Matthew wants me out of the gangs. Safe. A part of me knows I should be worried about his safety just as much, but I can’t muster the feeling. He hasn’t left the Heron headquarters—he’s safer than anyone else in the Wars. I bury my face into my coat and exhale, trying to get warm.
At least I’m not going back empty-handed. Our protest worked—at least enough that Camille is giving the Stags more than a passing glance.
I trudge past a burnt-out house. An old teddy bear stares up at me from the pile of sooty debris in the driveway. It looks like one that Leo had.
Classic Matthew, taking care of others without being asked. I check my wrist where the scissors sliced my skin. A well of dark blood runs down the side of my hand, and I lick my finger to try and clean the wound. It stings, but not any more than how passive Matthew was in front of Aure. But he had to play a part for the other Herons, otherwise they’d know something bigger was up, right?
It sucks to doubt. It sucks not to be able to remember every detail of what happened and what he said. Instead all I see is Aure touching his shoulder as she left the room.
Shivering, bewildered, and exhausted, I round the last corner to the house. This time I know to look for Jaws—arms folded and dressed in all black—in the shadows of the porch. I give him a nod. He returns it.
I open the door, and Kate flies off the couch. “Oh, thank God!” In a blink, she’s wrapped me in a hug. “Fucking Herons. You okay?”
“I’m fine. They just wanted to talk.”
“Still,” she says. “Takes balls to break the rules like that. Jax!”
Our leader joins us in the living room, Micah right on his heels.
“What’d they want?” Micah asks.
“To talk,” I reply. He didn’t ask if I was all right.
Jax, apparently satisfied with my being alive, gets a beer from the fridge. “What did Weston say?”
I straighten up. “Nothing that matters. But I think I figured out Camille’s second. It’s Aurelia Saint-Helene.”
Jax shrugs. “We knew that. Next.”
Shit. “Camille talked to me.”
That gets him, and he cocks his head to the side. “About what?”
“She told me the Stags should keep out of Heron business. That we’re nothing.”
Micah glances at Jax, his expression a mix of confusion and awe. “If Camille truly thought we were nothing, she wouldn’t have bothered to tell you.”
“The protest must have caught their attention,” says Jax. “Rather, the attention of their fat-cat parents whose business partners weren’t able to get in.” He nods to himself, thinking.
That has to be a good thing, right? For a beat I’m hopeful, then Jax asks, “What about Weston? You talk to him?”
I swallow. “He was worried about me.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you talk about?”
It’s as if there’s no one in the room but Jax and me. His eyes stay trained on me, like they were the night we met, or like an animal watching its prey. Without warning Jax throws his beer to the side, the can clanging against the hardwood floor as Kate yelps, then turns and dives into Mako’s waiting arms.
“You tell me what he said, Valentine,” Jax roars. “Right now.”
I lift my face. I’m not prey. I’m a Stag, too. I can look bold, even if I’m freaking out inside. “He wanted me to leave the Stags.”
“What?”
“He wanted me to leave the Stags. That’s what we talked about. Then Aure came in, pushed me around, and put me in the car again.”
There’s a moment of calm before Jax loses it. “Are you fucking serious?” He laughs. “Shit. What an idiot. You can’t join the Herons. Not now.”
“I know,” I say quietly. Maybe I should look at him, but I can’t take my eyes off the dented can on the ground.
“For fuck’s sake, Valentine,” Jax says as he settles down. “You didn’t get anything, did you? This could have been your big shot.”
“We know Camille got shit for the protest,” Mako chimes in, his arm still around Kate’s shoulders.
“Still,” our leader replies. “She was in a Heron safe house and only confirmed something we could have already assumed.”
This is worse than being yelled at. He’s right, I should have used this to my advantage. Instead I was too excited to see Matthew that I forgot what really mattered, at least in Jax’s eyes. My heart and head can only be pulled in so many directions.
Right now, that direction is straight down.
Jax goes back to his room without a word, leaving the rest of us standing around awkwardly. Micah puts his hand on my shoulder but I shake him off, fighting the tears gathering in my eyes.
“I’m going to bed,” I say.
I slam the door behind me, tears streaming down my cheeks. As I stomp down the stairs, I’m surprised to hear it open up again behind me. Nianna follows me down.
“What do you want?” I say.
“I saw the way your eyes lit up when you first got that message.” She pauses. “And now you’re acting all defensive. You still care about Weston, don’t you?”
“Yes? Maybe.” I shrug. “Honestly I don’t know. And what does it matter?”
“It matters because I’m still not sure you should have been recruited.” Her nails dig into her arms. “If what you feel about Weston is true … I mean, would you kill him?”
“What—”
“If Jax ordered you to kill Matthew Weston—if he gave you the order, the opportunity. Gave you the gun. Would. You. Kill. Him?”
“That’d never happen.”
“There,” she says. “That’s answer enough.” She turns to go.
“What? Nianna, wait. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re what’s wrong,” she says. “You’re still loyal to them. To Weston. You joined the Stags—the Stags—not some halfway bullshit where you get to decide which gang suits you best that day.”
“I don’t do that,” I say. “I’m a Stag. I know that. It’s what I wanted. And if you must know I’m pretty fucking pissed at Matthew right now, so it’s not like I’m going to change my mind at any point.”
“I don’t believe you. You wanted to be a Heron. And you know what? I bet you’d have fit right in with all their nice things, all their fancy parties. You’ve never wanted for anything, have you? Not like the rest of us. Never had to sleep in a shelter, never wondered if you’re gonna get kicked out of your house. Never been kicked out of your house. Always had two parents who loved you.”
“I can’t help what I was born into,” I say. “Neither can you, neither can Jax. Neither can anyone. So what?”
“So, at the end of the day you still want your nice cushy life with Matthew,” she fires back.
“Things are different now,” I say. “I’ve changed. I don’t want that anymore.”
Nianna rolls her eyes. “Sure you don’t.”
“Look, I want to make things right. I want to find the guy who killed my brother. And now that I know how the Herons are screwing people over, yeah, I want what’s fair for everyone.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. You need to fucking decide—are you in or out?” She shakes her head, arms crossed and tight like a coiled snake before it strikes. “Because right now you’re not a Stag,” she snaps. “You’re a Heron with the wrong fucking tattoo.”
She storms away and slams the garage door shut.
“Oh, come on,” I shout.
Nianna answers my shouting with silence. I stagger into my space, taking stock of what’s just happened. If Matthew were on his knees in front of me, and the gun was in my hand, I couldn’t shoot. I absolutely would not, could not. Bitter and broken as I am, my answer would still be no.
Every bone in my body is desperate for rest, but I can’t bring myself to sit still. Part of me wants to cut, but the other clings fast to the advice Lyla always gave me: to reach out, instead. But who do I reach out to? A
pang of aloneness strikes me like lightning—a blinding pain of not knowing what to do, or who I can turn to … but I know who I’d want to turn to.
So I make up my mind. I grab my cash and my phone and order a cab. And I keep moving. Keep going, don’t stop until I’m in the taxi and it’s whirling north and I know that when Jax finds out he may, actually, kill me.
But I don’t care.
I’m going home.
14
One summer I went to a camp in the Santa Cruz Mountains. It was just a week long, but I remember coming back and feeling foreign in my own home—it was too clean, too organized, and too different from what I’d just gotten used to.
Tonight feels a lot like that.
I unhook the gate to the backyard and retrieve the spare key from its hiding place beneath the clay pot that I painted in the second grade. The garage door is rusty, but after rattling the handle a bit, it comes dislodged.
Our alarm is on a timer, and I rush over and punch the code before it starts blaring. I wait, heart thundering, to see if the sound was enough to wake my parents.
What am I going to say to them? I’m not even sure why I’m here. Pacing the kitchen, I stick my opposite thumb on the spot on my wrist where the Young Heron’s scissors tore my skin. I just wanted a moment of peace and solitude, of something I know for sure. The house smells like my house, in the weird way you get to know by virtue of having lived there before. I’d know it blind.
Walking into the living room, I run my hand across the fabric of the couch. Fatigue tugs at my eyes, but it vanishes when I hear a telltale creak on the stairs, followed by the padding of slippered feet.
“Mom?”
“Valerie!” she yells, and a moment later I’m in her arms. Her cheek is warm, arms strong. We dissolve into sobs like waves into sea foam.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Val, oh honey.” She pushes the hair from my face, her thumb pressing into my hairline. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Where’s Dad?”
“In LA meeting with a— Oh my god, you’re bleeding,” Mom says, gripping my wrist so that I too can see the new, dark well of blood beading up. “What happened?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I tell her. “All of it is.”
Something clicks in her, and she goes full Mom-mode. She makes me sit, grabs the first-aid kit from the bathroom, and starts diligently unpacking a Band-Aid. She lays it on gently, holding on to my hand as if letting go would make me disappear.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “How are you?”
She closes the kit. “Fine, baby.”
“Mom.”
Tears brim in her eyes. “What do you want me to say? I’m a failure as a mother. You hated me so much that you signed up for … for … well, you know. And Leo—” Her voice cracks. “My baby. My sweet baby boy.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“If your dad and I had been around more … I don’t know. We did our best. But look at our family now. Your father isn’t even here. Again. No wonder you resented us. I would, too.” She dabs her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. “I’m so sorry, Valerie.”
She cries, and I do, too. My emotions well up in my chest, beating so strong against my ribs that I wonder how I don’t explode. Words fail me. So I scoot my chair next to Mom’s and put my arms around her. We huddle together, overwhelmed with the great weight of our collective sorrow. I never knew Mom carried that burden with her, dragging her down like a splintered wheel across a battered beach.
I find my courage. “I was never mad at you, Mom.” She sniffs. “There’s nothing that you need to be sorry for. I promise.”
“Valerie.”
“I promise,” I say again, pushing my face into the perfect softness of her terry cloth robe as new tears slide from the corners of my eyes. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too. Every time you call I’m afraid it won’t be you, and that it’ll be someone else telling me you’re dead.”
“I’m sorry. But I had to join. I just had to.”
I don’t know how long we stay there. Tired and trembling, we both go upstairs. My room shudders with stillness—like a museum or time capsule of my own life. My backpack leans against my desk, full of textbooks I’ll never read and homework assignments I’ll never do. On the walls are photos of Lyla and me, postcards, and cutouts from magazines. I tug on some PJs then open the door for Mom. She settles down next to me on the bed, stroking my hair like she did when I was little. She reaches behind her and pulls a floppy stuffed lamb from the pillows behind my head. I half smile, half sob at the sight of it.
“Where did you find him?” I whisper.
“In your closet,” she says. “Remember what you called him?”
“Poppy. Duh,” I say.
“Poppy,” she repeats, voice already fading into gentle sleep.
We bury ourselves into the blankets. I know I should be worried about Jax, but as sleep washes over my mind the only things I can think of are home, Mom, and Leo. For the first time in a long fucking time, I can feel him looking down on me and smiling.
We needed this. All three of us.
* * *
Dawn finds us too soon. Mom’s fast asleep beside me—she’s always been a heavy sleeper. Slowly as I dare, I slide out of the bed. She doesn’t stir.
Leaving is harder the second time. I grab my bundle of discarded clothes and shoes, whisper mahal kita one more time, and then leave my room.
I change back into my street clothes, and then grab a granola bar from the pantry to stanch my hunger. I move manically—both wanting to stay and knowing I need to go, absolutely need to go as soon as possible. If I’m lucky, Jax may never know I was gone.
A glint of metal shines from the countertop as I click the light on. Taking the spare key from where I left it, I walk over to the dining room table where I know Mom can easily find it. The table itself is covered in a familiar chaos—a stack of mail, binders bursting with details on different venues around the city, invoices, receipts, and every other kind of paper paraphernalia lie scattered on its surface. We haven’t eaten a proper meal here since I was maybe ten—instead, Mom commandeered it for her workstation. I’d do my homework at the head of the table, both of us working separately but together.
Pushing some mail aside, I place the key down. An open letter catches my eye—rather, the name at the end of it. My blood freezes.
Slowly, I reach forward and tug the letter from beneath the rest of the pile and start reading. It’s on the official letterhead of the San Francisco Police Department. Blood pounds in my ears as I keep reading, glossing over the “I’m sorry” and “wish I could have done more.” It’s the end that gets me—an idea he’s been wanting to pursue for years. A program, a stop to the rising tide of violence borne from the Wars. The letter is an invitation—“I wanted to reach out to your family personally before the program goes public. Enclosed is my business card…”
I find the card and fold it back into the letter. A shivering hope rises in my chest. I even smile.
Pissed as Jax may be about what happened with the Young Herons, and as livid as he’ll be if he catches me gone, this letter might just spare me.
Because I’ve found it. What Matthew was talking about—he said he was working with the police.
Matthew is going to end the Wars. And he’s going to do it with the help of the man who could never bring me the peace of a closed case—the new chief of police, one John Kilmer.
* * *
Jax stands in the front yard, arms crossed.
Outside, the gray morning is still, with the clouds overhead hinting of future rain. The silence is only broken by the sound of the morning news coming out of the taxi’s radio.
“Here OK?” the driver asks.
“Uh, yeah. Here’s fine.” But maybe please wait in case this guy murders me.
I take my time paying the fare and making sure I have all my stuff. Finally, there’s nothing left for me to do but get ou
t.
Jax hasn’t moved, just stands there as the car pulls away. My panic rises and I spit out: “I’m sorry.”
“Where did you go?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“I … I got scared.” I hold the letter out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone, but I think I found something—here, open this.”
Jax takes the paper, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter the chief of police sent my mom. Well, to all of us.”
Jax says nothing, just tucks the paper into his back pocket. The wind blows his unruly golden hair across his face.
“Are you going to leave again, Valentine?”
“No,” I say. “I promise.”
“Your word doesn’t mean a lot to me anymore.”
“I swear,” I say, like that’s any better. “I’m sorry.” I reflect on the night—fleeting and flawed as it was. “I needed to make things right with my mom. And I did.” I think. “I’m here, Jax. I promise. I need you, and I know that. So, I’m here.”
He nods slowly, hazel eyes looking at me but somehow, I feel, through me, too. Like he knows me down to my dreams.
“You won’t disobey me again,” he says.
“I won’t. I swear.”
“That wasn’t a question.” Then he turns, finally taking the damn paper out of his pocket. “Now get inside before anyone else figures out you were gone.”
I practically fly to his side, eyes on the ground. We go into the kitchen. Floorboards creak in Nianna’s room—she’s still doing her morning yoga.
“How did you know I was gone?” I ask. “You’re not usually up this early.”
Jax avoids my gaze. “I checked on you last night. You weren’t there, so I looked at the tracker in your phone.”
“Then why’d you ask where I was?”
“To see if you’d lie.”
“Oh.”
He must read the letter four times, given how long he stares at it. “TRUCE,” he says. “That’s what they’re calling their magic program.”
“Trust, respect, unity,” I reply, reciting the details of the letter. “I forget the others.”
A Thousand Fires Page 14
