Chapter 55
Agatha
The drive into town is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes my stomach roll.
The roads are mostly empty, late afternoon light slanting low across the asphalt, cutting through the haze that’s been hanging since we left their parents.
I lean my head against the window and watch the world slide by in slow gray streaks.
My chest feels heavy, like there’s a clock ticking inside me and I’m running out of time.
My fingers twist in my lap. Somehow, these twisted, sexy men have gotten under my skin. Maybe even into my heart. I can’t stop thinking about it.
“What happens now?” I ask. The question steals the air right out of my lungs.
Corwin glances at me in the rearview mirror, his voice flat. “You go back to school. Back to your channel.”
“And you?” I press.
He lifts a shoulder. “What about us?”
Garron glances at me. “What do you want, Little Horror?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know I feel sad about going home and acting like this trip didn’t happen.” My voice cracks on the last word.
Evander turns his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “You think it’s easy to stop thinking about you?”
Garron laughs under his breath. “She doesn’t think we’re addicted yet.”
They drive me all the way to my house. When we pull up to the curb, I wait for one of them to say something, to tell me not to go. They don’t. Corwin just puts the car in park. I grab my bag, slam the door harder than I mean to, and stalk up the steps.
They just let me go inside, alone. After all the chasing, the stalking, the taking, the kidnapping, they just let me go that easily?
Inside, I throw my duffel down and start unpacking. The normal motions feel foreign. Socks in the drawer, dirty clothes in the washer. I’m angry, and I can’t even explain why. Maybe because they let me go so easily?
I strip and get in the shower, scrubbing until my skin turns red. School starts again in a couple of days, and then I’ll be back in my classroom, smiling at bright-eyed kids who have no clue their teacher just helped burn down a church and murder several people. .
When I crawl into bed, I try to read—something steamy and violent because that’s all my brain can hold—but the words blur. Sleep finally drags me under.
Morning creeps in; slow, pale light seeping through the blinds.
It feels colder than it should, but maybe it’s just time to turn the heat on.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. No messages.
No calls. Just me in this quiet little house that already feels too small, like it’s trying to press me back into the version of myself I was before them.
I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling. My body aches, not in a bad way, but in a way that reminds me of every touch, every bruise of our trip. My skin smells like my own soap now instead of them. The sheets are cool against my thighs. I hate it.
Finally, I push myself out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, and I drag on my robe, tugging it tight like it might hold me together. In the kitchen, I make coffee the same way I always do, but it tastes like the flavor’s gone. The mug is warm in my hands, but it doesn’t reach my chest.
I sit at the table and scroll without really thinking about it, just trying to fill the silence. But the news finds me, anyway.
The feed from my hometown is a mess of missing person reports, church gossip, and shaky phone footage that’s already been reposted a hundred times.
Someone uploaded a clip of flashing lights outside the church, sirens bleeding into the night.
The caption reads “God’s house burns, secrets burn with it. ”
There’s people from town arguing in the comments, asking why Lindy and Williams, what they were hiding, who leaked the evidence. No one mentions me, but my name feels ghosted between every line.
Then I see it. A link to a true crime group. Screenshots. The kind of photos that used to live in the dark corners of that church, now plastered across timelines. Proof of what they did. Proof of what we stopped.
My thumb hovers over the comments section, but I can’t make myself read them. Half the town is probably calling it divine punishment. The other half is pretending it never happened.
I lock the screen and get up to stand at the sink and watch steam curl up from the cup, watching my reflection in the window instead of the yard. I look the same. Hair messy, eyes tired. But I feel like someone else entirely. Someone hollowed out and filled back up with something darker.
Shower. Clothes. Makeup, but not too much.
I pull on a black sweater with holes and frays in it, jeans that hug my hips, and black combat boots.
Then I make a quick mental grocery list, one I don’t even need to look at.
Fruit. Milk. Bread. Coffee filters. Things I’ll need to survive a week at school.
Things a woman who isn’t in love with three killers buys.
I drive into town with the radio low, just noise to drown out the thoughts.
The store smells like citrus and waxed floors.
People smile at me, and I smile back like I’m one of them.
Like I belong. I throw the shit from my list into the cart and grab a few microwave meals for lunch this week.
Hot Pockets and Bagel Bites are the teacher’s lunch of champions.
On the way back, I slow at Uptown Salon. A red neon “OPEN” flickers in the window. Without thinking, I pull in and make an appointment to get my color touched up. The girl behind the counter asks about my week, and I tell her, “It was quiet,” with a smile.
But the pull in my gut won’t quit. It’s like a hook behind my ribs tugging me off course. Instead of heading home, I turn toward the cemetery.
Jay’s grave is near the back, past rows of weathered stones and angel statues with chipped wings. His marker is temporary, just a rectangle of white with his name typed in black. The dirt’s dark and soft, like it hasn’t settled yet.
I crouch down and then fold my legs under me, sitting cross-legged on the damp grass. My palms leave prints on the earth. For a long moment, I just stare at his name. My throat tightens.
“Hey,” I whisper. My voice sounds small in the open space. “I’m sorry.” The words slip out like a confession. “I’m sorry for what happened. For being the reason. For not stopping it. For not turning them in.” My voice cracks, and I press my lips together hard, but it’s too late.
The wind shifts. Leaves rustle, and a crow caws from the tree above me.
“I love them, Jay.” The words spill before I can stop them, soft but brutal. “I know how that sounds. I should be locked up. But I do. I love them. And I don’t know what that says about me.”
Another caw. Louder this time.
I let out a breath. “I’ll take that as forgiveness,” I murmur, brushing dirt from the marker with my fingertips. “‘Til next time, friend.”
I sit there for a few breaths after the crow takes off, palms pressed against my thighs, trying to feel the earth under me. My fingers are green from the grass, and my knees are damp. It’s like I’ve left a piece of myself here with Jay. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe I owed him that much.
Back in the car, the seat feels too warm against my back as I slide in.
I shut the door, pull the belt across me, and just sit.
My hands grip the steering wheel even though the engine isn’t on yet.
The dashboard clock glows a soft green. The cemetery is empty except for me, a squirrel, and the wind stirring the leaves.
I turn the key, the engine catches, and I let the Bluetooth pick up my phone. Lorna’s name sits on the screen. My thumb hovers for a second, then I hit call before I can think myself out of it.
It rings twice, three times. Her voice fills the car, tinny but familiar. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
I stare at the windshield, the road ahead nothing but a ribbon of gray and trees. “Hey,” I say, my voice quieter than I meant. “Just wanted to…check in.”
“You sound like you’re calling from a confessional.” I can hear her smile through the line. “Where are you?”
“Driving,” I murmur. “On my way back from…a trip. With the guys.”
She hums. “Ah. A trip.”
I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Lo, I think I might actually need a therapist this time.”
There’s a pause. “Oh?”
“Yeah, oh. They’re not normal, Lo. They like to chase me through the woods to fuck me.
And the consent when we first met was…dubious at best.” I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
“One of them pierced my fucking nipples while I was tied up, Lo. Without asking. Like, surprise body modification, here’s your trauma with jewelry. ”
Lorna coughs out a sound that might be a laugh or shock—I can’t tell which.
“And then,” I keep going, because if I stop, I’ll cry, “the vacation was even wilder. I won’t go into details, but it was…
a lot. Like biblical plague levels of chaos.
And after everything, after the madness and the way they made me feel like I belonged somewhere for the first time in years, they just… dumped me off at home.”
Lorna stays quiet long enough that I almost check if the call dropped.
“Lorna?”
And then she starts laughing. Full, open, belly-deep laughter.
I blink at the road, jaw tightening. “This isn’t funny, Lo. You should be calling someone to have me picked up. Straitjacket and all.”
She exhales. “Oh, Agatha, babe. You know two of mine bullied the fuck out of me, right? Before they ever became mine? I got my own revenge on them. They slayed some demons of mine. We even fucked in a funeral home closet once.” She sighs. “Ahhhh, the good old days.”
I choke out a laugh, almost swerving. “Are you serious?”