Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Erin
A costly taxi ride later, and I’m at JFK airport.
I fight through the crowds, clutching my backpack tightly. After clearing security, I locate my gate and choose to stand by the counter rather than sit on one of the cushioned blue chairs.
If I get too comfortable, I might not board this plane.
And I can’t let anything hold me back.
Cass and I have friends back home. Using an account Bambi set up for us—one that can’t be traced—we sometimes stalk their socials. To keep tabs on Caleb. Last we heard, he’s hanging out in a town outside the farms where Cass and I grew up in Northern England.
I have to go back to the place I swore I’d never set foot in again.
I have to face the one man I never wanted to see.
And I have to do it alone.
They’re calling my boarding group. And I’m smiling at the flight attendant, letting her scan the paper boarding pass clenched between my fingers. Even though my stomach is filled with dread.
I endure a long flight, followed by a shorter one in a tiny, cramped plane.
The second plane lands with a jolt that rattles my bones. I keep my eyes on the window the whole descent, the gray English sky pressing down like a weight, clouds hanging low over the countryside as if they’re waiting to suffocate.
Welcome home, Erin.
The taxi ride is bumpy. Unpleasant. I see the landscape hasn’t changed. Farmlands stretch out on all sides of our tiny village, which is little more than a cluster of small homes and weathered shops.
A place that seems to have endured for centuries and intends to last even longer.
The kind of place where everyone knows your past.
Reaching into my bag, I grab the red, shoulder-length wig Cass wore last New Year’s Eve and place it on my head. I can’t risk anyone finding out I’m back.
I’m already the underdog in this fight. I’m counting on the element of surprise.
I keep my hood up and my head down. I slip on my dark Chanel sunglasses as I pass the inn, the post office, and the butcher’s. I avoid eye contact with the few locals brave enough to face the wind.
They might not recognize me anyway.
The last time they saw me, I was a ghost of a girl. Pale and silent, eyes hollow from grief, flinching at every sound.
They thought it was the loss of my mother.
And it was, but they didn’t know it was also my sister’s husband who put me in that shell.
But here I am, pulling a suitcase behind me through the cold air, wind hitting my face, with the scarf around my neck the only thing protecting me from the memories I promised I'd never revisit.
Lucian bought me the scarf, the coat, and the waterproof boots that are already gathering mud.
I told myself I wouldn’t bring anything he bought me out of respect for him and as penance for leaving.
But I wore all of it.
Because part of me still wants his protection. His scent. His warmth.
I want him near. I feel braver when I feel close to him.
And it’s damn cold in this hellhole.
I’m not going to the farm we grew up on. There are too many nosy neighbors, and the risk of Caleb finding me is too high. Instead, I make my way to the moors.
There we have a primitive cabin, one that has been in my mother’s family for generations. She’d bring Cass and me here sometimes, when Dad was in the worst of his downward decline of alcohol addiction, which always seemed to land on our summer holidays, when we were home from school.
It was hard as a child not to link the fact that you were around more when your father felt he had to drink himself to death.
Mum would light a fire, light candles, and help us build a tent from blankets in the living room. She would say we were on a wonderful holiday, an adventure, us and nature. After mum died, we didn’t come again for a long time.
The cabin was ours, it was special, our piece of our mother. I don’t think Cass would have told Caleb about this place.
I hope I’m right.
The open, treeless expanse of the moors feels vast and almost desolate, with the sky stretching endlessly above, heavy with clouds.
Finally, the cabin appears, its crooked silhouette against the horizon.
A single chimney pierces the gray sky. When we left, the tank in the back still had gas, so the stove should work, but I brought matches for the wood and kindling outside, just in case.
I stomp along the half-mud, half-gravel road leading to the front door. I still have the key. I unlock the door with numb fingers and step inside.
It smells like dust and old wood, as if time has forgotten this place and left it behind. The windows are covered with spider webs. The fireplace is cold. The kitchen floors and counters are coated with a thick layer of dust.
Perfect.
I drop my bag on the floor and take it all in.
This is where I thought it ended when we left.
Now I know better. This is where the end begins.
I light a fire first.
The warmth is immediate, hungry, gobbling up the cold air that surrounds it. It crackles and spits like it’s just as eager as I am to fill the silence. I sit in front of it for a moment, my knees tucked to my chest, the coat wrapped tight around me, and let myself breathe.
Then I get to work.
I unpack the burner phone, the cash I exchanged at the airport before I left, and the small, leatherbound notebook.
When Caleb and Cass first got together, he showered her with gifts. I’d wondered where his endless flow of money came from. Cass said, 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.'
Later, we learned the truth: he’s the son of the don of a dangerous gang in Glasgow called the Hoax, a criminal organization deeply involved in drug trafficking, and there were whispers of people trafficking as well.
The notebook contains all the information I’ve gathered about the Hoax over the years. Names, phone numbers, safe house addresses.
I lay it all out on the dusty kitchen table.
And then I pull out the voice recorder.
I press the red button and raise it to my mouth.
“Cass,” I say softly. “If you ever hear this…you know I love you. I’m doing this so you don’t have to live in fear of looking over your shoulder. So Ryan never has to grow up scared of his world and the people in it.”
My throat burns.
I hit stop.
Then I record another.
“For Lucian…”
Tears are streaming down my face when I’m done with his message.
I tuck the recorder into the small lockbox I brought with me, then hide it beneath the loose floorboard in the kitchen where Cass and I used to hide our money from dad.
The thought of them hearing my last message makes my stomach flip-flop.
I came out here to end Caleb myself so I wouldn’t need the Morettis, and Lucian wouldn’t have to be involved.
He would be safe.
And I wouldn’t hurt him. Not the way they did.
After reconsidering, I leave the box out on the counter instead.
So they can find it.
In case I don’t come back.