Page 27 of The Ashes of Summer

This belongs to her.

To the woman who kissed my forehead every night before bed even after I insisted I was too old for it. Who always remembered exactly how I liked my grilled cheese. Who tucked loose strands of hair behind my ear whenever she thought too much wind was blowing across my face. The woman who packed my suitcase knowing she had to send me with Jacob.

"Mama." The word barely makes it past my lips before something inside me gives way.

I fold forward, my forehead resting against my knees as the tears come harder than they ever did in the helicopter, harder than they could while I was fighting to survive the night. They leave me shaking so violently I can't tell where one breath ends and the next begins, my fingers twisted into the sheets beneath me until they ache.

I don't fight my tears—not anymore—she deserves this much. She deserves to be mourned by someone who loved her enough to break.

By the time the sobs begin to loosen their grip, the light creeping around the edge of the curtains has softened from gray to the pale gold of morning. The birds haven't stopped singing. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and draw in a slow, uneven breath.

I'm still here. I'm still breathing.

For now, that's enough.

A soft knock at the door sends ice racing up my spine.

Every muscle in my body locks before my mind catches up, my pulse stumbling hard enough that I feel it in my throat. Not Jackson. Jackson doesn't knock. He never has. Which means someone else. Someone sent to do whatever comes next.

The handle turns. The door opens just enough for a body to slip through.

Harris.

He’s the last person I expected to walk through that door, but in some messed up way, I’m happy to see him.

He slips through the doorway sideways, a breakfast tray balanced carefully between both hands, his eyes fixed on the floor in the practiced way of someone who's learned that looking too closely at what's happening inside this house only leaves scars you have to carry afterward.

He doesn't say a word.

The china rattles softly against the saucer with every step he takes, the faint tremor in his hands impossible to miss no matter how carefully he tries to hide it. He crosses to the table beneath the window and lowers the tray with painstaking precision, nudging it a fraction to the left until it's perfectly straight, his attention lingering on it a second longer than it needs to. Anything to avoid looking at me.

"Harris..." My throat burns around his name. "Please... tell me what they're going to do to me." The words barely make it out before my voice breaks.

He still doesn't answer.

He turns for the door, his shoulders tight beneath his shirt, each step measured, almost mechanical, as though he's following a routine he's repeated so many times he no longer has to think about it.

His fingers close around the handle. Then they stop. Not for long. Barely a blink of an eye. But long enough for the silence to shift.

His shoulders rise with a slow breath that never quite reaches his lungs, and I see it then—the fight he tries so desperately to keep hidden. It passes through him in the smallest of movements, a tightening of his jaw, a flex of his fingers around the handle, the faint dip of his head as though guilt has finally become too heavy to hold upright.

For one impossible second, I think he's going to turn around. I think he's going to tell me something. Help me. Instead, his grip tightens, the latch clicks softly beneath his hand, and he walks out without ever looking back.

The door closes behind him, the lock clicking into place with the same quiet finality I've come to dread. I don't move until his footsteps have disappeared completely, straining to hear them fade farther and farther down the corridor until there's nothing left but silence.

Only then do I look at the tray. Eggs. Toast. Something warm and buttery that smells so painfully normal it makes my stomach turn. It's the kind of breakfast my mom would've made on a Saturday morning while music played quietly in the kitchen, the kind of smell that belongs to homes where people are safe. It has no place in this room. My stomach contracts, not with hunger but with nausea.

I know I need to eat. Every part of me understands that if I'm going to survive whatever Jackson has planned for me, I need my strength. I need a clear head. A body that can still run if the chance ever comes. So I make myself pick up a piece of toast. I chew because I have to, but I can’t even taste it.

By the second bite, my stomach heaves hard enough that I have to stop. I carry the tray into the bathroom instead, setting it carefully on the edge of the basin before reaching for the folded napkin, intending to scrape the untouched food into it before throwing everything into the bin.

The napkin slips slightly beneath my fingers as I shake it open and something catches my eye.

I freeze.

There, hidden inside one of the folds, is a streak of blue ink.

I just stare at it, my mind refusing to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. Nobody writes on napkins. Not unless they're meant to be read. My pulse begins to hammer so hard I can feel it in my fingertips as I unfold it completely, smoothing the creases with hands that suddenly don't feel steady anymore.