Chapter 10 #2
Lena turns from her homework to raise her brows at me. “Well?”
I tug my shirt collar down. “Satisfied?”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “It looks as stupid on you as it does on me.”
“Then we match.” I return to the cutting board, picking up the knife to resume dinner preparation, and discover that the vegetables have dried around the edges from being left too long in the open air.
“You know,” Lena says, her pencil tapping her textbook, “Rowan wouldn’t care if I got a job.”
My knife freezes mid-cut. “What?”
“When he was here, we talked about college applications and how much they cost.” She flips to a new page in her notebook. “He said lots of students work part-time, and I need real-life experience.”
The knife resumes its motion, faster now. “Rowan’s opinions on your education don’t matter.”
“But yours do?” Her chair creaks as she leans back. “Even though he’s the one with actual money and connections?”
“Money and connections don’t validate someone’s opinions.” The words come out harsher than intended. “And we’ve managed fine without his help.”
“Have we?” Her textbook snaps closed. “Is managing the reason why the heat only works half the time? Why we eat rice and beans every day of the week? Why you work two jobs, and we can barely afford suppressants?”
The truth of her words stings, salt in an already open wound. “We get by.”
“Getting by isn’t the same as living,” she counters. “And you’re so afraid of owing anyone that you won’t even consider accepting help when it’s offered.”
My grip tightens on the knife handle. “You don’t understand what accepting help from someone like Rowan would cost us.”
“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” she says, gentler now. “He likes you, Ash. Really likes you. And you kicked him out because he was nice to me.”
“I kicked him out because he undermined my authority,” I correct her. “He gave you his number behind my back.”
“So what?” She throws up her hands. “He was trying to help! Not everyone who offers help wants to control us.”
“In my experience, they do.” Learned that lesson while living on the street after I ran away from home.
“Rowan’s a good guy,” she insists. “And you’re avoiding him because you’re scared of what might happen if you actually let someone in.”
My hand slams down on the cutting board, the knife blade quivering with the impact. “I don’t need relationship advice from my teenage sister.”
“And I don’t need my paranoid brother treating me like a child,” she fires back. “If you don’t want to be with Rowan, fine. But don’t use me as your excuse.”
“This isn’t about Rowan.” But even to my ears, the lie sounds obvious. “This is about boundaries. This is about—”
“Control,” she interrupts. “Everything with you is about control. The jobs you take, the hours you work, the money you squirrel away into different accounts. You’d rather kill yourself working than admit you need help.”
The nape guard digs into my skin, the strap tight across my windpipe as my breathing quickens. “I have everything under control.”
“Really?” The question comes louder, edged with frustration. “Then why do we still live in this crappy apartment where gunshots wake us up at night? Why do I still have to take the long route home to avoid the dealer’s corner? Why—”
Crack, crack, crack—
My body moves before my mind registers what’s happening.
The knife slips from my grip as I hurl myself across the kitchen toward Lena, whose mouth opens in a scream I can’t hear over the thunder in my ears.
The living room window shatters and glass shards explode inward, catching light as they spray across our apartment and the dinner I’ll never finish cooking.
Lena’s scream, high and terrified, cuts off as I slam into her, the chair toppling backward. My arms wrap around her head and shoulders as we hit the ground, my body curling over hers in a protective shell.
Glass rains across the linoleum, tinkling as it bounces and settles. The sound mixes with my sister’s panicked breathing and my own thundering heartbeat in a horrifying soundtrack to the chaos that’s invaded our home.
“Stay down,” I hiss into her hair, my chest braced against her back, her face turned toward the floor beneath me.
More shots crack through the night air, farther away this time as the shooter moves down the street. Male voices shout obscenities, car doors slam, and tires squeal on asphalt. The entire incident lasts less than thirty seconds, but time stretches like taffy, each moment distinct.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder as they approach our neighborhood. A routine response in Brickwell, always minutes too late, always after the damage is done.
I remain frozen over Lena until the sirens pass beneath our window, blue and red lights painting strobe patterns across our ceiling. Only then do I loosen my grip, my fingers uncurling from where they’ve dug into her arms.
“Are you hurt?” I run my hands over her shoulders, down her arms, checking for injuries.
She shakes her head, her entire body trembling. “N-no. I don’t think so.”
I help her to her feet, steadying her when her knees buckle. Glass crunches beneath our shoes, and the autumn air rushes in through the shattered window, carrying the scent of gunpowder and burned rubber.
“Go to your room,” I tell her, steadier than I should be after what happened. “Stay away from the windows. I’ll check the damage.”
Lena backs away, ashen in the fading light. “What about you?”
“I’m fine.” I brush glass fragments off my shirt. “Just go, please.”
She doesn’t argue this time, retreating down the hallway, slowing for a heartbeat before continuing.
When her door closes, I’m left alone in the ruined living room. Glass fragments sparkle on every surface, catching the last rays of sunlight through the jagged hole where our window used to be. The blinds hang off-kilter, shredded by flying shards.
I approach with caution, the hard soles of my slippers crunching over the debris.
Cold air rushes in, carrying the sounds of car horns, distant shouts, and the continued wail of sirens.
Our apartment sits vulnerable, its barrier to the outside world reduced to the jagged glass still clinging to the frame.
My fingers trace the splintered wood of the windowsill where bullets tore through the painted surface.
Three impact points. One in the frame, one in the wall above the couch, and one in the ceiling. Random shots, fired during a drive-by that had nothing to do with us. Wrong place, wrong time. The unofficial motto of Brickwell.
This wasn’t about us, and that’s what terrifies me most.
All my careful planning, my locks and routines and protective measures, mean nothing when confronted by this kind of random violence.
I stare through the broken window at the street below, counting the buildings between ours and the corner where dealers conduct business after dark.
Measuring the distance from our front door to the bus stop where Lena comes and goes from school.
Calculating the number of steps between safety and danger, and finding the equation impossible to solve.
For years, I’ve told myself control equals safety. That if I work hard enough, plan with enough care, and sacrifice everything I have, I can keep Lena protected. But all I have to do is look at the last two weeks to see the evidence of my failure.
What happens when she’s alone next time? What happens when I’m working another night shift, and bullets find our bedroom windows instead of the living room? What happens when another Danny appears?
What happens when luck runs out?
I can’t be everywhere, control everything, and prevent every danger.
I can’t do this alone.
My fingers tremble as I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen lights up, illuminating our broken home as I pull up the only contact who can help us.
Pride screams at me to put the phone away. To grab a broom, sweep up the glass, tape cardboard over the window, and pretend this is any other night in Brickwell. To keep fighting alone because that’s what I’ve always done.
But Lena’s safety matters more than my pride. Her future matters more than my fear of dependency. Her life matters more than my illusion of control.
I hit call.
The phone rings once, twice, and connects. A familiar rumble comes through the speaker, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine despite everything.
“What do you need, precious?”
Glass crunches under my slippers, and it might as well be slicing through me. “I need a safer place for my sister.”
Rowan’s response comes without hesitation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. When I arrive, you’d better have a suitcase of your own waiting, too, precious. You and your sister are a package deal.”
The line goes dead, and with it, the last of my resistance.