, he chews the inside of his cheek as if my appearance makes him uneasy.Maybe it’s the heavy eyeliner packed under my eyes.Or all the black layers I wear even when the house is warm.I want distance.I want to look like someone nobody should try to comfort.
Every night, when the den empties and Monty tells me to get some rest, I don’t.
I go to the guest house and pace until my feet hurt.I smoke until my throat feels raw.One after another, I light them and watch them burn, lost in my head.
Sometimes I play the sax.
The sound comes out wrong, too loud, or too thin.I don’t care.I play until my fingers cramp, until my chest tightens, until the ache in my ribs syncs up with the noise.The notes wander.They don’t resolve.They just exist and hurt.
Other times, I sit on the floor and draw.
Emo Disney stuff.Ruined princesses.Dark castles.Big-eyed characters with smeared makeup and crooked crowns.I don’t sketch happily-ever-afters.I sketch aftermaths.
A week passes.
Seven days since Declan’s murder.
Seven days since the decoy.
Seven days since Dove smiled like she was safe.
Rage comes in waves.So does despair.Sometimes they overlap, and I can’t tell which one is steering.I snap at people.Then I go quiet for hours.I replay my last conversation with Jag until it loses shape.
He said he was leaving.
He said he was leaving Dove with me.
He was convincing on both counts.
I ricochet between blaming Jag and defending him like it’s a full-time job.
