Chapter 31 Dear Mark
THIRTY-ONE
DEAR MARK
LYLA
I’m parked in front of a small, crumbling church on the outskirts of Volant, PA, two towns ahead on the group’s route.
Its sagging roof and shattered stained-glass windows scatter moonlight across the interior in broken shards of color.
Overgrown hedges and a rusting dumpster should hide Lucy from casual sight.
Even though I’m out, I can’t just disappear and leave the group to fend for themselves. So a day ago I drove into the next town on their agenda, crashed in Lucy, scavenged all day, took out a few infected to bleed off some rage, and now I’m stuck here, missing them like hell.
I’ll wait for them to come through town, likely tomorrow morning, then I’ll follow them from a distance. I’ll trail them all the way to Montana if that’s what it takes to make sure they’re safe.
I have to make sure they make it.
The heavy doors of the church groan as I push them open. The sound echoes deep, hollow, like the last breath of something sacred.
Inside, the air is still. Thick with dust and the faint scent of wax and old paper. I walk down the aisle slowly, each step loud in the silence, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. My fingers drift across the tops of the pews—smooth, worn, empty.
No prayers. No peace.
At the altar, I stop. The carvings are worn down, barely visible anymore, prayers etched by hands that once begged for mercy. My palms press against the wood, and I lean in, closing my eyes, picturing Mark.
His stupid half grin. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That damn pen was always spinning between his fingers when he was thinking. He was calm when I wasn’t. Solid when I fell apart. My partner. My safe place.
Then—
Blood on the floor.
His body broken.
The sound of him choking on his own breath while I screamed his name and tried to hold him together with shaking hands.
A sob rips out of me—raw, haunting. I clutch the altar until my fingers ache, my chest splintering under the weight of it all. The grief is jagged and endless, cutting deeper with every breath.
“What do I do, Mark?” I whisper.
No answer. No warmth. Just silence. Just the creak of old wood and the echo of everything I’ve lost.
I drag a shaking hand through my hair, vision blurring with tears I can’t stop. Hot and bitter, they streak down my cheeks, cutting through the dust on my skin like they’re trying to burn away everything I’ve been holding in. Every mask. Every lie. Every failure.
“I swore I’d get justice,” I whisper, voice cracking on the words. “For you. For them. And now, it just feels like I failed all over again.”
The past I tried to bury is clawing its way back up, dragging me with it. The blood, the screams, the moment Mark slipped through my fingers. I can’t outrun any of it. It’s in my chest, my throat, my bones.
My knees buckle and I stumble into the front pew, collapsing like the fight’s been knocked out of me. My hands grip the edge of the bench, nails biting into the wood.
I sit there and weep for the people I’ve lost. For the justice I swore to give them. For the hurt I caused Jacob. For the weight I’ve been dragging behind me like a chain I never unhooked.
The sobs come hard, shaking my whole body. I can’t stop them. I don’t try.
Then a sound behind me. A faint rustle. I don’t look. I don’t need to.
His presence rolls in like warmth on skin chilled too long. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits down beside me, close enough for me to feel the solid calm of him anchoring me to the now.
His hand finds mine.
Fingers thread through fingers like it’s instinct. Like he’s always known where he belongs.
The silence between us is full—not empty. Heavy with the things he doesn’t ask and the things I can’t say.
But his grip is steady.
And for now, that’s enough.
When I finally turn, moonlight filters through the shattered stained glass, spilling across Jacob’s face in streaks of blue and gold. The colors shift like something holy, something not meant for this broken place.
“You tell everyone about what I did?”
He watches me. “I told my mom, which means everyone will know within an hour.”
I nod, but my throat is too tight for words.
“I’m so sorry, Lyla,” he says softly.
My head snaps to him. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who is sorry.
You were right. I was selfish. I was using people to get what I wanted.
” I pause. Tears running down my cheeks.
“I was just so tired. Tired of failing. I thought if I brought justice to those women, gave Mark peace, that I would be whole again. That all the sacrifices I’ve made would be worth it. ”
My voice breaks. “But now? It feels like none of it mattered. He died because of me. His daughters lost their father. His wife lost her husband. Because I made the call. Because I thought I could fix it all. And then I did it all over again with you and your family.”
Jacob shifts, his voice low but solid. “Look at me.”
I do. Slowly. Like it hurts to meet his gaze.
“You’re not a failure,” he says, calm and sure, like it’s not even up for debate. “You went into hell and came back swinging. You saved lives. You didn’t just chase justice—you delivered it.”
He leans in, ticking the names off like anchors to the truth. “Earl. Edith. Clair. Poppy. Jessica. My mom. You saved them, Lyla. That matters. You matter. Yes, you fucked up, but I understand why you made the choice to stay with us.”
The tears fall harder—hot, endless. Jacob cups my face and presses a soft kiss to each cheek. His forehead rests against mine, and I let myself fall into the rhythm of his breath. Ours, together. Calmer.
“I’m sorry it took me a day, and my mom smacking me in the head, to finally realize it and come find you. I should’ve chased after you the second you started that engine.”
The image of Barbara smacking him upside the head pulls a weak huff from my lips.
“I didn’t know Mark,” he says gently, “but if he loved you, and it sounds like he did, he wouldn’t want this to be all that’s left of you. He’d want more for you. You should want more for yourself.”
“I do, thanks to you,” I whisper.
“I know what guilt does,” Jacob continues, voice rough with the weight of his own scars. “I carry it every damn day for Sheila. But you showed me it doesn’t have to own me. And I’m not letting it own you.”
His grip tightens around my hands, not letting me float away.
“If you need to go back,” he says, quiet but certain, “if you need to finish this, I’ll be there. We’ll face it together. Because like it or not, you’re mine. All of you. Even the parts you think are broken. I’ll fight until you find peace. Just say the word, and we leave tonight.”
A sob rips from my chest, jagged, but lighter, like the dam inside me is finally cracking. I suck in a breath, my whole body trembling as the war inside me hits its peak.
Can I let go?
Can I put down the hate that’s been my fuel for so long?
Mark deserved justice. Every woman da Vinci hurt deserved justice. I wanted their names to mean something, to matter beyond the way they died. But justice isn’t revenge. One heals. The other destroys. And if I keep chasing blood, I’ll lose myself for good.
I close my eyes and breathe deep.
And when I open them, Jacob is still there. Still holding on. Still waiting—not pushing, just ready.
His thumbs brush away my tears as he whispers, “I go where you go.”
His words unravel something deep inside me, tugging loose the knots I’ve tied tight around my heart for far too long. I grip his wrists, pulling him closer, and kiss him like it’s the first breath after drowning.
I’m done giving da Vinci power over me. He’s taken enough.
I am not just rage. Not just grief. There’s still something in this world worth holding onto. Worth fighting for. Worth living for.
Mark. All the women we lost. I’ll carry them with me, not as wounds, but as memory. As strength.
Jacob’s forehead presses against mine. His hand stays at the back of my neck, centering me in the quiet. “Where do you want to go, Lyla?”
I speak it aloud, letting the truth rise from the ashes inside me. “Home.”
Jacob blinks, and then a smile breaks over his face—real and unguarded, bright enough to push back the shadows. He leans in again, and this kiss is deeper, a promise sealed between us with no need for words.
The air in the church feels different now. Lighter. Like something long buried has finally been released.
He pulls back slowly, his hands still cradling my face, grounding me. The golden flecks in his eyes catch the light, warm and steady as he murmurs, “Then let’s go home.”
But before he can rise, I catch his wrist, my fingers wrapping around it, stopping him.
He looks down, confused, until he sees the grin tugging at my lips.
“There’s something I need to do first,” I say, my voice low and teasing, the smile turning wicked.