by CJ Lyons
Where the hell were Morgan and Deidre?
Every instinct in Morgan’s being screamed at her to run, run, run. Yet, she stood her ground, despite Sean’s gun jabbing into the flesh at the base of her skull.
Not because she was any kind of hero. Not because she was willing to risk her life to protect Deidre and her unborn child. Not because she was frozen with fear.
No, it wasn’t fear Morgan felt searing her veins. It was anger.
Hiding her motions from Sean, she slowly unfurled the tattered length of material that secured the padlock to her wrist. She was no sheep. No fish. She was Clinton Caine’s daughter. A natural born killer. A wolf.
No way in hell was she about to allow a weak, cowardly bully like Sean Chapman to defeat her.
“Get in.” Sean jabbed the pistol into her skull. Behind them came a thundering crash as part of the roof caved in, showering them with sparks and a blaze of embers.
Morgan took full advantage of the distraction, pushing off the car fender, forcing Sean to step back. His gun arm went up to protect his head. She swung the padlock, all her energy and power behind the movement.
Her aim was off—the padlock’s unbalanced weight made it impossible to accurately predict its trajectory—and instead of cracking his skull as she’d intended, the padlock struck his shoulder and glanced off, the damaged fabric finally tearing and the padlock spinning away into the darkness.
The blow was enough to send Sean another half step back, which gave Morgan the room she needed. Allowing her momentum to carry her in an arc, she followed her first blow with an elbow to his ribs and then spun a back kick to his knee. He dropped to one knee and was bringing the pistol to bear on her when she tucked her head down and charged him, head butting his chest, forcing him off balance, and following up with a blow to his throat that he dodged, turning it into an uppercut to his jaw.
He grabbed her with both arms as he fell to the ground, pulling her down with him. Sean rolled his weight onto her, knee pressed against her chest with his full weight bearing down so she couldn’t breathe.
“I’m so fucking tired of you, bitch,” he muttered, his words spitting blood at her and sounding garbled. Must have bit his tongue. The thought flashed through her brain even as she fought to get a fist or knee or elbow free.
He raised his gun.
A blur of motion like a dark shadow speeding through the firelight appeared in her peripheral vision. At first she thought it was an oxygen-deprived hallucination, but then Micah tackled Sean, throwing him off of Morgan. They hit the ground, tumbling.
Once again Sean got the upper hand, landing on top of Micah. Micah had both his hands fastened around Sean’s wrist, trying to force the gun free. Sean grabbed Micah’s hair and slammed his skull against the asphalt.
Morgan leapt to her feet and threw herself against Sean’s back. He had his chin tucked tight to his chest, giving her no room for a choke hold, but that still left her with plenty of other vulnerable targets.
She clapped both palms hard against his ears to disorient him, then pressed her fingers into his eyes, pushing hard enough that he howled in pain.
“Let him go or I’ll rip them both out,” she told him in a voice steeled with lethal fury.
He froze for a moment. Long enough for Micah to haul in a breath and wrench the gun free. As it clattered to the ground, Sean slumped into her arms, hands up in surrender.
“Let go, let go,” he screamed, sounding like one of her father’s fish.
Micah scrambled to his feet, but Morgan didn’t release her grasp. Not until Micah touched her wrist and gently removed one hand. “It’s okay, Morgan. He’s not getting away. Not this time.”
She glanced up, met his gaze. He looked—proud? Of her? For what? Not finishing what she’d begun and killing the man?
Slowly, she released Sean. He slumped forward, hands covering his eyes, body rocking in pain. Micah extended his hand, and she took it, letting him help her up.
CHAPTER 49
Pretending to be a Norm is harder than it looks,” Morgan began her session with Nick two days later. He’d requested the session—to evaluate her after the “stress” of everything that had happened at ReNew. She’d agreed—to evaluate his response to her answers. If she could fool Nick, she could fool anyone.
“What was the hardest part for you?” he asked. “Being inside ReNew, under their control? Playing the role of what you’d call a sheep?”
See. Here. She’d have to start with the lying right away. She’d promised Nick she’d always be truthful during their sessions, but promises were made to be broken. No way in hell was she going to admit that there at the end she hadn’t been acting the role of sheep—she’d become worse, a true victim. It had only been for a few moments when Sean Chapman held her life in his hands. But, for the first time ever in her life, she’d realized that she was just as vulnerable as any Norm.
Morgan was not about to admit that to anyone. Especially not to Nick. “Pretending to let them control me was tough. I had to keep reminding myself that I was there because I wanted to be, that I had a goal. But the hardest thing was the boredom. I wanted to scrap the plan, to lash out, have some fun—anything to relieve the damn boredom.”
“You know you need more stimulation than other people. Is that why you let the Reverend do that to you?” He nodded over her shoulder.
The Rev and his twisted perversions—that’s all anyone wanted to hear about: the cops before she slipped away from them, Micah, Jenna. Andre was the only one who hadn’t asked.
Funny thing was, Morgan didn’t give a shit—barely thought about it at all until she leaned back against something and felt the pain. She hadn’t even needed any stitches; the Rev obviously knew what he was doing. But Nick hadn’t asked about what the Rev had done to her, had he? No. He’d asked why she’d let it happen.
Man was smart—which made him dangerous. Because Morgan wasn’t ready to go there. That way led to a minefield.
So she told the story of the what, emphasizing the Rev’s delight at her pain. “But Deidre told me later that it wasn’t always about the pain for him. She said half the time he’d call her and all he wanted was to cry, beg for her forgiveness, or he’d read Bible stories to her, tell her she was special, some kind of holy offering, and if he could take her pain on himself, he would, that he truly regretted her needing to suffer.”
“I suspect the Reverend suffers from a rather complicated pathology. But we’re not here to talk about him—except—” He interrupted himself, took a beat to look her straight in the eye, taking the bait she’d dangled. “You’re not intending to go after him, are you, Morgan? Seek revenge?”
“How about protecting his next innocent victims from him?” she countered, irritated that he assumed she’d break her vow of nonviolence so easily. “No. I don’t have anything planned for the Rev—don’t need to. Deidre’s going to testify against him, and we have tons of video of what he did to her when she was younger.”
Nick sank back, obviously relieved.
“What I don’t understand,” Morgan said, both to fill the silence and to gauge his response. “Is why or maybe it’s how, they all could believe that crap? Deidre I get, she was pretty much brainwashed between the Rev and her brother. But how many hundreds of kids went through there in the past seven years—and they all came out believing, having faith in ReNew. Jenna said no one she talked to would speak against the program, even kids and families who weren’t being blackmailed by Sean. And on the news there are tons of former students defending the program, saying it saved their lives, gave them faith, something to believe in.”
“Everyone needs something to hang on to,” Nick said. “It’s not about the words. It’s about accepting that there are things beyond your control, believing in the future.”
“You mean all that higher power bullshit.”
“So you don’
t believe in anything?” Nick pressed.
Morgan snapped back in annoyance. “With a father like mine, I’ve no need of God or Satan. I have faith in myself, that’s more than enough.”
He raised one eyebrow—she hated when he did that, so she mimicked his expression perfectly, something he in turn despised. “If the only person you trust is yourself, then why did you let them lock you away in that detention center? Why put up with the inconvenience, the suffering, if you’re only looking out for yourself, Morgan?”
“Because I let you talk me into it. Trying to be a team player, fitting in, remember?” Not quite the truth, but close enough.
“You can’t have a team without trust.”
“I trusted myself. I could have gotten out of that damn hellhole anytime I damn well pleased, and you know it.”
“My point is, you didn’t.” He sat back and let the silence swirl between them. Doing that shrink thing again.
“You think I went there because I had faith that you, Jenna, and Andre wouldn’t let me down?”
“All I know is that you are driven by a need to not end up like your father. You’ve said that being locked up is the one thing you fear. And yet—”
She almost laughed, but it would have been cruel. If he was a stranger, maybe, but she liked Nick—and she needed him. So she swallowed her snort of derision. “And yet, I got myself out of there. Truth is, Nick, I went because I was bored. You can’t imagine how damn boring it is wandering around all you sheep, playing by your rules, and never having any fun.”
Again, not quite the truth, but all the truth she felt safe in his knowing. Or her knowing. Whatever. The session was a success—they’d spent the entire hour without a single mention of Micah.
She stood up. “I think that’s enough insight for one day.”
“Where are you going?” She liked that there was the slightest edge to his voice, as if he was afraid she was going to race out to start a killing spree.
“To see my father. Like I said, I don’t need faith or God or Satan, so I think it’s finally time to say good-bye once and for all.”
His startled look tasted like sweet victory.
Morgan didn’t leave for the prison, not right away. She wasn’t even sure why, but figured Nick had done enough probing of her psyche for one day, why not give herself the night off?
Micah was easy to find. Even easier to sneak in after visiting hours. He’d suffered a skull fracture and concussion, but the surgeons hadn’t needed to operate, she learned from a peek at his chart. Amazing what access a white coat and stethoscope gave you.
She waited until the nurses ushered his mothers out. One was Asian, petite, despite the fact that Morgan knew from her background check that she worked as a welder, specializing in underwater work on the bridges that surrounded the city. The other must have been Micah’s biological mother—she shared his ash-blonde paleness. She taught English to sixth graders.
They made for an interesting couple. She liked the way they moved together, in sync, their conversation continuing even through silent pauses. They held hands as they waited for the elevator, leaning in so that their shoulders touched.
She could easily imagine Micah with them, the center of their world—so unlike Bree and her parents. And she’d learned, with a little breaking and entering into the juvenile justice system’s electronic records, that they’d fought vehemently to visit Micah and get his early release from ReNew, despite the reports from ReNew that he’d been violent and had lost all privileges. Sean’s false reports had even convinced the judge to twice add more time to Micah’s sentence.
But his mothers had never given up on him. She hoped he knew that.
The elevator came and the women left. Morgan entered Micah’s hospital room, wrinkling her nose against the barrage of smells. Hospitals. Almost as bad as prison. Tied to a bed by wires and tubes, forced to obey orders.
She stood at Micah’s bedside. He was sleeping, his face at rest—the first time she’d ever seen him without a collage of emotions dancing across his features. It was disconcerting.
She’d intended to simply check on him, make sure the doctors were treating him right, and leave again, but something drew her closer. She lowered the bed rail separating her from him.
Morgan wasn’t sure what she felt—it was so entirely foreign. Definitely not guilt. Talk about your waste of energy, pretending you could play God and change the past, present, and future—and when you found you couldn’t, dissolving into a cowering puddle of would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.
No. Not guilt. She stroked Micah’s hair, admiring his beauty—despite the scars. A lot like Andre that way. Beauty more than skin-deep, which made it all the more precious and rare.
Not remorse, either. She didn’t want to take back her actions, but she realized that the only reason why Micah was hurt was because of her choices. And she wished there’d been another way she could have done things.
Not that she would have done things differently, just a feeling that in the future she would try to do things better.
Regret? Maybe. How the hell would she know? But if this niggling new thing inside her made her stay on the side of the angels and out of prison, then she’d use it.
Morgan didn’t care how she got what she wanted. She’d use anyone and anything to achieve her goal: never again would she be a fish. She’d rather die first.
As she studied Micah with his one eye swollen shut, his nose crooked, a ribbon of gauze hanging from one nostril, and the variety of bruises covering his head and arms, she realized that she needed to add a new category to her classification of Norms. People like Micah weren’t sheep, could never be fish.
No. People like Micah and Lucy and Nick and Andre, they weren’t sheep. They were protectors. Driven to guard against predators like Morgan.
How would Micah feel if he ever recognized her for the wolf she was?
There was a sketch pad on the bedside table. Curious, she opened it. Drawings of her. Over and over again, as he strained to capture her.
The way Micah drew—it was just like the way he walked around without a mask. Open, honest. He poured his soul into every line, tossing bits and pieces of himself onto the page like feeding bread crumbs to pigeons. She flipped through the pages to find similar drawings of his mothers, BreeAnna, Deidre, and even Nelson and Tommy. All rendered with so much energy that she felt Micah’s presence leap from the page.
She closed the book but couldn’t shake a strange fear that Micah had wasted all his energy on his art, that she’d look at him and be able to see right through him, nothing left.
Greed. That’s what she felt. Greed. She wanted Micah to be paying attention to her and her alone. She didn’t want him wasting this glorious energy on anyone else.
Was that what her father had felt? What had driven him?
She stole into the bathroom and ran the water, cupping it in her hands, gulping it down, splashing it over her face, feeling sweaty and feverish. Her father’s lust had driven him beyond control. She wanted no part of that. Not ever. The red “Exit” light above the door gleamed not ten feet away from her. Should she leave? Abandon Micah?
Or gamble that she had more control than her father and risk hurting him?
She returned to his side. Turning the chair so her back was to the exit, she stayed, watched, and listened to the reassuring sound of his heartbeat on the monitor. She deserved this—besides, it was all part of playing the role of a Norm, right?
You’re no Norm, her father’s voice mocked her. You and me, baby girl, we’re special. Rules don’t apply, not to us.
Despite the noise of the hospital, she drifted to sleep. When she woke, Micah was awake, watching her, his eyes clear.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” were his first words—words she never wanted to hear from him.
She stood, not sure if she should move closer
to him or farther away. Was he telling her to stay or to go?
“I don’t have any regrets. Do you?” For once in her life, she knew exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t act on that want. Instead she waited for his answer.
Carefully, he sat up in the bed, a grimace of pain crossing his face, and reached a hand across the space between them. He touched her shoulder, then her hair. Not even a touch, more like sunlight gliding over her skin.
“No. I don’t believe in regrets.”
She smiled and stepped closer. “Neither do I.”
His hand landed on the back of her neck. She knew what was coming next and suddenly a frisson of—she wasn’t sure, fear? Anticipation? Anxiety? Whatever it was, it was unfamiliar and unwelcome as it fluttered through her veins.
She looked away. He froze. “What is it?”
She hated this, this uncertainty. Not knowing what she felt, not knowing what to do about it. But she knew what she wanted. Was she going to let these silly, weak emotions stop her?
Leaping into the unknown, trusting her instincts for survival, that’s where the rush was, that’s what made life worth living . . . so why the sudden hesitation? She knew what she wanted. Why wasn’t she grabbing hold, to hell with the consequences?
“Morgan. What’s wrong?” Micah’s voice echoed her own uncertainty.
The truth is never the wrong answer, Nick always said. Morgan decided to give it a try. “I’m not very good at this.”
It was the truth. She’d never been kissed. All those years with her father, witness to every kind of depravity, she’d felt certain that part of her was cauterized, scorched by the blood and pain that passed for her father’s idea of sex.
She had no clue what Norms did—or felt—when they fell in love. Not just the emotions but the logistics. Who turned right and who turned left? Who decided when to start and stop?
Or if it was good? Who decided that?