by C. J. Lyons
He glared and shifted his aim to her. “What’s to stop me from shooting you?”
“You don’t want to die in prison. There’s no way the cops won’t trace it back to you—and no way Hale won’t give you up.”
She kept moving, slow and steady, holding his gaze as if they were bound together by an invisible force. She stepped in front of Justin’s mother, who was looking at her son with anguish in her eyes.
John took a step back, toward the pool. “Stop. Stop right there.”
She wanted to laugh at the quaver in his voice, the way his hand shook. “Put Justin down.”
He made his stand at the edge of the pool. It was the shallow end, immediately over the underwater concrete flight of stairs meant to help injured children learn how to maneuver up and down them without fear of falling. Oh, how Morgan had despised those steps that always confused her horizon as the water shifted around her legs, her feet unable to steady themselves, slipping when they should be planted firmly. But now she saw the concrete steps as another weapon in her arsenal.
Behind her, Justin’s mother gagged and retched, still trying to fling herself free of her wheelchair. In front of her, John Lazarus shifted the sleeping boy in his arms, holding him between them like a shield.
“Maybe I can’t shoot him, but I’ll throw him in the water,” he threatened, “if you don’t stop.”
Morgan stopped. Waited. “Put him down and I’ll go in the water instead.” She softened her tone, tried to sound weak, as if she were surrendering. “That’s what you need, right? For me to die in the water? Just put Justin down. You’ll still have the gun.”
She doubted her words convinced him. But finally he saw the logic of the situation—it had been a tactical error, trying to hold the boy. Not only would killing Justin ruin his plans, the boy was heavy, a burden that blocked his other options. Everything Morgan had already seen from across the pool.
John lowered Justin to the ground beside him. Then he motioned with the pistol. “Into the water. Now.”
Morgan had to fight to keep the grin from her face as she stepped forward, now within striking distance of John at the pool’s edge. She held her head down, not in meek surrender, but rather to protect herself from the fall.
Then she pushed off with all her strength, lunging toward John. He raised the gun. Big mistake, as her weight slammed it back into his face.
They both careened backwards, over the edge, slamming through the shallow water onto the concrete steps.
The gun went off, the noise searing through her it was so close, but she pinned her weight against his arm, keeping it aimed up over his head, away from anyone.
She sliced his wrist, through skin, tendons, arteries, veins. Blood sprayed in an arc, and the gun splashed into the water.
The water was only a few feet deep, but deep enough to drown in.
Morgan held her breath as her hands moved in a primal dance, slashing both jugulars, slamming his head against the edge of one step as he tried in vain to push her off him, tumbling them both down into the deeper water.
Still she did not relent, striking at any target her hands or feet could find. The water blossomed red, a shower of delicate petals dissolving in the dead man’s final breath.
“Morgan!” Strong hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her out of the water.
Morgan whirled, bloodlust coloring her vision, hands raised to strike. Quickly lowered them, relaxing. It was Nick. Sopping wet, his shirt and tie hanging askew as he pulled her to him.
“Morgan,” he repeated, cradling her like she was a baby. “It’s over, it’s over. You’re all right. Everyone’s all right.”
John Lazarus would not agree.
Chapter Thirty-One
Morgan was glad Micah was late to their meeting at Jenna’s loft the next afternoon. It gave her time to get through the other stuff without worrying about him. He was going to be disappointed, but this was the only way.
Andre did the honors of giving her a buzz cut that would rival any Parris Island recruit’s. Her black curls floated to the floor like feathers from a fallen angel. At least that’s how it looked to her blurry mind from behind slitted eyelids—Jenna’s loft had walls of windows and was entirely too bright for Morgan’s naked gaze.
“I’m glad we finally have a little time together,” he said, his voice blending seamlessly with the low rumble of the electric razor. “I know I don’t have a right. But I want to ask—” The razor skipped a bit as if his hand were unsteady. “Can you ever forgive me? This is all my fault. And what you did for me… I can never repay that.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about—that night on the mountain seemed so long ago, even though it had only been last month.
“There’s nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault—it was his.” She wouldn’t pollute the air by saying her father’s name aloud. As far as she was concerned, Clinton Caine was finally dead and banished from this world, both body and memory. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me.”
She sat up straight, shoulders back—not just because of the razor aimed at her scalp but because saying the words, releasing them, made her feel somehow lighter. Free. That was the word. She was free.
“I did it for me.” She repeated the words silently, liked how they made her feel.
Andre held the razor away from her but kept it running—the two of them hiding behind its mechanical white noise. He leaned forward and hugged her with one arm, nearly toppling her from the barstool. Then he shook himself as a chuckle blossomed up through his body before finally escaping.
“You’d make a damn fine Marine.” He resumed his work with the razor. “Well, except for the part about refusing to ever take orders.”
It was his highest compliment, and it made Morgan smile.
While Andre helped with her new disguise, Jenna and Nick pored over the map she’d given them.
After they’d spirited her away from Angels with Paterson’s help, protesting that Morgan was too debilitated to provide the police with more than a cursory interview, it had taken her most of the night, but she’d been able to pinpoint most of her father’s victims, at least the ones she knew about.
A gift for Lucy and their families. The least she could do, even if her resurrected memories would give her nightmares for weeks to come.
By the time Andre finished, Micah still hadn’t arrived. Disappointment washed over her as she made her goodbyes.
A silent kiss and hug for Andre—it was all he needed. A nod and smile from Jenna. A longer hug from Nick that ended with him brushing the top of her newly shaven scalp with his lips.
“Get well fast,” he whispered. “Call if you need anything.”
She didn’t trust her words—not because she couldn’t find them but because of the tears ambushing her. She grabbed her bag, turned, and fled without looking back.
Outside on the sidewalk Micah was pacing, his long legs and hunched shoulders making him stand out, especially in front of the upscale Regent Square art gallery that took up the bottom floor of Jenna’s building. He jerked his body around when she came out, eyes wide when he saw her hair gone. “What happened?”
“Part of my disguise. They’re looking for Morgan Ames, fifteen, long dark hair. No one’s looking for Karen Wilson, nineteen, cancer survivor.” And damned if she didn’t have the scars to prove it.
Jenna’s idea was a good one—especially the exclusive Maryland health clinic where Morgan could continue her rehab in private under an assumed name.
It didn’t hurt that Jenna was footing the bill, even though now that she was out of Angels, Morgan could easily access the money she’d stolen from her father.
She hadn’t argued. It was part of the new her. Learning how to accept things graciously. Learning gratitude and forgiveness—at least where her friends were concerned. The rest of the world? She still had her doubts.
Micah considered her hair—or lack thereof—and suddenly grinned. “Is it weird that
I kinda like it? Just needs one thing. Try these.” He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket. “Hope you like purple.”
She slid them on, posed. “They’re perfect. Thanks, Micah.”
Was it the dark purple lenses that turned his sunny expression to gloom? Or the long pause as they stood close enough to touch but not touching? Finally he reached for her hand. But he didn’t step any closer to her.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Why can’t you stay?”
She hesitated. How to answer without hurting him? “I’m a fifteen-year-old girl who’s never actually had a chance to be a girl, to make real life decisions, to make mistakes—at least not ones that don’t end up with people being killed. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else. I need time. To figure out who I am. Who I want to be.”
“I think you already know the answers.”
“Maybe. But—”
“But you’re a fifteen-year-old girl. And yes, you shouldn’t be responsible for anyone except yourself. Come home with me. Just for a while. You need time. To think. To heal.”
Her smile was cautious. Because she wanted it to be anything but. She wanted it to be over-the-moon exhilaration at his kind offer. But she couldn’t accept. Couldn’t take the risk of hurting him…again.
He read it all without her saying a word and hugged her hard. “Okay. I kind of thought you might not go for that. So I made you this.” He slid out a pocket-sized sketchbook and handed it to her. On the cover he’d inked a picture of a girl kicking a bucket and letters that read, “Kick List.”
“What is it?” She thumbed through it and found more sketches. A girl perched at the top of a Ferris wheel, eating cotton candy. A girl playing hopscotch.
“Well, a bucket list is all the things you want to do before you die. But since you already—”
“Kicked the bucket.”
“Right. It’s a list of all the things you should do now. Normal girl stuff.” He scuffed his boot against the pavement. “Stuff you might want to do with a guy you like.”
“So this one is you and me skinny dipping?” She laughed at his blush, and stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck.
She kissed him, allowing herself a long moment to linger and enjoy his response, and then broke away. “Thank you. It’s more than perfect. I’ll save the good stuff for when I see you again.”
It was as close as a promise to come back as she could make.
“I’ll be here. We all will. You are not alone,” he whispered. “Do you understand that? I mean, really? You are loved, and you are not alone.”
He reached a finger to wipe tears from her cheek—his or hers, she wasn’t sure. Did it matter?
Finally, they separated. He held her at arm’s length, his gaze locked with hers. “Be good, Morgan Ames. Don’t forget your friends.”
She’d lost her words again. It took everything she had to duck her head in a quick nod and walk away without stumbling over feet that did not want to leave.
It was better this way. She couldn’t keep putting her friends at risk.
She’d be back again. Someday she’d return. Home.
The words felt empty, rattling around in her mind. She glanced back over her shoulder at Micah. Jenna, Andre, and Nick had joined him on the sidewalk. All watching her.
Walking away was suddenly the most difficult thing in the world. But it had to be done. For their sake more than hers.
Her gait unsteady, tears blinding her, she stumbled down the sidewalk to the waiting taxi. Micah’s words rang through her mind with each step.
She would be back. Because she wasn’t in this alone. She had no idea why they stuck with her—these people she couldn’t shake no matter how hard she tried. These…friends. She didn’t deserve their trust much less their loyalty. At least she didn’t believe she did. Not yet. But someday…someday, she’d believe.
And then she would return.
Epilogue
Three weeks later
* * *
“Welcome to Island Rental Management, how can I direct your call?” The receptionist answered the phone in a perky voice that made it sound as if the office had a host of staff just waiting to have a call directed to them instead of a single middle-aged, overweight woman sitting at a plywood desk. “Yes, sir. I’d be happy to help you with that personally. When do you need it done by? No problem. Thank you for choosing Island Rentals.”
She hung up and glanced at Morgan’s job application. Or rather, Hildy Smith’s application. “You said you could start immediately?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Like the ad said, I need someone on call day and night.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d be amazed at how many two AM barf-in-the-hot-tub calls we get. Plus turnovers on Saturday and Sunday. Would that work for you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right then, you start immediately.” She tore off the note she’d jotted down with the phone call and handed it to Morgan. “Here’s a last minute booking, arriving in two hours. You need to head right over there and prep everything.”
“No problem. Thank you.”
The woman made a small sound of acknowledgement as Morgan turned to the door and pulled out her sunglasses. “Hey. What’s with the hair?”
Morgan touched her head as if the purple wig made her feel self-conscious. Which of course it didn’t—it made her feel safe. Just like Micah’s sunglasses. “I figured a second chance at life deserved a new look.”
The woman’s features softened. “My sister had cervical cancer—young, like you. You going to be okay with this job? It’s hard work.”
“No problem. My doctor said the best thing for me was hard work and fresh air.”
“You’ll get plenty of both around here.”
“Exactly what I was hoping for.”
Morgan left, hauling the cleaning supplies the agency had given her along with the master key code to all their rental properties. She inhaled the ocean air, dragging it all the way down to her toes, leaving her light-headed.
Her entire life she’d been focused on surviving this moment; never had a chance to worry about the next. Until now. So many possibilities—all she had to do was decide which way to go.
She popped the car trunk and dumped the supplies inside. The palm trees sheltering the parking lot rippled with the ocean breeze, and a flight of pelicans swooped past, their shadows dancing along the pavement.
The stay at Jenna’s health retreat had given Morgan her body back and cleared her mind.
Her speech was normal, she could read again—although sometimes it gave her a headache—and math was a problem if it got too complicated. But there were other skills, other bits and pieces of her true self, that she needed to resurrect on her own. Where better to lose herself than on an island filled with tourists?
She hadn’t lied; she hoped that she’d someday make it back to Micah and be the person he deserved, someone trustworthy and strong and courageous. But right now, she had to figure out if that was who she really wanted to be.
Andre had once told her a fairytale about a girl who wore a donkey skin to hide her true nature and protect her from the rest of the world. Now it was time for Morgan to find out if a Wolf could live in this world, hiding beneath a girl’s skin.
Standing tall, she watched the birds until they vanished from sight. Time to face the future.
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