Chapter Three
Lyra
Being back in the states after months of running, dodging, and hiding is at once a breath of fresh air and a thousand-pound weight on my shoulders.
I’ve missed this country, I’ve missed my home, I’ve missed my job, but I feel a new level of fear being here.
I’m scared every time someone looks in my direction, worried on the off chance that they’ll recognize me from the tape.
I’m terrified as I go through airport security and immigration, even though I’ve already tested my passports.
I turn away from every security camera I see, don’t hold eye contact, make myself as small and unassuming as possible in a crowd…
I feel like a different person than who I was the last time I was in this country.
I was confident and sure of myself. Now, I'm skittish and jump at my own shadow. I hate this new version of myself, but I suppose that’s what comes of being hunted by a ruthless billionaire who will probably kill me soon after he finds me.
The cemetery is in the same state it always was; bleak and shadowed, the air thick with the weight of loss and finality of death.
My parents’ plots are also here, but I’ve never felt terribly compelled to visit them because I don’t remember them.
I only stop by their graves to drop off a bouquet of flowers from a generalized sense of duty, not any real emotional ties.
It’s my grandmother who raised me. It’s her who took care of me and Zara to the best of her abilities. And it’s Zara who I took care of to the best of my own, which turned out not to be enough. It seems I’m never quite enough.
This visit feels… different from my previous ones.
My hand hovers over my belly subconsciously, as if protecting a loss that’s already taken place.
I still haven’t quite had the time to experience grief—save from my brush with sepsis.
There were fever dreams, vague hallucinations of a future that I’ve chosen not to remember.
Here, in the presence of so much death and sadness, my recent grief pours itself through my body, settling into my bones.
Paying my respects to the two most important people in my life also inadvertently paves a path to feeling the grief of my own loss.
It feels almost silly to mourn what never was, to mourn a baby I only knew the existence of for a handful of days, but it lands nevertheless, and it lands hard.
My posture slumps, my steps weaken, and the bouquet of daisies—Zara’s favorite flowers—shiver in my hands.
My eyes prickle with the threat of oncoming tears, and I swallow several times, trying to hold them back.
What would a future have been like if I didn’t miscarry?
The tape probably still would’ve leaked, by whoever did it.
I would’ve still published the expose in retaliation and taken off.
Then, I’d have to consider my child at every juncture in the road.
Where I went, what I did, how much money I spent.
It would’ve made my world much more complex, but also…
beautiful. I’d have something to live for, not just a life I had to try to survive.
Zara’s grave is fogged over by the eerie mist settled over the cemetery. I wave as much of it away as I can, set the bouquet on the headstone, and take a seat on the damp grass before it, burying my fingers into the wilting grass.
“Hey, Z,” I murmur in greeting. I can almost see her in front of me, beside me, all around me. Her tight ringlet curls, apparently inherited from our father. Her button nose. Her wide, curious eyes. I can feel her presence in every breath I take here.
I wonder how she would’ve treated her niece or nephew, if they’d lived.
Stop thinking about it.
“Been a long year.” My voice cracks, but I continue.
“Lost my job, starred in a sex tape, got blackmailed into an arrangement with a cruel billionaire…” the prickle in my eyes intensifies, and I swallow.
“But I also got to see the world. Remember how we used to talk about traveling it together?” My bottom lip wobbles.
“I went to all the places we had pinned on that map in our bedroom. Mexico, Portugal, Greece… I didn’t hit France or Spain yet, but I expect I eventually will.
” The first tear tracks down my cheek, and I brush it away.
“I… I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.
If I hang around the states, I’ll probably get killed.
At least I’d be near you, but…” I shake my head.
“I don’t think it’s my time just yet.” And I don’t want to die.
Certainly not at Killian’s hands. He’d make it slow and painful.
“To be honest with you, I don’t really like the person I’ve turned into this last year.
” I pluck a blade of grass and twirl it in my hands.
“Not just what fear has done to me, but certain… experiences. I miss being young.” I swipe away another tear.
“I miss my greatest goal in life being to teach our cat to sit on command. Or doing well in school so Grandma would bake those marshmallow cookies. Or basically anything other than what life has become.” I sniff.
“Anyway. I love you so much—in this life and whatever comes next. I’ll see you again eventually.
Probably sooner rather than later, if I make a single misstep.
” A watery chuckle escapes me. “And knowing myself, I’ll probably face-plant straight into death. ”
I sit with my grief for a moment. For my parents, Zara, Grandma, my baby… everything I never got to keep. If there’s one central theme in my life, it’s that anyone I love, anyone I get attached to, dies or leaves. There’s never been an exception to that particular rule.
“Okay.” I wipe any traces of moisture away from my eyes and check the time on my phone.
I have about eight hours before my return flight takes off—I can just go to the airport early and hang around there.
The less time I spend out in the wild of the states, the less chance that I’ll get myself killed.
“I love you. I’ll be back when I can.” Maybe in another couple of years.
I know the gamble I took by coming here, and it’s one of the stupidest moves I ever made…
but it’s a stupid move I can live with. Not coming to see her this year, when so much has transpired, when I’ve lost so much, would’ve been untenable.
I drop the blade of grass, reach forward to straighten the bouquet, and stand. Walk over to Grandma’s headstone, which is just a few yards away, and press my hand to it.
I miss you. I love you.
“Lyra.”
My god, the memory of Killian is so visceral in this country, I actually hallucinate hearing him. He’s not here, of course; I’ve been careful. Extremely careful. I’ve taken every precaution all my experience in investigative journalism taught me.
I need to get out of this godforsaken country before I lose my mind entirely.
I turn around to leave, only to freeze.
My body’s response to the sight in front of me is intense and immediate. Goosebumps break out all over my body. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My breath catches in my throat. My heart stops, skipping three beats, then breaks out into a sprint.
I blink. Blink again. Blink a third time, hoping to clear the image in front of me—something that has to be a hallucination.
But it’s not.
Killian King is there. He’s here. Maybe twenty feet in front of me. His hands are folded into the pockets of black slacks. His white button-down is as crisp as even. His tie is navy blue; his jacket, a deep charcoal.
His expression is blank of any emotions, but his eyes… those vivid green orbs swirl with a wealth of unsaid words. They stare at me with a stark possession, shadowed with dark intentions.
I take a step back. The move is sudden and instinctual. The actions of prey preparing to run from the predator who’s surely about to mangle them.
“Hello, Little Bird.” Killian’s words may sound innocuous enough, but I know what probably comes next. He’s going to kill me.
The only question is how he’ll go about it.
The cemetery is abandoned—no one else is around. We’re pretty far in upstate New York, and the nearest hint of civilization is a town a few miles away. There will be no one around to hear my screams.
“How?” my words are scarcely a whisper.
One of Killian’s eyebrows twitch with amusement. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific. How did I find you? How am I going to punish you? How many infractions have you racked up over the last five months?”
A shudder of fear works its way up my spine.
Memories flash through my mind—the night when he made the tape, without telling me.
The night when he broke into my apartment, and I was certain he was there to kill me.
I thought I’d experienced true terror then; it’s nothing, nothing compared to what I feel now.
Then, the crime I committed was talking to someone. Now, I’ve published proof of his misdeeds for the entire fucking world to see.
“How are you going to kill me?”
“Kill you?” Killian’s head tilts to the side, as if the thought never crossed his mind. As if.
Why else would he be here? I went out of my way to ruin his reputation. I might’ve failed spectacularly—by all accounts, his business dealings swiftly recovered—but I did my best, and I know I struck a damn good blow, even if his PR team handled it.
And I ran away from him after miscarrying the child he seemed very eager to have.
I have trouble envisioning a scenario where I don’t end up dead.
“Is that why you ran?” he wonders aloud. “Because you thought I’d kill you?”
“It was one of many factors.”
“I see.” He nods slowly, digesting this information. “I have no intention of killing you, Lyra.”
He’s lying. Or, if he’s not, then the alternative—a lifetime of punishment for my infractions?—is worse. Much, much worse. Death is an end. Being alive to suffer… that’s a fate worse than death.