Page 112 of My Undead Love Life

“Not for that.”

“For what?” I asked quietly.

“For all of it.” Jan glanced toward Oxi, pain tightening her expression. “We met them after everything ended. Maybe a year in. Victoria and Olivia were already on the road by then. Frank and I had lost our group outside the city, and we joined up because surviving alone was a death sentence.”

Frank nodded, jaw tight. “Victoria told us about Owen. How he killed his father. Said he was dangerous. Unstable.”

“Those were her favorite words,” Jan added bitterly. “Unstable. Sick. Violent. She said it enough that people stopped asking questions.”

I looked down at Oxi. His face was turned toward me, lashes damp, even in sleep. “What about Olivia?” I asked.

Jan’s mouth tightened. “Olivia believed it because she needed to. I think part of her knew something didn’t fit, but Victoria kept her afraid of remembering. Any time Olivia questioned something, Victoria would get hysterical. She’d say Olivia was letting him hurt the family all over again.”

“That’s manipulative as hell,” Luck muttered.

I glanced back. He was awake too now, propped on one elbow, eyes narrowed.

Mad sat up beside me, silent and grim.

Frank sighed. “Victoria was good at making grief a weapon. I don’t say that lightly. I’ve seen people lose their minds after the outbreak, but she had practice from before.”

Jan nodded slowly. “Olivia used to write letters.”

My breath caught. “To Oxi?”

“To Owen,” Jan said. “At first, before we knew them. Olivia told me once when she was feverish. She said she wrote him after he was taken away. She drew stars in the margins because he liked them.”

My chest tightened so hard it hurt. “She remembered that?” I whispered.

“She remembered pieces,” Jan said. “Then Victoria convinced her those memories were wrong. That Owen had tricked her. That he’d hurt their father and abandoned them. Eventually Olivia stopped talking about the letters.”

Frank stared at the floor. “Victoria kept one.”

Jan looked at him sharply. “Frank.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded, worn piece of paper. It had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases were nearly tearing. The edges were soft, stained from age and travel. “I took it from Victoria’s bag months ago,” he admitted quietly. “I know that sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” Jan said, but her voice broke.

“I thought it was proof of something,” Frank said. “I didn’t know what. I just knew Victoria kept it hidden, and every time she looked at it, she got meaner for days.”

He walked over to me and held it out. I hesitated before taking it.

Mad shifted closer, his shoulder brushing mine.

I unfolded the paper carefully. The handwriting was young and uneven.

Owen,

Mom says I should not write you, but Grandma said I can if it helps. I miss you. I do not know what happened. Mom says you are sick and you hurt Dad, but I remember you crying at the hospital. I remember your shirt had blood on it. I remember you holding my hand.

Did I dream that?

There were tiny stars drawn along the side.

My throat closed.

The letter continued, the words harder to read because old water stains had blurred some of the ink.