Nash’s lips twitched, not a smile.“That badge-wearin’ fuck wouldn’t know loyalty if it hit him in the goddamn face.He’s been gunnin’ for the club ever since he started playin’ dress-up.”
“Maybe that’s because your stupid little club is doing some seriously illegal shit,” she bit back.“The Silver Demons—really, Nash?”
“You got love for the law now?”Nash barked a humorless laugh.“Those same motherfuckers who left your mama hangin’ from the rafters, jokin’ out on the porch like it—”
Cassie’s scream tore out of her before he’d finished.She shot to her feet, chair slamming the wall so hard it bounced back, sending her crashing into the box.The box tipped and Nash moved without thinking, reaching for it—his elbow knocking the coffee.The mug toppled, dark liquid flooding across the table, soaking everything across the surface.
Cassie shrieked, panicked; frantic hands flying over the mess, trying to scoop up soggy pieces.Cursing, Nash moved quick, grabbing—wallet, ring, the photograph—
“Give me that,” she seethed, ripping the photo from his hand, the paper splitting with a wet tear.
She froze.In her fist, half a picture—Connor, grinning, his arm slung around her shoulders.
Nash looked down at what he still held.The other half—Cassie, bright-eyed in her graduation cap and gown, grin stretched wide.
Cassie seemed to dissolve, chin wobbling, eyes filling even as they stared daggers.She shoved everything she was holding at Nash and bolted from the room, nearly colliding with Margie, who’d just turned the corner in a robe and slippers.
Margie stumbled back a step, her eyes cutting from Cassie’s retreat to Nash.“Lord above.I’ve seen marriages burn out quieter than the two of you just standin’ in the same room.”
Cassie didn’t stop to grab her bag, or even shoes.She shoved past Margie, tore through the house and out the back door, skirting the garden shed before plunging into the woods.
The path wasn’t marked, but her body knew it.Each step sank into soft earth, damp in patches, mud popping at her heels as she broke into a run.Clay smeared her feet; roots clawed her ankles; moss-slick stones sent her sliding sideways; greenbrier snagged her calves.It felt less like running and more like desperately trying to shake the whole goddamn town off her.
The trees closed in, oaks and maples knitting their branches into a canopy that fractured the early morning light into pale shards.A ghost of smoke threaded sharply through the damp air.A lone thrush sang once, liquid and mournful, then fell quiet, leaving only the slap of her feet and the rough scrape of her breath.
When the woods began to thin and the ground dropped off beneath her, she slowed.Ridge Hollow Cemetery lay just ahead, tucked where the ridge split wide open, an old iron archway crowning the entrance.Beads of dew clung to the iron; the gate sagged on corroded hinges, one side hanging crooked.Beyond, the graveyard lay in neglect—headstones leaning in uneven rows, some half-swallowed by moss, others split down the center and crumbling to dust.
The last time she’d been here was the day they buried her mama.She remembered the sting of rain on her cheeks, the mud clutching her church shoes, and the dull thump of dirt hitting the casket.
She’d sworn she’d never come back—never set foot in this place that got to hold both her parents when she no longer could.
But here she was, heaving at the crooked gate, its hinges letting out a squeal as it opened just wide enough for her to pass.Deeper inside, she walked past stones smoothed by decades—families buried here longer than the roads had been paved.
Eventually the land gave way to a neater stretch of graves.Newer.Her steps slowed, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she stopped in front of two headstones side by side.The first blunt and square, dark granite mottled with lichen.The second smaller, softer, with a violin carved shallow near the top.A cloudy mason jar sat between them, stems floating in brown water.
Malachy Berry: June 3, 1963–August 27, 2002.
Bridget Berry: September 12, 1966–July 16, 2003.
July 16, 2003.
July…16…
The numbers blurred as fragments of that day rose: a chair knocked on its side, a cigarette still burning in an ashtray, the sound of crying—maybe Connor, maybe her.
“Shit,” Cassie whispered, swiping at her eyes and abruptly turning away.She stalked hard through the overgrowth, not caring what scraped at her feet, unsure why she’d even come here at all—when motion at the gate caught her eye—Margie slipping through, a clutch of wildflowers in hand.
Margie brushed past her, giving her arm a light touch.“Thought maybe you’d come this way.”
Cassie, saying nothing, reluctantly followed as the older woman went on ahead, crouching before the Berrys’ stones.Lifting the mason jar, she dumped the murky water and set the fresh bundle inside.
“Brought ya a little somethin’ to cheer you up, Birdie,” Margie murmured, fussing with the stems till they sat just so.“Your favorites—black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace.Picked ’em fresh outta the garden this mornin’.”
Cassie blinked hard, turning away.Turning to where—
Mama sat at the kitchen table, her hair greasy, dressed in week-old pajamas, a cigarette burning down in one hand, wearing that same vacant stare she’d carried since Daddy died.Margie sat beside her, sliding a bundle of wildflowers across the table.
“Brought ya a little somethin’ to cheer you up, Birdie.”
