I walked in behind Augustine, who, even after the better part of a year together, still had a knack for making a room slow down when he entered. The patched members eyed us, some with the wary affection of men who’d fought awar together, others with the blank indifference of guys still deciding whether or not I was truly one of them.
Seneca Wallace was perched on the edge of the bar, boots on the rail, flicking a bottle cap at a prospect with enough force to leave a welt. He grinned at me, then at Augustine, like we were the punchline to a private joke.
“Domestic bliss looks good on you,” he called out, raising his bottle. “You even got her housebroken yet?”
“Only pissed on the rug twice this week,” Augustine replied. “I consider it progress.”
The room howled, a mess of cackles and glass-on-wood, but I didn’t mind. After everything that happened at Stone Lake, these idiots had started treating me like one of their own. There were worse families to be stuck with.
I made my way to the back corner, where the shade was deepest and the smell of burnt coffee was almost tolerable. The baby was kicking hard today, like it had somewhere urgent to be, and I rubbed at my ribs, trying to convince it to give my bladder a break.
Augustine set a steaming mug in front of me, then sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched. “You want anything else?” he asked, voice low so only I could hear.
I shook my head. “I’m good. Just want to watch the circus.”
He nodded, and for a few minutes we did—just watched as the club did what it always did: argued, schemed, got loud, made bad bets. It was peaceful, in a weird way.
That’s when it happened.
The side door swung open and a runner—kid I didn’t know, probably a prospect from the new crew up north—stepped in carrying a plain brown package, heavy enough he had to grip it with both arms. The air in the room changed, got tight and hot. Everybody watched as the runner threaded his way to Augustine, set the package down on the table, and stepped back fast, hands up.
Augustine stared at the package, then at me. “You expecting a delivery?”
“Only thing I ordered was prenatal vitamins,” I said. “And those come in a box with a happy baby on the side, not…that.”
Seneca wandered over, sniffed the air, then grinned. “Maybe it’s a bomb. Wouldn’t that spice up a Thursday?”
“Only if you’re opening it,” I said.
He winked, but stayed close enough to catch shrapnel. That was Seneca—couldn’t help himself.
Augustine turned the package in his hands, then ran a finger along the seam. No return address, no markings, nothing to say who’d sent it. But I already knew. I couldfeel it in my teeth, the way you know when a storm’s coming.
“It’s from him,” I said. “It has to be.”
Augustine’s eyes softened, just a touch, but he nodded. He pulled his pocket knife, cut the tape with the same precision he used to gut a deer, and peeled back the flaps. Inside was a smaller box, wrapped in tissue, and tucked on top of it: a single folded piece of paper.
He handed it to me.
I took it, fingers shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable. Blocky, all-caps, every letter angry. My father’s.
MELISSA—READ THIS FIRST.
I swallowed, then opened it. The first line was just as bad as I’d expected.
I’M NOT GOOD AT THIS.
That was it. That was the whole opening. I barked a laugh, which turned into a cough, then kept reading.
SAINT SAYS I’M A MONSTER. MAYBE HE’S RIGHT. BUT I DON’T WANT YOU TO THINK I NEVER GAVE A FUCK. I DID. I STILL DO.
He’d written the word “LOVE” and scratched it out, then started a new sentence below it.
IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A MOM, DON’T DO IT LIKE ME. DON’T FUCK IT UP. DON’T RUN. THE WORLD DOESN’T NEED ANOTHER GHOST.
Below that, in a different pen, was a note in smaller writing.
I HOPE THE KID GETS YOUR EYES. I HOPE IT NEVER MEETS ME.
