Tommy’s offer burns in my pocket like a brand.
Fifty thousand dollars. One fight. One night of returning to the man I used to be.
Charlie sets down her mug, and the sound seems too loud in the quiet kitchen. “The hospital called earlier. They gave me a list of medications Grandma Rose will need when she comes home.” Her voice wavers slightly. “The cost is…it’s more than I expected. A lot more.”
My stomach drops. “How much?”
“Fifteen hundred a month. For at least six months, maybe longer.” She wraps her arms around herself, Marcus’s shirt pulling tightacross her breasts, and I force my gaze back to her face. “I don’t know how I’m going to afford it.”
She trails off, and I watch a tear slide down her cheek. Elijah moves closer, his hand hovering near her shoulder but not quite touching, maintaining the careful distance we’ve all been forced to adopt.
The frustration in his eyes mirrors what I’m feeling, this desperate need to comfort her, to fix this, to make everything okay.
Fifty thousand dollars could take care of Rose’s medication for years, solving this problem immediately and giving Charlie one less thing to worry about while her world crumbles around her.
All I have to do is become the monster I used to be. Just for one night.
Tommy’s words echo in my mind.“Violence doesn’t leave. It just waits.”
I look at Charlie standing in Marcus’s shirt, her hazel eyes swimming with tears she’s trying not to shed, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear. I think about Rose Davis, who raised this beautiful, broken girl and deserves better than dying because we can’t afford to keep her alive.
The offer stands for two weeks.
The clock is ticking.
21
ELIJAH
The morning light filters through St. Michael’s stained glass windows, painting the congregation in jewel tones as I take my position near the piano.
Sunday Mass should feel sacred, peaceful, but today the air crackles with something darker.
Paranoia has infected us all since the camera installations and surveillance photos, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being hunted.
My fingers rest on the piano keys, ready to begin the opening hymn, when I notice Mrs. Delacroix in her usual pew.
She’s always been severe, her steel-gray hair pulled into that unforgiving bun, but today something’s different.
A small leather notebook sits open on her lap, and her pen moves across the page with deliberate precision.
I watch her eyes track Adrian as he moves through the liturgy. Every time he speaks, her pen scratches.
When Charlie rises to bring the collection basket forward, Mrs. Delacroix’s writing becomes more frantic.
The elderly woman’s gaze follows Charlie’s movements with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
Marcus notices too. I catch his eye from across the sanctuary, see his jaw tighten as he watches Mrs. Delacroix document something else.
His tattooed arms are crossed over his chest, dress shirt sleeves rolled up and the saints and sinners inked into his olive skin seeming to writhe in the colored light.
The muscle jumping in his jaw tells me he’s fighting the urge to cross the sanctuary and snatch that notebook from her wrinkled hands.
Charlie moves past me to return to her seat, and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon makes my body respond despite the wrongness of the moment.
Her dress clings to her curves, the fabric swaying around her thighs with each step.
I force my gaze back to the hymnal, but not before Mrs. Delacroix’s pen moves again, recording something I can only imagine.
