A mirage in front me. He still wore the same clothes from the party. The man who shouldn’t be here, considering I’d just been questioned for conspiring to kill his grandmother. But that didn’t seem to matter to him. And in my weary state, I didn’t have it in me to debate right from wrong. I just needed him. More than anything.
Javier circled his arms around my body. I fell against him, his chest cradling my head as I buried my face into his neck. The sobs turning into hiccups. “Th-thank you for getting me out. Th-they think I did it. Like . . . like . . . I-I organized it. I-I didn’t. I w-wouldn’t.”
“I know you didn’t. Shh. It’s okay. Stay with me,” he whispered. “Don’t talk to anyone else. Not unless I’m there or my lawyer. I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise.”
Our arms remained around each other. Tight. Without an inch separating a single piece of my body from his solid frame. I couldn’t get physically close enough to him. My fingers dug into the back of his shirt. I pulled him tighter. I held onto the goodness in him. I felt his lips brush my cheek.
The sounds of the police station faded in and out around us. Phones ringing. The door opening. My own tears. Javier kissing my neck. And then something else filtered out from the rest. I lifted my head and scanned the chairs next to us. And then my heart cracked. My hands gripped tighter to Javier.
Grams.
She sat in between Granddaddy and Cole. Her head bowed down as sobs shook her whole little body. The legs of her blue jeans covered in wet spots from her tears. She clasped my grandfather’s hand. His eyes were closed. Lips moving in silence. I assumed in prayer. Cole’s gaze met mine. His gray eyes hollow and filled with exhaustion and agony.
I let go of Javier and made my way over to them. Kneeling down on my bruised knees in front of Grams, I laid my head in her lap. Her fingers touched my matted hair.
“I-I’m . . . s-so sorry,” I pleaded, begging her to forgive me. He was the youngest and I was the oldest. My responsibility. And just like the man sitting beside her, we both carried the weight of failing him.
“Cole says Ty saved you.” Granddaddy’s voice came from next to us. “That he died saving you, Sarina.”
I nodded as I tried to find something good to say. Something positive to validate his words and help their pain. And not let them see the images in my head. They didn’t need to know about the fight in the library. Or the way he looked on the ballroom floor as he died in front of me.
My throat felt thick as I swallowed and I used every ounce of willpower to grab the frazzled threads of my sanity. I needed to pull myself together for them. “H-he helped us escape. Fought one of the men. And . . . he saved us.”
“But why did he do this?” Grams muttered in the middle of her sobs. “I just don’t understand. He was always such a good boy. He always . . . always . . . struggled . . . with his daddy. And all that mess with his mama. But I thought we did good. I-I thought we did right by him. But . . . it wasn’t enough.”
“Stop,” I said more forceful than intended, but it got her attention. I lifted my head and her eyes met mine. “Grams, you did everything right. This had nothing to do with you.”
She stared at me for a moment, trying to process my words and then more tears fell. “W-what happened to your beautiful face?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lied. I’d seen my face in the police bathroom earlier. In fact, it felt much worse on the inside than it even appeared on the outside.
She lifted a hand up to my check, placing it gently against my skin. “Tyson didn’t . . . he didn’t . . . hurt you. Right?”
“No.” I shut her down before the thoughts spun out of control. “He didn’t hurt me. He attacked th-the one who did it.”
Was that true? It seemed true. But some of the details grew fuzzy as I thought back on the events. Being tied up. No, it didn’t matter. My heart had to believe it to be true.
Tyson Atwood didn’t hurt us.
He saved us.
Winter
THE AFTERMATH OF A BOMB can be as deadly as the blast itself. People unable to breathe, choking on the dust-filled air as debris continues to fall. Survivors clawing their way to safety only to have a big chunk of metal crush their exhausted bodies.
I sat on the porch with a cigarette between my fingers. The smoke left my lips in the chilly air. My feet rested bare on the cement. The inside of my chest almost as frozen as the blood in my toes.
This was what I did on the nights I didn’t work—after the day ended and I was left with my thoughts. The heaviness too much for me to feel. Too much to carry. I reached for the wine glass, lifting the rim to my mouth. I sucked down a solid drink of the Cabernet Sauvignon and followed it with a hit of nicotine.
The sound of the nightly news came from inside the house. I didn’t know how Grams stood to watch that bullshit. But she still turned it on like clockwork. Old habits die hard I guess. I should know. My single cigarette had morphed back into a pack a day. Sometimes more.
The screen door opened. Granddaddy came out and took the chair beside me. He didn’t say anything. I handed the Marlboro over to him. He took a long drag before passing it back.
It was just us now. The old and the broken.
I glanced at my grandfather. The man had aged years in the last few months. The sorrow of his losses reflected in his soulful eyes while the wrinkles grew deeper each week. He hurt for Ty. Everywhere we turned, the house remained full of the reminders of the grandson who’d died a criminal—at least that seemed to be the story the media preferred to tell.
“They say it might snow tomorrow.” His gruff voice broke the stillness.
“Hmmm,” I snorted. “I’m surprised they found time to even mention it.”
At first, the fate of Delsey Hawthorn came as late-breaking news, interrupting the fall television show premieres. Then it filled all the major time slots at five, six, and ten. The lead story. The fall of the Hawthorns. The family taken hostage by the help. The matriarch gunned down in cold blood in her very own house.
The police had found her body on the floor of the upstairs bedroom with two bullet wounds to the head. The autopsy said she’d died instantly—if that was any comfort. But it didn’t change her fate. The world had lost a very complicated woman who had gone out in a selfless act of glory.
The memorial for Mrs. Hawthorn was attended by dignitaries, two past governors, five city mayors, an assortment of other political officials, and CEOs of major corporations as well as an entire section of those who felt her financial contributions had changed their lives. The auxiliary ladies came in their black dresses. Some in hats and gloves. Even Drew Hawthorn made a rare appearance from Colombia for his mother’s funeral along with his absentee sister.
I knew these precise details because the news had covered it all. Every broadcast about Delsey followed with pictures of the four men responsible and the current statuses of the two still alive. They were in jail now, awaiting trial.
The police had caught Deuce just over the Texas border, driving the Range Rover. Most likely headed to Mexico with a bleeding Van and nineteen thousand in cash plus the jewelry, including the diamond pendant he’d taken off Delsey’s neck after killing her. That detail I’d learned from Javier.
Delsey Hawthorn now rested next to TW Hawthorn in an elaborate plot in the cemetery surrounded by rose bushes. I heard two other memorials were going up across the city. One in the park that bore her name. And another location downtown.
We didn’t get the same courtesy for Tyson. Under advisement of my lawyer, we cremated my brother and kept his urn safely in our house. Harry said an actual headstone in the ground would just lead to vandals. Emotions were still high in the city following the death of the Delsey Hawthorn.
I sucked in a long drag on the cigarette, trying to calm the sudden influx of anxiety. The smoke and my warm exhale mixed with the chilly air, making the cloud twice as intense. Sometimes I wished my body would just fade into that sm
oke and I’d float away.
In a few months, the circus would start all over again. The national media would send trucks. The local reporters would camp outside the courthouse. They would hound us for statements as we walked in for the trial.
I would have to testify. I would have to tell the truth about my brother in a room full of strangers and then let the prosecutor pick it apart. Again.
That initial interrogation had only been the beginning—except Harrison Miles remained present for the others. My only saving grace.
The FBI had tried to twist it around into an epic conspiracy. Tried to make me an accomplice. At one point even suggesting I was the mastermind. The idea had existed at first but grew into an actual theory of how that awful night came to be—thanks to Van and Deuce, who tried to pin the blame on everyone except themselves. I guess once those assholes knew of my connection to Tyson, the perfect defense emerged for the two men. They concocted some bullshit story and tried to shove it down the throats of the feds.
The Atwood siblings had planned the whole thing from the beginning. The robbery. Even the murder. All part of the elaborate plan to take from my boss and then stick it to her. And it seemed to be a pretty convincing argument.
And who was to say that Tyson and I didn’t work together?
Just my word.
But my lawyer made sure not one single incriminating sentence came from my mouth. Speak only when Harry told me to speak and say only the words he scripted. The other hostages made statements in my defense—on my character and the relationships that had developed while living in the house. Brenda swore on the Bible and God himself. And most importantly, Javier Hawthorn went to bat for me. He never once doubted my word. And even when they questioned his sanity of being duped by a con artist, the man never wavered in his belief and defense of me.
I don’t know how much he paid Harrison “Harry” Miles, but that man was worth every penny and more. Always calm. Held his ground. Always five steps ahead of whatever the detectives flung at me. About two weeks later, Harry finally got me cleared of any involvement in the crime without actual charges.
And as the weeks passed, the physical pains got better. The bruises on my face faded, leaving behind a slightly crooked nose. The outside healed, but the intangible agony still gripped me on the inside.
I’d hoped it would get easier with time and the images would no longer haunt my sleep. The flashes of memories, mixing with the horrors my mind liked to conjure up and use to stab my broken heart. The shattered pieces, unable to fuse themselves back together, growing darker on the edges to the point I wondered if my heart could ever be fixed again.
And the world didn’t seem to want me to get any better. The internet thrived in a toxic land of cruelty. Thank goodness my grandparents still thought of it as a devil’s line into their home. They were spared at least that part of the insanity.
But the people in person were not much different. They enjoyed stoning the innocent. Like Grams. She’d lost her job at the country grocery mart. The owner let her go in the month following the incident. Said she was scaring off the customers and it was hurting business.
The incident. I wanted to laugh. The sound bubbled up in my chest only to get stuck in my throat. I washed it back down with another swig of wine. What the hell should I call it? The night my life turned into the darkest, most painful living hell imaginable?
Granddaddy got up from his chair. He eyed me for a moment before speaking. “You don’t need to stay out here too much longer. Don’t want you to catch a cold.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. He hesitated as if waiting for me to join him. But I didn’t budge. He let out a long breath before going back inside the house. The screen door slammed against the frame. But Granddaddy didn’t shut the main door. His little trick to make me come inside, knowing the heat would escape through the screen. I would hate to see us run up the electric bill.
The cigarette dangled between my fingers as I stared up at the moon, slightly covered by winter clouds. I finally understood why my mama had let her mind just shrivel up inside. So much easier than living in this daily battle. The monotony of trying to get up every day and not fall to pieces somewhere in the middle as others watched my destruction.
My career seemed to be over. I couldn’t get another job in a house like the Hawthorns. None of her society friends would dare hire the person who’d caused the worst fundraising party in the history of parties.
The hotel refused to take me back. Absolutely no positions available even though the newspaper had listed two—including my old position at the night desk. When I’d contacted my former boss, he never answered my pointed emails. But I assumed my presence would be a liability to the guests. Despite the fact that I wasn’t a felon. And I didn’t kill anyone. And I wasn’t the one who had stolen from people. But those other robberies committed by Van and my brother had been flashed all over the damn news, along with my own photo as their link to the Hawthorns.
So I took what I could find on short notice. Javier hated it. But I told him it wasn’t any of his business and so he backed off of harassing me about my job. I worked four nights a week at a big grocery store, stocking shelves in ten-hour shifts. The magic minions that spent the whole night putting the place back together. Mindless work. Both good and bad. Lining up cans of pinto beans on the shelf required little initiative but also left my thoughts open to wander. I’d told myself this job was temporary. I would do it for a month and try to apply for something else. But that was three months ago.
Behind me, the screen door opened again. I assumed it would be Granddaddy, trying to haul my ass back inside the house. But a different man took the seat beside me. He wore a lightweight Carhartt jacket and smelled of horses. His feet stretched out in front as he folded his arms across his chest. Hair hanging loose down to his shoulders.
“I thought you were coming by on Monday,” I muttered. Today was Thursday. I didn’t see him very often. Cole had disappeared into his job at the ranch, checking in occasionally, but usually by text instead of even calling on the phone.
“Got busy.” He shrugged, not even bothering to glance in my direction, which I preferred. The last time I’d seen his face, his eyes had begged me for forgiveness. Not his words. Just those sad damn gray eyes, reflecting back from the person who blamed himself for not stopping Tyson.
But I couldn’t deal with his guilt. I had too much of my own. Picking up my pack of Marlboros, I offered one in his direction. But he shook his head. “I quit.”
“Since when?”
“Since I decided to.” He clipped the words, not giving any tangible answer.
I pulled another cigarette out for myself and lit the tip, giving him a side glare. “You sure picked a hell of a time to give up nicotine.”
Cole didn’t respond. And I settled back into my seat, puffing away. But his silence unnerved me. The world we lived in now left me unhinged. I sat in my home, but I’d never felt so far from home. Everything familiar—gone. Even him.
But mostly Tyson.
The missing hole in my life. Part of me hated him. Part of me would do anything for just one last hug. One last boyish smile. I wished my last day with my brother had been different. Instead, that moment in the library was what remained clear. The haunted brokenness in his eyes. The words I’d yelled in his face. The way he seemed so lost.
“You remember the time Granddaddy caught you and Ty out here drinking beer?” I asked. I didn’t know why the memory had popped up in my head, but the fuzzy images played through my mind tonight. “You were sixteen by then I think.”
“Fifteen,” Cole muttered.
“That’s right. You couldn’t even drive. Carried that case of beer down the road from your house.” I chuckled. “I don’t know why you brought a whole damn case over.”
“’Cause Ty wanted the cans,” he answered. “Said it was more fun to shoot them than Coke cans. The foam and shit. We didn’t plan on drinking that many. But then we got started. And you
know Ty. Wanted to drink one more than me. So we kept going. He’d say the last one. But then I’d pull another out just to piss him off.”
I titled my head to the side and watched him as he spoke. I saw the edges of a smile as Cole stared wistfully out in the yard. His arms unfolded and rested on the chair.
“It had to be after midnight when your granddaddy found us. He took off in the yard. I thought he was gonna cut a switch to whip us. But instead, he opened up the big shed doors and took out sheets of sandpaper. Made us work all night sanding that damn building so he could repaint it. I was drunk when we started, but by the time my hands were covered in blisters, I’d sobered up. Ty kept telling me to go home. I couldn’t be punished here. I could leave. But you know.” He shrugged.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“And then you got up and came outside. Mouthin’ shit to us at two in the morning.” His head rested back and he stared up at the dark sky. “I wanted to kill you. Always just digging and digging under my skin.”
A bittersweet smile touched my lips. “But I stayed out there and helped y’all sand the building.”
“No, you helped Tyson,” he muttered. “Like you always did.”
Cole’s tone and words ended the lightheartedness of the memory, replacing those thoughts with the sadness. The guilt crept in like fingers closing in and around my throat. I hated this feeling, the pain tightening in my chest.
The wind picked up, whipping the cold air around us. I shivered, burrowing my nose down in the collar of my sweatshirt. Pulling my legs up sideways in the chair, I tucked my frozen toes under my thighs and looked back up at the sky. I sucked in a drag from my cigarette and pushed it out with a heavy breath, letting the cloud melt down around me.
“You should leave here, Sarina,” he said abruptly.
My head whipped sideways and I glared at Cole in confusion. Did I hear him right? He didn’t look at me. Instead, his fingers rubbed the thick beard on his chin. Deep in thought. What kind of game was he playing tonight?
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