Chapter 4: The Broken Note: Chapter 4

I’m trembling on the way back home. Dutch shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over me, but it doesn’t chase the chill.

Viola is in the backseat.

I glance in the rearview mirror. We pass a lamppost and the light splays over her small face. Eyes as hard as marbles. Lips set in a firm line. Hair in a messy ponytail.

She’s pissed off, but safe.

It’s better than the alternative.

My teeth chatter.

My heart pounds.

Everything worked out, yet I get a persistent sense that I’m walking into the middle of a terrible hurricane. It’s like losing Viola was me playing the game on easy mode. A side quest. A tiny obstacle to get me warmed up.

Now, the real crap is about to hit the fan.

I could be wrong, of course. This could be my royal pessimism kicking in and making me feel like the sky is falling. I’ll admit that I’m jaded. It’s a fact of life that when something good happens to me, something even worse follows.

The proverbial boot that drops always crushes me into the dirt.

But maybe it won’t happen this time.

Maybe finding Viola is the only struggle I’ll face for the foreseeable future.

Maybe everything is going to be okay.

I shiver again and burrow further under Dutch’s warm leather jacket.

He slows the car in front of our apartment.

The kitchen light is on.

A shadow moves the curtain aside. A near imperceptible movement, but I see it.

Mom’s still here.

I grit my teeth and shrug out of Dutch’s jacket. So much for a calm after the storm. It was stupid of me to even I could catch a break.

“Keep it,” Dutch says, fingers closing over mine.

For a second, there’s warmth.

For a second, it feels like I can weather through what’s coming and survive.

Foolish dreams.

There’s no use being coddled or cared for. Why the hell should I get used to that? Especially when the care is coming from someone like him—Dark. Ruthless. A creature with golden eyes and magic fingers.

I know Dutch.

He’s one inch away from a raging beast.

I sensed his danger all through the night.

Anger lashing right under the surface, as close as the tattoos on his skin.

Even the thugs in my neighborhood knew not to get too close.

It’s not just Dutch, but everything that comes with him too. I think of Jarod Cross’s proposal and my head starts aching.

Dutch is a complication in my life. One I don’t need. Especially with everything else I’m balancing.

“I’m fine.” I push the jacket over his lap. “Viola, let’s—”

My sister springs out of the car and slams the door so hard that the entire vehicle rocks. A gasp tears from my lips. There’s no way I can afford to pay for even a scratch on Dutch’s fancy ride. What the hell is she thinking?

Fingers clenching, I glare at her through the window.

Not that she notices.

Her ponytail swishes from side to side as she angrily jogs up the stairs and disappears from view.

I scramble onto the sidewalk to follow her.

Dutch’s car door slams shut, a soft thud in the star-lit night. A moment later, he’s beside me. His fingers close around mine.

I feel the warmth again. I feel something snapping into place. Like he’s buried inside me. Somewhere I can’t reach to dig him out and throw him away.

He tugs me forward and into his chest. His arms surround me. Big hands covering my back and waist.

He hugs me so close, I can smell the musky scent of his cologne.

The heat I worked so hard to fight begins to creep into every single cell in my body.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dutch murmurs. “And you don’t have to tell me, but I’m here for you.”

His words are gentle, but his grip on me is firm.

Damn. It.

Damn, damn, damn.

I don’t want to feel a thing.

I want to be numb.

I want to be alone.

Caring for someone else means taking more from me to give to another. And I don’t have any pieces of me left to give. Not right now. Not ever.

For the briefest of seconds, I allow myself to be held.

And then I push Dutch back.

The weight of his gaze presses around me. He’s staring at me. Trying to figure me out. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. A girl disheveled. Muddy. Bruised. Bleeding.

Whatever game he’s playing with me right now, I don’t have the energy to figure it out. Silently, I leave him on the sidewalk and hurry up the stairs.

The front door is open.

Viola is standing there, frozen.

All the warmth that came from being in Dutch’s orbit flees immediately. I sprint the remaining distance between me and my sister, wondering what despicable sight is holding her captive.

The moment I skitter to a stop beside her and look inside, I go frozen too.

Mom has the dinner table set.

Three plates. Three forks. Three servings of spaghetti.

Cold drinks. Probably the pink lemonade flavored Kool-Aid. The one we were saving for a celebration.

She smiles at us, one of her pretty smiles that crinkles her eyes and makes her seem like less of a backstabbing drug addict and more like the moms we see on TV. The ones with the flower aprons and forehead kisses and zero childhood-inflicting trauma.

I feel this sharp ache between my ribs when I take her in.

“What are you both just standing there for?” Mom pulls out a chair at the head of the table. “You must be hungry. Sit and eat.”

I notice goosebumps running up Viola’s arm. It’s understandable.

In her mind, mom was actually dead. Why would she question that? We saw them burn her corpse. I held Viola as she wept and wept for days, releasing so much water from her body I thought she’d die of dehydration.

We adjusted to the life of orphans.

Parent-less.

Alone.

We survived.

And now, mom is here in our living room pretending to be normal. Pretending everything’s okay. Pretending all this isn’t messed up.

“Come on.” I tell my sister, nudging her elbow. It’s not like mom will go away if we stand here all night.

“Don’t touch me.” She jerks her arm away.

The snap in her tone cuts me to the bone. So does the flash of hatred in her eyes.

I lower my gaze to the ground and follow her as she stomps to the table.

Mom takes a seat and picks up her fork. “The pasta’s cold. You girls took so long to get back.”

Viola stands behind her chair. Her fingers close around the back of it and she glares into her plate of spaghetti.

“What the hell is this?” my sister hisses.

“What?” Mom plays oblivious. Eyes wide but not innocent. Those eyes can never be innocent again.

Just like mine.

We’ve seen too much of the darkness this world has to offer. Peeled back the layers of civility and touched the worm-infested, underbelly.

There’s no going back once you’ve seen the hopelessness. Felt the pain.

It’s why I want to protect Viola.

It’s why I didn’t want her to know about any of this.

Once that innocence is stripped away, it can never be restored. It’s fragile. Easily shattered. That’s what makes it precious.

“Do you think this is funny?” Viola asks as her knuckles turn white. “You were dead, mom.

. And now you’re just…” She sputters. “Sitting here eating spaghetti?”

“You’re right. It’s not that good.” Mom spits out pasta into a napkin, crumples the heap and sets it on her noodles.

I cringe, calculating all the ingredients she wasted. Pasta, tomato sauce, onion, sausages. All the things I’ll have to replace. All the things that cost money to buy. Does she think groceries grow on trees?

Viola slams her hand on the table and screams, “What the hell is going on?”

I cringe.

And mom?

Mom laughs.

At the sound of her hoarse, impish cackles, Viola’s face fractures. I can see the childish hope crumbling inside her. All the beautiful castles she’d built in her head of mom, our family, all the ugly memories she’d swiped away to leave only the good ones, I see it shifting.

It’s funny how our perspective can be so far from reality. If we believe really hard that something is the way we want, it can become our truth.

But our truth…

Isn’t truth.

And the truth is that our mother is a lunatic.

I just didn’t want Viola to ever realize that.

“Mom, that’s enough.” I drag Viola away from the table and behind me. “You need to leave.”

Her laughter dies quickly. Mouth snapping shut, she gives me a sharp look. It’s frightening the way she switches on and off. Like someone possessed. Like someone who isn’t fully human.

“I already told you, Cadey. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.”

Viola’s breaths are loud and panicked behind me. She’s shaking like a leaf.

I give her arm a squeeze, despite the fact that my heart is thundering inside my chest.

“Since you’ve been sneaking in here for a while, you already know that Vi and I have no money. All I have left is my school laptop and my phone. Pawn it for cash. Stay out of our sight.”

“Wait…” Vi squeaks. “That was mom who took my tablet and dad’s necklace?”

“Sorry, baby. I was in a tight spot. But mommy will buy it back for you.”

A humorless laugh puffs out of Viola’s mouth.

She used to believe that. She used to believe everything mom told her.

Yet another castle in the clouds falling apart.

“Why are you both so angry?” Mom’s head swings between us. Her voice is high-pitched, as if she genuinely doesn’t understand what the big deal is. “Do you know how many kids would love if their parents came back from the dead?” She taps a finger on the table. “I did it. I made that miracle happen for you. And you can’t even thank me?”

Acid burns my stomach.

I glare at her. “I’m going to ask you one more time, nicely, to leave.”

“And if I don’t?” Mom leans back, smug.

But I’m not the same girl who cleaned up all her messes and stumbled behind her while she dragged me into her low-life cesspools. While she painted nightmares over my piano and made every brush of my fingers on the keys turn to shadows.

I’m a student at Redwood now.

I went up against Dutch Cross and his brothers.

And I won.

I will do to protect Viola and, by extension, I’ll do anything to survive so I can protecting her.

Folding my arms over my chest, I tilt my chin up. “If you don’t, I’m sure I can find some cops who’d be happy to escort you out.”

The smugness drains from her face.

She watches me with new eyes, fearful eyes.

I tilt my chin up and soak in her newfound humility. No wonder Dutch, Finn, and Zane carry themselves with such arrogance. No wonder they have no problems instilling fear into everyone at school.

There’s something hypnotic about having the upper hand.

Something addictive about holding someone else’s fear. Inhaling it. Tasting it.

It’s delicious.

Mom swallows hard, trying and failing to pretend she’s still in control.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, Cadey,” she purrs.

I stare at her blankly.

Mom’s bottom lip trembles. Her eyes go sharp. “I see.” Chair legs scrape the ground. The table trembles as she rises.

“

”

I whirl around.

Mom’s eyes land on Vi too. A slow, insidious smile spreads on her face as if she senses a new weakness to exploit.

Addicts are so good at that. At looking into a crowd, picking out the ones who can’t say no, the ones who can be coaxed into believing lies, the ones who need a friend and will take anyone for the position.

Mom was the best at fitting herself through even the smallest cracks, the mildest invitations.

“I want to know.” Viola lifts her head. “Why mom’s here. Why she had to fake her death. Why went along with it.” Her eyes slice through me. “I want to know everything.”

“Viola…” I frown.

“No more secrets!” she shrieks.

“Exactly.” Mom tilts her head and smiles at me. “No more secrets. That’s what I want too.”

Viola nods sharply, pulls out her chair and sits.

I remain where I am.

Both Vi and mom look back at me.

My little sister’s expression makes her seem like a stranger. Her lips are taut, eyes hooded, fingers still.

Pain claws at me.

My heart bleeds through my ribs.

It’s at that moment I realize… I never found Viola tonight. The chirpy, innocent, fun-loving thirteen year-old who walked home from school today fled at the sight of our dead mother.

And that chirpy, innocent thirteen year old never came back.