Chapter 53
Cassandra
The fresh spring air sweeps back my hair as I step from the car, taking Mikhail’s hand in mine as he snaps my door closed.
Each step of my black stilettos clicks against the pavement, and my graduation gown swishes heavily across the bare expanse of my ankles.
Ivan follows along at our backs, a grounding shadow behind.
Mikhail’s entire inner circle attended my graduation ceremony, and the group of overgrown, tattooed men caused quite a scene in the bleachers.
When they called my name, I had never heard shouts so loud.
The entire group hollered at the top of their lungs until tears clung to my carefully lined eyes.
I had a lot of time to think on the drive over here. To change my mind. And yet, walking toward the familiar house, filled with so many of my worst memories, I don’t feel an ounce of doubt in my soul.
“Happy graduation, my love,” Mikhail says as we walk to the door. The wood is warped by time and weather, wearing the same chip I created when I slammed the edge too hard in second grade, anxious to get home to play with my dolls.
My knock echoes through the quiet neighborhood, causing a dog to start barking in the distance. I don’t have to wait long before I hear a shout through the door, the intonation of his voice as familiar as the peeling bricks lining the entrance.
Then the door cracks open, and my mom’s face glances apprehensively through the gap.
My line of sight leaps to the purple bruising under her soft grey eyes. Eyes that wobble with fear when they see me, rather than joy or relief.
The vision sits like lead in my gut.
“Well? Who the fuck is it, Julianne?” Joe’s voice booms out from the living room. Mom glances hurriedly between Mikhail and me, then down to my graduation gown and white, lacy dress. I swear I can see a glimpse of liquid water in her eyes.
“No one, dear. Just a salesman,” she calls back, before ushering me to go away. It hurts to watch, despite knowing she’s just trying to protect me in her own way.
Instead of turning back to the car, Mikhail extends his large arm to my mother.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donahue. I’m Mikhail Solokov, your daughter’s fiancé.”
My face flushes at the words, still not used to hearing the title. Mom’s eyes jump to the diamond ring weighing down my finger, eyebrows flying up in shock.
“I do hope we can get off on the right foot someday, but I’m afraid today might not be that day.”
Mom’s still processing Mikhail’s words with a frown when he pushes the door open, sliding past her through the opening.
“Mom, go wait in the car,” I say sternly, grabbing her hands with mine and interlocking our fingers.
“What? No! But—”
“Mom,” I say softly, squeezing her fingers to relay the seriousness of my meaning. “Go get in the car.”
She looks so much more tired than the last time I saw her.
The years of abuse and control weigh on her back like a welded anchor I can’t remove.
She looks up to me, her fight simmering to embers at the elevation of my voice.
Seeing the effect kills me, even though I know I’m doing what’s best right now.
At least, that’s what I believe.
I watch as she shuffles to the car, hand pausing briefly on the handle before sliding into the back seat.
I blow out my clenched breath just as Joe’s shouts start sounding out from inside. I turn, wandering in toward the noise in savage curiosity.
The house hasn’t changed one bit.
Sure, maybe in the minor, surface-level aspects—a new piece of furniture here, an odd stack of books there—but the bones of this house stand strong, warped by the foul history and neglect they were dealt with through the years.
I wander past the eroded peach sofa. Instead of taking me back to all the times Mom and I would curl up, watching movie marathons and sneaking ice cream, all I see is the washed-out pink stain I caught her trying to scrub out early one morning after a particularly bad fight with Joe.
I stroll past the dining table, remembering all of the nights I would go to bed with a growling stomach because Joe gambled our grocery money away.
Screams continue to radiate through the room, likely the outcome of Mikhail’s talented exertions.
I’m not too worried about someone hearing him and reporting us.
After all, each of our neighbors has listened to years of screams, and none have ever offered anything more than insolent looks and judgmental glares.
When I finally reach the kitchen, I find Joe tied to a chair, my fiancé grinding a metal needle under his index fingernail with a broad smile on his face. Shaking my head in some fucked-up kind of morose humor, I turn from the violent scene, seeking out something else.
The wooden surface, so often replicated in my nightmares through the years, stands dull and worse for wear. The long-tarnished gold knob fits loose in its slot, and the expanse of the door is dented high and low, having endured fists and boots and insufferable anger.
I tilt my head, considering the utterly ordinary structure.
“You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you and your mother for this! I provided for you all your life, and this is the treatment you give me? Siccing your boyfriend on me?”
Joe’s voice is impossible to avoid, the particular tone tensing my muscles from ingrained memory.
“You think you can get away with this? You think—”
I flinch when the voice cuts off on a strangled sound. When I glance back toward the pair, I see Mikhail’s hands wrapped around his slimy tongue and a pair of shears balanced in his other palm.
Mikhail’s eyes are on me, though. My fiancé’s face is flooded with a patient expression of love and assurance, those dark blue orbs absorbing all of my discomfort.
And when I turn back to the closet, I can finally see it for what it is.
An absolute load of shit.
It’s just a crappy excuse for a storage closet. Though the idea of stepping inside still makes my nerves itch with anxiety, it doesn’t remind me of failure anymore. In fact, it’s not tied to me at all.
It’s just a stupid closet, Sophia’s voice whispers in my ear, and a small, proud smile ticks up the corner of my lips.
“Ready, Menace?” Mikhail asks in the soft voice he only uses with me.
I walk over to where my stepfather is now being held in place by Ivan, Mikhail circling close behind me.
His left hand slides across my waist in a steady show of support.
In his right lies a silver handgun, suppressor already screwed onto the barrel.
The familiar grooves of the weapon slide across my hand like an old friend.
When Joe spots the gun, the screams kick up in volume, thundering through the house in a final hurrah.
All I hear is white noise.
And as I indent the tip into the damp, sweaty wrinkles lining his forehead, all I feel is the cool calm of peace.