Chapter 31 Melody
Melody
After hours of ocean, I watch the landscape come into view through the airplane window.
City lights sparkle in the distance. Home.
We're almost home. The Eligos reluctantly allowed us to leave the compound and go back to Philadelphia.
Well, I say "allowed"—she doesn't have rank over Dante.
But she really wanted us to stay for a bit longer.
But Dante was adamant, and so was I. The war is over.
We won. It's time to go back to our normal lives.
As normal as we can, honestly. I have to admit, it feels a bit weird.
I spent so long under my stepdad's thumb, then on the run from…
well, anyone. Anyone who would know me or recognize me.
Jail. Prison. A safehouse. Another prison. Another safehouse.
It just doesn't quite feel real yet. We're going home. We're going back to the place where we fell in love.
Where I killed men.
Where I befriended Helena.
Where I learned to shoot.
Where I learned how to dispose of a body properly—kind of.
Where I ran from Dante until he caught me. And god, am I happy he caught me.
It's strange. I sit in silence and watch the city lights go by as Dante drives us back home.
I always felt so… out of place everywhere else I've lived.
Growing up, my home was busy and stressed—Mom always worked, so I had to raise myself.
And then she met Charlie, and I moved out to be a grimy, little bum working in restaurants, but my crappy apartments never felt like home. Nothing ever felt like home.
Until I let myself open up and really, truly see Dante for who he is.
And he sees me for who I am. He loves me, murderous streak and all.
I genuinely did not think I was capable of this kind of all-consuming, heart-warming love.
I figured the best I could do was one-night stands and booty calls.
But those days are long behind me. Especially with how my body tingles and heats when Dante looks at me with those piercing green eyes.
He reaches over and puts a protective hand on my thigh. I let out a contented sigh, smiling at his touch.
"Almost home, love," he murmurs as he turns down our street. His row home stands proudly, nestled among the other historic brick homes jutting up from the concrete sidewalks. The windows are dark, and only the porchlight gently glows orange in the nighttime.
I'm a little bit surprised that it's still standing.
After everything we've been through, the fact that the house is completely untouched seems…
strange. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as Dante parks the car in the shared garage down the block.
I think he feels it, too, because he lifts a tattooed finger to his lips. I nod and take in our surroundings.
There's no such thing as true silence in a city like this.
Trucks blare their horns and cars rev their engines on the interstate nearby, a helicopter whirrs through the air somewhere to the south, and a city bus rattles to a halt in the distance.
But there's nothing making a sound in the garage itself except for my footsteps.
I try to walk as quietly as possible, but it just sounds like I'm shuffling along.
Which makes sense. I am shuffling. Dante places his hand on the small of my back—possessive, but also a protective gesture. We won't be separated by whatever has us on high alert.
As we reach the stairwell, he slowly creaks open the steel door and peeks around. It's well lit inside, and there's no one in sight. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. Maybe we're both just paranoid from months—almost a year?—of horrendous shit following us at every turn.
But there's nothing. There's no one. We take the stairs together, hands tightly clasped. I still feel weird. Dante does, too, based on the way he keeps flicking his eyes back and forth. As soon as we reach the darkened street, I suck in a breath and shove open the door.
There's no one. The street is as empty as it ever is. Trash blows in the gentle wind, and a delivery bike rolls by playing music. It's unsettlingly peaceful.
"Wasn't the porchlight on?" Dante asks in a whisper.
I look down at our house—a pang of longing writhes in my chest—and cock my head to the side. The porchlight was on, but it's gone dark. "Is that on a timer?"
"No."
"Could it be Marie?"
"I guess we'll find out." He heaves a sigh and reaches into his jacket pocket, where I know he has a handgun.
My dumb ass didn't think to grab one. All that whining and cajoling about learning how to shoot, and here I am, completely unarmed. I huff out an exasperated breath and follow my husband in step, a few paces behind.
I scan the windows for movement, but there's nothing. It's as if the house is wholly untouched. But I know I saw the light on—Dante did, too. Someone is in there. They must know we're on our way here. Fuck! Were we stupid to leave The Eligos's compound? Am I stupid?
The more I think about it, I sure might be.
Dante silently flips open the keypad and presses in the code. We both wince when the little "accepted" beep sounds, but there's still no movement from inside. Turning the knob, he pushes open the door.
The smell of cleaning products and fresh pastries fills the air. Something about the mixture turns my stomach, and I grit my teeth, swallowing hard.
"Melody—love, are you alright?" Dante asks in a hushed tone. I tersely nod and motion for him to keep going.
"Welcome home."
Every muscle in my body tenses as the light flicks on.
That voice… it's familiar, but I haven't missed it.
And yet, there she is. Sitting on the plush sofa that Dante bent me over so many times.
She has a tight smile across her face, and it doesn't reach her eyes.
No, the only thing behind her eyes is greed.
"Mom." The term falls from my lips without any love.
"State your business." Dante cocks the handgun, pointing it straight at my mother's chest. I didn't even notice he'd pulled it out.
"I haven't seen my daughter for nearly two years—that's my business." My mom's smile drops as she gives Dante the once-over. "You've done well for yourself, Mel."
"How did you find me?"
"Well, after you made the international news for being a murderer, it was pretty easy, babe.
" Mom returns her attention to me, staring directly into my soul.
"Mortifying. There I was in Costa Rica, enjoying a lovely cocktail—and my phone went off with a news alert.
There you were. Very much alive but very much a killer. How could you do this to me?"
"To you?" I gasp.
"Yes, to me!" She shakes her head angrily. "I gave you everything. I gave you a home. I fed you. I kept you clothed. I let you move back in when you got fired from yet another job, you killed my husband, and you splash my family name across international headlines?"
"Don't you dare address her like that," Dante interrupts.
"You want to talk about what you've done?
You let your fucking husband abuse her. You let him grope her.
Yes, he's the one who touched her, but you turned a blind eye.
You chose not to believe your daughter. You're so fucking lucky you're still alive to spew vitriol at her. "
I open my mouth to tell Dante to stop, but I can't make the words come out.
Every emotion crashes around in my head at once.
Guilt—she's right, I did do that. I did kill her husband.
I staged it to make it seem like I was taken.
I embarrassed her. Fury—Dante's right; she let it happen.
She told me I was imagining things. She told me I was being sensitive.
She told me for years that I would never have the kind of attention I want, so stop making things up.
Her reproachful glare makes me feel small.
I want to fold in on myself and let the earth swallow me up.
My heart pounds in my throat as I try to figure out what the hell I want to say.
I don't know if I want to say anything. Sure, I'd imagined meeting with Mom and telling her everything that happened. But not like this.
"I think we can come to an agreement here," Mom says. "You're still on the run from the law, aren't you? You escaped prison? I'm sure you wouldn't want that to come to light. So, I'll just take my payment and be on my merry way."
"Oh, fuck you." Now my mouth will let me speak. Of course, she wants money. She took her life insurance payout and disappeared to the tropics. She has no fucking idea what I've been through—what Dante has been through. She just wants to continue living it up. "Fuck you, Mom. How dare you?"
"Melody, love," Dante murmurs. "I know she's your mother—but does she have to stay alive?"
"What?" Mom gasps. "You wouldn't. You wouldn't. I'm your mother. I gave you everything! I gave you life! All I'm asking for in return is just enough to send me on my way—I know your husband is loaded. I know he has the funds. He could pay my condo rent for a year without breaking a sweat—"
"Listen to me, and you listen good." Rage is steering my ship.
"You don't know me. You don't know a single thing about me.
You gave a few phony press conferences after I disappeared, and then you fucked off.
That's exactly what you're going to do. Fuck off.
You already spent the life insurance money?
Beg on the street for all I care. I owe you nothing. "
"That's a shame, babe." Mom pulls her phone from her pocket and taps on the screen. "Even if your husband shoots me before I talk to the operator, they'll still send a car over."
Bang!
My mother's eyes widen in shock as the bullet hits her chest. Crimson blooms and stains her pale pink floral dress.
Her phone falls to the floor, clattering across the wood, with only 9 and 1 dialed.
As she crumples to the floor, she rattles in a horrified breath, staring at me.
Her mouth falls open, and droplets of blood spray out as she wheezes.
I turn to my husband with wide eyes, trembling in shock.
"I'm sorry, love. I couldn't let her talk to you like that." Dante tucks the gun back into his pocket.
"She's dead."
"Yes. Or will be very soon."
"Holy shit." I watch as my mother's chest stops rising and falling.
Her eyes turn glassy and unfocused, but she's still staring at me.
She's gone. She never raised a hand against me, but she never stopped him either.
She faked it until I was gone. She was my mother by blood, and she did feed me. Clothe me. House me.
She did the bare minimum. And she only came to find me when she thought I could be useful.
Hot tears trail down my cheeks as I stare at the corpse of my mother. I don't even know why I'm crying. She never loved me—I don't think she did, anyway. And I had some love for her, like a good daughter should. But I guess I never really was a good daughter, was I?
"Go to bed, love. I'll take care of this." Dante leans in and kisses my forehead. Numb, I nod and trudge up the stairs.
Our bedroom is immaculately clean, the bed made with hospital corners.
Marie must still be coming by to tidy up, dust the shelves, and whatnot.
I peel back the blankets and kick off my shoes before settling in.
The dark grey sheets smell like home. Fresh laundry detergent and comfort.
My eyelids are so heavy, but I can't sleep.
Guilt and something unnamed roil around in my gut.
My mother is dead.
My husband killed her.
As fucked up as it sounds, I want to thank him for it. I didn't realize the extent of her emotional power over me until I watched the light leave her eyes.
My stomach clenches, and I swallow hard. I can't get comfortable. The lingering scent of gunpowder mixes with the laundry detergent the more I toss and turn. Huffing out a sigh, I look down at myself—and notice the blood I've smeared on our nice, fresh sheets. Sorry, Marie.
"Ugh," I mumble and groan. Throwing the sheets off me, I hoist myself up and plod over to the shower.
Maybe that'll help. The knobs turn without a single squeak, and steam fills our en suite bathroom.
Catching a glimpse of my hair and body products, I nearly break down in tears again. I'm home. I'm really, really home.