“They'll be fine,” Kyla says, joining me at the window. “They've done this a thousand times.”
“I know.” Still, I hug my arms around myself and rock back and forth, unable to settle and read or do anything but hold my breath.
Kyla studies me for a moment. “You really love him, don't you?” It's the first time anyone in the family has acknowledged it directly.
“Aye, of course,” I say softly.
She nods. “Good. Because that bastard has been half dead for years. You're the only thing that ever brought him back to life.”
Something unravels in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She squeezes my shoulder gently. “Come now,” she says. “Bronwyn's making tea. No sense torturing yourself up here. Let's go get a little distraction.”
I follow her downstairs to find Caitlin, Bronwyn, Zoya, and Erin in the kitchen. They make space for me at the tablewithout a word, and someone presses a mug of tea into my hands. Caitlin opens a flask of whiskey, and we all pour some in.
We don't talk about where they've gone or what they're doing. We talk about ordinary things—recipes and books and children and the weather—like this is normal, as if their husbands and sons and brothers aren't out hunting people in the dark.
My phone buzzes just before dawn with a text from Ashland:
Ashland
Done. Coming home. There's nothing more to worry about.
Relief crashesinto me like a wave. “They're back,” I whisper to myself.
My mother calls the next morning. Ashland's still asleep in bed. He sleeps now—actually sleeps, deep and peaceful, instead of the restless half-consciousness he had before.
I stare at her name on the phone for three rings before I answer. Ashland opens one eye, watching me.
“Hello, Mam.”
“Bianca?” Her voice is sharp, laced with panic. “Where have you been? I've been calling you. You must’ve heard the news by now?—”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us.
“And it’shisfault, Bianca. How could you?—”
“You've spent all these years lying to me, living off their guilt money. How couldyou?”
“They're responsible for your father?—”
“Don't give me that narrative again. I know the truth now, and I know what you’ve done.”
“I did what I had to?—”
“The only reason I'm still alive to have this conversation is that one of the monsters you taught me to hate spent the last six years protecting me from my own mother's revenge plot.”
“So you're choosing them over your own family?”
“You stopped being my family when you decided my life was worth less than your affair.” I blow out a breath. “Don’t call me again.”
“Please—”
My vision blurs. I hang up the phone and block her number. Then I sit there, staring.
