Chapter 8
EIGHT
CARMEN
The reason I push people away is not because something is wrong with them. It’s because something is wrong with me. The reason I don’t let people in is not because I can’t. It’s because I choose not to.
Loving someone means losing them eventually, and I have lost too many people already. They leave. They always do. They look at me and see a problem, not a person. Something they want to get rid of because they can’t fix it.
That leaves me empty. Floating from one space to another, never belonging in any of them. When something good finds me, I question it. Not because I think I don’t deserve it, but because I know it will disappear. And when it does, I will be empty again.
I can’t let Judas inside my heart. If I do, I will lose him, too. I don’t know if I am strong enough for that.
I wear this mask of someone tough. But underneath it, there are cracks so deep no one could stitch them shut. Even if they tried, the scars would stay. Proof that I will never be okay.
I sit curled into the corner of the room.
Piano music drifts up from downstairs. I don’t recognize the song.
It repeats the same soft melody over and over, like a lullaby meant to calm something restless.
I try to force my thoughts to disappear, but they keep circling. Closing in. I feel like I am drowning.
I remember a documentary they made us watch in juvie. It talks about drowning. How your body fights at first. How you can’t open your mouth until the last moment. How the brain eventually gives up because it wants peace. It lets go.
Judas leaving feels like that. Like my brain finally giving up because I want the pain to stop. I let go because if I do not, I will be trapped in waiting forever. People never come back for me. They never have. They just stay away.
I snap the rubber tie against my wrist again. The sting makes me count my breaths while I stare at nothing.
This is life. Happy moments exist only briefly. Everything fades eventually.
I close my eyes and try to pull myself together. No matter how hard I try, I always fail.
I stand and look down at my bare feet as I cross the room. I step out onto the balcony, desperate for fresh air. I heard Judas’s bedroom door earlier, but he didn’t come back. He didn’t say anything. Maybe that’s for the better.
My hands grip the railing. As I inhale, movement below catches my eye. Judge Harrington and Judas walk through the garden toward the driveway. They reach the car. The judge opens the door and gets in first. Judas hesitates. He looks up at the house. At me.
I blink.
He lowers himself into the car.
My fingers tighten around the railing like it might keep my chest from collapsing. The air feels thick. Heavy. I can’t breathe.
I take a breath as they drive away. The sound of the car fades, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t. I tilt my head toward the bedroom, then pause.
Piano music comes up from downstairs.
I turn and walk back through the bedroom as if my steps are drawn by the sound. I need something to hold onto, something to pull me out of my head. If I stay still, I will scream, and I won’t know how to stop.
I open the bedroom door. The music grows louder. I never heard it like this before. Not live.
I move down the hallway as if the sound might break if I rush it. When I reach the stairs, the melody is closer. I follow it down, step by step, until I see her.
Catherine sits in the corner of the living room, half hidden by the entrance. I can only see her back at first. She wears a white sweater, loose against her shoulders. Her blonde hair spills down her back, catching the sunlight.
I stop at the frame of the doorway and lean against it, staying still. Watching her play.
Melody is more familiar now.
Sunlight pours in through the window, warming her skin. Her eyes are closed. Her fingers glide across the piano keys. Her shoulders move, answering the music.
She feels me before she sees me.
The sound stops for a second, and she turns, smiling.
“Carmen. I didn’t hear you.”
“I heard someone playing,” I say softly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I just followed it.”
“Come.” She tilts her head toward the chair beside her and taps it with her hand. “Sit with me.”
I hesitate, then step closer. I pull the chair out, the wood scraping loudly against the floor, and sit beside her.
“I used to play a lot in high school,” she says, her fingers resting on the keys. “I loved it.” She laughs under her breath. “Now I only play when I’m bored.”
“We outgrow things,” I say. I press down on a single key. “What were you playing?”
She looks at me like I have offended her. “There’s no way you don’t recognize this.”
She turns back to the piano and starts again.
The notes settle into an old song I used to hear. My chest tightens as the memory finds me, and the words slip out.
“My Heart Will Go On.”
She nods, smiling, and nudges my shoulder with hers as she keeps playing.
I close my eyes.
For a moment, life feels simpler.
When the music stops, I open my eyes.
“My favorite part of the movie,” she says, laughing.
“Really?” I look at her, surprised. “I didn’t like it.”
Her mouth falls open. “No way. Why?”
“I hated the ending,” I say. “They had space on that damn door. They could’ve floated together.”
She raises a brow. “You know the story wouldn’t be the same without losing someone.”
“I still think it was a crime,” I say. “They deserved a happy ending.”
“Movies show that when we lose people, we think we can’t go on without them,” she says. She reaches for my hand, her fingers brushing mine. “But we have to keep going. That’s life.”
She squeezes my hand gently.
“There’s always controversy about endings,” she continues. “People always want more. They’re never happy with how things end. But sometimes, it’s meant to be exactly how it is.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s deep.”
She reaches behind the piano, her arm disappearing for a second. When it comes back, she drags out a glass of wine I hadn’t noticed before, hidden on a small table.
“I know,” she says, raising the glass. “It’s the wine.”
I laugh. “Can I have some?” I raise a brow.
“Nice try, young lady.” She laughs, too. “You can have some when you turn eighteen.”
I shrug and turn, leaning my back against the piano.
“Do you know when Judas is coming back?” I ask.
She sighs.
“Probably in a week.” She takes a sip, then rolls her eyes.
“William always does this.” She lowers the glass into her lap and turns toward me.
“They go to a cottage in Julian and spend a week bonding. The therapist said it helps Judas to have someone to lean on.” Her voice softens. “But it makes me feel lonely.”
She drinks again, slower this time. “I’m being selfish. Sorry.”
“I know how it feels,” I say. “To be left out.” I nod toward her. “You’re not selfish. Just forgotten.”
“Ouch.” She lifts her upper lip and raises a brow.
I laugh. “Harsh truth.”
She exhales. “I guess.”
“Can I ask you something?” I lift my eyes to hers.
“Shoot.” She takes another sip.
“Why does Judge Harrington hate me?”
She laughs, surprised. “William?” She exhales and shakes her head when I nod. “He doesn’t hate you. He hates that he can’t control you.”
“Then why did he adopt me?”
She pauses. “Can I be honest?” Her eyes search my face.
“I want you to be.”
“I think he did it to keep me busy,” she says. “I was lonely.” Her gaze drifts to the window. “I can’t have kids on my own.”
A tear slips free. She wipes it away almost immediately, like it never existed.
“My clock ran out before I even knew it was ticking.”
I swallow. “If it helps,” I say, “I was lonely in juvie too. I had no friends, and I was in a bad place.”
She tilts her head, scanning me, lips pressing together. “That’s hard to believe.”
I let out a laugh. “I sense sarcasm.”
“Maybe a little.” She chuckles, pinching her fingers together in the air, eyes squinting as if measuring just how much.
I smile.
“It’s different with Judas,” I say. My fingers move toward my necklace, twisting it around, “Somehow, I feel like he’s my second chance.” I breathe out slowly. “At giving people a chance.”
She hums thoughtfully and returns to the piano. She plays a few gentle notes before stopping and looks at me once more.
“I know you two are getting close,” she says gently. “And I want you to be happy.”
“Why do I see a but coming?” I let out a nervous laugh.
“Because there is one. He’s complicated, sweetie. Judas obsesses over new things. When the shine wears off, he leaves.” She pauses. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Yeah. I know.” The words leave my mouth easily, but they feel paper-thin; I don’t quite believe in them.
“Good.” She presses her palm against my thigh. “So.” She tilts her head. “Enough about boys. Tell me what you like. What do you want to do?”
I smile again. “I don’t know.” My brows pull together. “I like riding with Judas.”
“Really?” She lifts her glass and takes a sip of wine. “Would you want your own bike?”
“Yes.” My eyes widen. “One day. I need to get my license first.”
She raises a brow. “Would that keep your mind off things?” Her gaze moves to the hair tie around my wrist.
I glance down at it. “Maybe.” My breath slips out.
She cups my chin, tilting my face up until I meet her eyes. “You are more capable than that pretty little head lets you believe,” she says. “If you want to ride, then ride.”
She lets go and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “Before I met William, I had a friend who was crazy about bikes. He owns a bar now, but he’s also an instructor. He can give you lessons.”
She doesn’t ask if I’m sure. She doesn’t wait for hesitation. She just presses a number and lets it ring once.
“Lucas,” she says when a man answers. “I need a favor.”
She stands, pacing slowly. “My daughter needs riding lessons. Can you fit her in?”
There’s a pause. One. Two seconds.
She smiles and turns toward me. “Would tomorrow morning be okay for you?”
I nod.
Daughter.
The word lands strangely in my chest. A few days ago, she was a stranger. Now she says it so easily, like I was always here.
Something tightens under my ribs. My own mother never called me that. Not once. She always treated me like a child she happened to have. Like an accident she carried and never chose.
I let out a slow breath and turn my gaze toward the window while Catherine talks to Lucas. The glass reflects nothing but my face, and all I can think about is how fast everything changes.
Funny how five minutes can steal everything you have, and give you something to hold on to.
I close my eyes.
My mind brings me back to 2014.
2014.
Earlier in the year, my mother gave birth to Sofia.
When she came home, she sank into herself. She slept through the days. Sofia cried in her crib until her voice went hoarse. Justin drank. When he picked her up, he shook her so hard that her cries turned sharp and panicked.
So I took her.
I did what I could. I learned how to hold her, how to rock her until her breathing slowed. I carried more than my body was built for. Still, she was never the burden. She kept my thoughts quiet. She gave me something to focus on.
We were never religious, but I convinced myself that I was still here because of Sofia. She needed someone. And maybe I needed her too.
She slept in my arms. So small. Her fingers curled around mine, holding tight. Her lips parted as she moved.
I sat in a chair by the window. From behind the nursery door, the shouting started again.
My mother screamed, my stepfather shouted back, then her voice cut off.
I knew what that meant. When she got silent, beatings came, which he called lessons she had to learn to be a good wife.
He never even once wanted lessons on how to be a good husband.
Tears slid down my face. I didn’t wipe them away. Sometimes they didn’t come at all. Sometimes there was only numbness, settling deep inside me.
Catherine’s hand closes around my shoulder. Her warm touch pulls me back, scattering my thoughts. When she sits again, her voice is low.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. I stay still. Sofia is still on my mind.
I made a promise a long time ago. When I turn eighteen, I will try to find her. But every memory that crawls up from my past already knows the truth. I am not enough for her. I never was. How do you take care of something so small and so breakable when you can’t even hold yourself together?
She is two now. She wouldn’t even remember my face.
She wouldn’t know my voice. I would just stand there, holding her like a stranger while something inside me splits open.
And then I would leave again. Or she would be taken again.
Either way, I would lose her twice. And I am not sure whether I would be able to survive it again.
People make selfish decisions. Sometimes those decisions are the only way to survive.
I want her close. I want to hold her again.
But wanting doesn’t mean she would want me.
That is the part of life I never understand.
How families break under tragedy. How the system steps in when everyone else is too damaged to stand.
How it decides what is best and walks away, leaving us with the pieces.
They took her from my hands and said it was my fault.
Blamed me for the murder of my own mother and Justin.
I am guilty.
But not of murder.
I am guilty of opening the door and letting the murderer inside.