Chapter 21
Hunter
Beckett had taken the memory-loss drug. That’s why he had gone off the grid and was barely stable now.
“Then how do you still remember anything?” Jada asked.
His gaze lifted sluggishly, unfocused for a second before he seemed to register the question. He swayed slightly where he stood, as if even staying upright was a fight. He licked his cracked lips.
“Because they tried to fix it,” he muttered.
Jada’s fingers clenched around the fabric of her sleeve. “What do you mean?”
Beckett exhaled a rough, humorless laugh, his breath rattling. “They wanted to control it. Make it selective. That was the problem, you know? The weaponized drug didn’t pick and choose. It just wiped everything. No exceptions.” His hand trembled as he scrubbed it over his jaw. “They wanted me to fix it, but I couldn’t after I injected myself. So they had some other lab rats cook up an antidote.”
I frowned. “And it worked? On you?”
“If you call this working.” Beckett’s laugh this time was pure bitterness. “The antidote wasn’t right because it wasn’t mine. The compound structure was wrong. It didn’t fully reverse the effects. Just…cracked open pieces. Gave me back some things.” His eyelids fluttered like he was seeing something we weren’t, his pupils darting erratically. “But the rest? It’s all broken. My brain doesn’t work the way it should. The way it used to.”
Jada’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you mean?”
Beckett let out a long, shuddering exhale. “Some days, I wake up and I can’t move. Not my arms, not my legs. I just lie there. Staring at the ceiling, drooling, wetting myself. Trapped in my own body, waiting for it to pass.”
Jada flinched. I clenched my fists.
Beckett swallowed hard, his throat working. “Some days, I remember things I wish I could forget. Other days, I forget how to feed myself.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes going distant. “It’s like my brain is glitching. Like someone rewired it wrong, and now I’m stuck in an endless loop.”
Jada’s breathing had gone shallow. I stepped closer to her, a silent anchor.
Beckett’s gaze drifted back to us, his expression bleak. “That’s your antidote,” he whispered. “That’s the best they could do. They tried it on other people too. A few it worked completely on. Others…died. More than a few.”
Jada’s voice came quietly. Carefully. “But it worked for some?”
Beckett nodded slowly. “Yeah. Some of them got pieces back. Enough to function. Enough to live. Like me on my best days.” He let out a bitter laugh. “But none of them got everything back.”
I inhaled deeply, pushing down the anger boiling under my skin. I wasn’t a scientist, but even I knew what he wasn’t saying —this wasn’t an antidote. Not really. It was only another drug, one with just as many risks, maybe more.
I didn’t want to ask. Every instinct in me screamed to let this go, to walk Jada out of this trailer and put as much distance between us and Beckett’s nightmare as possible.
But I couldn’t. Not when Jada was standing beside me, barely breathing, gripping on to the hope that maybe—just maybe—there was still an answer out there.
I exhaled slowly. “Is there any antidote left?”
Beckett blinked, as if I’d asked something ridiculous. Then he let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Not the original version.” He shook his head, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Just like the drug itself, it’s gone.”
His gaze flicked to Jada, and something like pity crossed his face before he looked away. “All that’s left is that black-market trash. Cheap knock-off of something that was already broken.”
A weight I hadn’t realized I was holding loosened in my chest. If the real antidote was gone, if there was no viable solution left—then Jada couldn’t take it. Couldn’t risk turning into what Beckett was.
He suddenly swayed, his manic energy snapping back to life. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the narrow hallway.
I tensed. “Where the hell?—”
The sound of running water answered me, followed by the unmistakable, rhythmic scrape of a toothbrush against teeth.
Jada let out a breath like she’d been punched. “What…is he doing?”
Honestly, I had no idea.
“Maybe some sort of coping mechanism,” I muttered. “Some kind of mental reset. A ritual to bring his scrambled brain back in line.” I’d seen it before—guys with PTSD who’d developed tics, obsessions, things they had to do to keep from coming apart.
Jada wrapped her arms around herself. “This is a dead end. Am I going to end up like him?”
“No. His behavior is a combo of both the drug and the antidote. You may not have your memories, but at least you have full control over your mind and body.”
Beckett emerged from the hallway, his damp hands wiping down the front of his stained shirt, eyes slightly clearer, as if brushing his teeth had rebooted whatever fractured circuit was firing in his brain. But it wasn’t his fresh breath that had my attention—it was what he held between his fingers.
A small, clear vial.
Jada stiffened beside me.
“I lied,” Beckett said simply, extending the vial toward her. “This is the only antidote left.”
Shit.
I stepped forward instinctively, my body placing itself between him and Jada, even as she reached out hesitantly. Beckett barely seemed to notice that I was keeping him from handing the vial to her. His gaze flicked between us, restless and detached.
“There were two,” he continued, his voice oddly matter-of-fact. “I could’ve sworn there were two a few days ago. I was going to use them both, either finish myself off or get myself back to who I was. But now, I can only find one.”
He tilted his head and studied Jada. “Are you sure I didn’t give this to you a couple days ago? I could swear I did.”
“No. That wasn’t me.”
Jada stared at the vial, her fingers curled against her sides. I could feel the conflict radiating off her, the sharp-edged need for answers battling against the cold weight of everything Beckett had told us.
“If she takes that antidote, what will it do to her?” I asked, my voice tight.
Beckett exhaled, rubbing his forehead like the question exhausted him. “I have no idea.”
I clenched my jaw. “Take your best guess.”
“It could bring everything back,” he admitted, looking at Jada. “You could wake up tomorrow remembering exactly who you are. Or…you could end up like me.”
Jada sucked in a breath. I could see her working through it, all the possibilities colliding in her head.
“Or you could die,” Beckett added in an almost peppy tone. “That’s also a possibility.”
The air between us tightened.
Jada finally reached out and took the vial from him, her grip delicate, as if it might break apart in her hands. Beckett watched her carefully, his gaze sharpening in a way I didn’t like.
His whole body was beginning to vibrate more with a restless energy, like he was fighting off something internal and losing. His gaze darted between us, his pupils blown wide. The paranoia was creeping back in, swallowing whatever clarity he’d had left.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Things are getting worse.”
Jada took a small step forward, her voice soft but steady. “Would it help if we left?”
His breath hitched. He gave a sharp nod. “Yes.”
That was all I needed. This conversation was done. Whatever use Beckett had been to us was expiring quickly, burned up by his own mind spiraling into chaos.
I’d seen this before—hell, I’d lived it. Sometimes, the brain just shut down. No more questions, no more digging for answers. You had to know when to let go.
But Jada hesitated. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
Beckett let out a rough, exhausted laugh, rubbing at his temple with a shaking hand. “No. Nobody can do anything for me.”
Something flashed in his expression, cutting through the fractured edges of his paranoia. He turned to Jada, his eyes clearing just enough that I saw the man he used to be. The regret. The weight of what he’d done.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. He reached out, taking her hands in his, his fingers bony. “I’m sorry you were a victim of this. I hope you handle it better than I have.”
Jada swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around his. “Do you have any advice? Anything that might help?”
Beckett blinked, his expression going distant. He muttered something, so low I barely caught it.
“Bologna sandwiches.”
Jada frowned. “What?”
“And Tahiti.” He nodded sagely, completely serious. “Always wanted to go to Tahiti.”
Whatever moment of clarity he’d had was now gone. Whatever piece of him had surfaced had slipped beneath the current again, lost in the mess of his broken mind.
I wrapped a hand around Jada’s wrist and pulled her gently back. “Come on.”
She didn’t resist. I guided her toward the door, not bothering with goodbyes. Beckett was already mumbling under his breath about how sandwiches used to taste better in the eighties.
Outside, the trailer door clicked shut behind us, locking Beckett back in his own world.
Movement caught my eye. A neighbor, slumped in a rickety lawn chair, stared at a tiny, flickering TV screen on his porch. He looked away when I met his eyes, just a glint of interest, before turning back to his program.
I wasn’t surprised. A guy like Beckett—paranoid, manic, unpredictable—was probably the biggest source of entertainment in this run-down place.
Jada climbed into the truck without a word. I shut her door, rounding to my side. As I slid behind the wheel, my eyes flicked down.
The vial was still clutched in her hand, her knuckles white.
I turned the key in the ignition, gravel crunching beneath the tires as I pulled us away from Beckett’s world of ghosts and regrets.
The truck hummed beneath us, the long stretch of road back to Resting Warrior Ranch winding through the darkening landscape. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows over the fields, but I barely noticed. My focus was on the woman beside me.
Jada didn’t speak much as we left the trailer park. Just sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring at the vial in her palm like it held all the answers she needed—and all the dangers she feared.
Then, finally, after miles of silence, she set it down on the center console and reached for the kittens. Biscuits let out a sleepy little mewl as she pulled the kitten onto her lap, curling up against the warmth of her hands.
She stroked her tiny head absently. “Do you think I should take the antidote?”
I kept my eyes on the road, but my jaw tightened. “No.”
Her hand stilled.
I exhaled slowly. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk, Jada. You saw Beckett. You heard him. This thing could kill you. Or worse—it could leave you trapped inside your own body, unable to move, unable to think straight.” I shook my head. “It’s not a chance I think you should take.”
She was quiet for a long time, the sound of the road filling the space between us.
“But I get it, I’m not you,” I added finally. “I’m not the one without my memories. I know who I am, who I was. You don’t. And I can’t pretend to understand what that’s like.”
Her fingers moved against the kitten’s fur, slow, methodical. “If I took it,” she said quietly, “and it made me like Beckett…maybe that would be fair.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Fair?”
She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Justice. For what I did. To Kenzie.”
Everything in me rebelled at the idea. My gut screamed to grab that vial and toss it out the window, end the conversation right here, right now.
But I didn’t. Because this wasn’t my choice to make.
I forced my voice to stay calm. “You think that’s justice? Taking a drug that could destroy your brain?”
She shrugged, but the movement was stiff. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I set my jaw, staring out at the dark horizon. “Jada, if you want to make things right, there are better ways. Hell, I’d rather you turn yourself in to the cops than take that stuff.”
She fell silent again.
I reached over, brushing my fingers against hers where they still held the kitten. “You have time. Don’t rush this.”
She didn’t pull away. “I just don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”
I squeezed her hand gently. “Then figure that out first. Before you decide to burn it all down.”
She nodded, but I could still see the conflict in her eyes. We didn’t talk much during the four-hour drive back to Resting Warrior.
By the time I pulled up to the cabin, the sky had deepened into full darkness as I killed the engine. The headlights cast long shadows over the porch, the wooden steps worn and familiar. Jada sat still beside me, the kittens curled up in her lap, oblivious to the storm inside her.
Neither of us spoke as we climbed out of the truck. I grabbed the small box from the floor while Jada carefully cradled the kittens, her movements slow, distracted. She was still somewhere else—in Beckett’s trailer? in her own mind? I wasn’t sure—weighing choices that had no good outcome.
I made it to the porch first and immediately spotted the note taped to the door. Jada stopped beside me, shifting the kittens to one arm as I pulled it free. The paper was smooth, the handwriting neat, deliberate.
The present is what’s important, not the past. Don’t leave town because of me. Come to family dinner tomorrow.
~ Kenzie
I exhaled slowly, my eyes flicking to Jada. She was staring at the note like it might burn her. I watched her throat bob as she swallowed, her grip on the kittens tightening slightly.
She was shaken. I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. “You okay?”
She hesitated, then exhaled. “No.”
At least she was honest.
I nodded. “That’s fair.” I pushed open the door, letting her step inside first. “You don’t have to be okay, Jada. But don’t let this break you either.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set the kittens down in their box after I placed it by the couch, watching as they stretched and settled into a warm, sleepy pile. Her fingers brushed absently over the edge, but her mind was miles away.
I stepped closer. “Give it time,” I said, my voice steady. “Before you make any decisions about the antidote. Just…give yourself a chance first.”
She turned to look at me then, her brown eyes shadowed but searching. And after a long beat, she nodded. “Okay.”
“How about family dinner?” I tilted my head. “You in?”
“What is it?”
“The Resting Warrior gang all gets together to catch up, hang out, eat.”
Another pause. Then, finally, she nodded. “Yeah. I’m in.”
I didn’t let out the breath I was holding, but something in my chest eased.
Tomorrow, we’d take another step forward. And for now, that was enough.