I lost both parents to violence. Violence tied to a man whose name and face I don’t know. A name that is tied to me, my past, and countless others.
The numbness is the first to find me. It’s a cold, throbbing ache that crawls up through my body and spreads. A pain my body can’t prepare or protect me from.
Dad is dead.
Mom is dead.
A shudder rolls through me as the words sneak up on me and echo around in my head.
And you’re next.
I press my hands into my eyes, but all it seems to do is trap the image of my mother’s pale, bloated, and discolored body. The gunshot wound was unmistakable, a dark hole in her heart. The bullet ended everything.
When I was asked, “Is this your mother, Clarissa Rose?”
I said yes, but as I looked at her, I saw him, too.
My dad—Carlos Alvarez.
I spoke his name as if saying it now would erase all the years I said nothing.
It didn’t.
A set of hands cover mine. Chase pulls my hands gently from my face, and I blink quickly, adjusting to the light he’s turned on.
I scan his wet face, his dripping clothes and hair. He’s crouched in front of me on his knees. His eyes search mine as I stare at the perfect little droplets falling off his face. He pulls my hands to his lips and kisses each palm, and I observe the wrinkles on my fingertips.
How long have I been sitting in the shower?
Maybe time doesn’t exist here.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his breath uneven like he ran through the whole house calling my name.
“How can someone who never loved me leave a hole this big?” I mutter. “She lied. She was awful. She murdered my dad. She wasn’t a kind person. So why does it hurt this bad, Eighty-Seven?”
“Because she was your mom, baby.”
“But she wasn’t,” I croak. “She didn’t love me, didn’t care, didn’t want me.”
“But you wanted her.”
“Yes, I did,” I sob. “I wanted her to be what she never was. She didn’t do any of the things Mrs. Silver did. But when the Silvers died, it didn’t feel like this.”
“What do you feel?” he asks.
“I hate myself.”
His jaw ticks, but it’s not from anger or frustration. He moves closer, pressing his forehead against mine.
“You don’t get to hate yourself for surviving.”
“This doesn’t feel like surviving.” My breath catches. “It feels like I break and ruin everything I touch.”
“You didn’t kill her. You’re not responsible for the choices she or anyone else made.”
“What if my mother was the only one who could have given answers about Elliot or The Octopus? What if she had answers and they’re gone now?”
He cups my face and brushes away the tears I didn’t know were falling. I’m not sure what’s water and salt at this point.
