43. Ava
AVA
I ’m ashamed to admit I’ve let my grandmother’s house go.
The place is a wreck. Cobwebs hang from the corners, the fridge smells like death’s cousin, and it’s so cluttered, I don’t even know where to begin.
Luckily, it’s enough to keep my mind occupied on my first day on my own, leaving me little time to think about Levi, my mysterious father, and the threat of whoever is hunting me looming over my head.
After all, cleaning is my specialty.
Except when I start, I find a picture of Gran and me and end up in a puddle of my own tears on the floor.
So . . . in the silence of my new home, I cry as loud and obnoxiously as I want. I cry for Gran. I cry for Levi. I cry about a cat I had when I was twelve, who went missing one day. I’d found him in the window, too young to realize until I tried to pick him up that he was already dead.
I cry for every version of myself I’ve ever had to bury just to survive.
When my sobs finally taper off into hiccupping gasps, I lie there for a long time, cheek pressed to the dusty hardwood, arms curled around the frame like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
The picture is old—faded at the edges—but Gran’s smile is just as I remember.
Warm. Fierce. Like she knew all my secrets and loved me anyway.
God, I miss her.
Eventually, I sit up and swipe my sleeve across my face, smearing tears and dust together like war paint. I’m not done grieving. I don’t think I ever will be. But grief doesn’t get to rot this place to the ground. Not while I’m still standing.
So, I get up.
I toss the picture on the counter, blast an old playlist Gran used to love—some mix of Patsy Cline, Fleetwood Mac, and angry woman country that I’ve never listened to in my life—and start scrubbing like it’s going to save me. Maybe it will.
Each cabinet I empty, each surface I wipe, feels like reclaiming something. My sanity. My life. My strength.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not still haunted.
Levi’s voice echoes in my head sometimes when I reach for something high up or when I slam a drawer too hard. His laugh. That quiet growl he made when I said something that pushed his buttons. The way he’d look at me like I was the only thing he’d ever been sure of.
And then there’s the other voice, colder and sharper—Alex’s. His words echoing back to me, reminding me that I will never be anything more than a pawn in someone else’s game.
But not today.
Today, I scrub blood off the metaphorical walls and sing horribly along to the music until my voice gives out. Today, I let myself be a little broken, a little brave, and a little pissed off at the world.
And when I finally let myself collapse on the couch, covered in sweat and dust and whatever the hell that black goo in the sink was . . . I don’t feel good , exactly.
But I feel something like hope.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to change the locks. Tomorrow, I’ll go into town and get supplies. Tomorrow, I’ll try to remember who I was before all of this. Or maybe I’ll start deciding who I want to be now.
Tonight, though?
Tonight, I’ll wrap myself in Gran’s old quilt, heat up a questionable can of soup, and let the silence hold me without crushing me.
And that’s enough.
At least for now.
When I climb under the spray of the shower, it’s near dusk, and a quiet calm settles over the clearing outside.
The snow has started to accumulate, but it will be a few weeks before it becomes a problem.
For now, I’ve got enough old, dry wood stored to last, at least until I can muster up whatever strength I can find to go out and chop wood.
Maybe that could be my new calling. Lumberjack Ava.
Okay, maybe not, but I’ll make it work.
By the time I climb out of the shower, the house is cast in shadows, and the sun is beginning to dip below the trees. I slide on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt because I have every intention of heading into town to get some supplies for the house.
It’s not until I’m brushing my hair that I realize the music in the kitchen has stopped.
I freeze, brush mid-stroke.
The silence is sudden. Suffocating. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fall—it lands . Hard. Like a warning shot.
At first, I try to rationalize it. Maybe the playlist ended. Maybe the power flickered. Maybe I accidentally hit pause with my elbow when I passed by the speaker. But I know I didn’t.
The cottage is old, but she’s reliable. And I know what silence sounds like when it’s natural. This isn’t that.
I set the brush down carefully on the bathroom counter, every nerve ending in my body going on high alert. The kind of instinctive awareness that settles in your bones after you’ve been hunted before. And I have .
I pad barefoot to the doorway and press my shoulder against the wall, straining to hear anything . A creak. A footstep. The whoosh of the heater kicking on.
Nothing.
Which is somehow worse.
Slowly, I reach for the small drawer under the hallway table, where I tucked my grandmother’s old revolver earlier today while cleaning. The handle is cold and familiar in my palm, the weight grounding me just enough to keep the panic at bay.
I inch toward the kitchen, heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me of something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
When I round the corner, everything looks the same—except for one detail.
The back door is cracked open.
Not much. Just a sliver. Barely enough to notice unless you’re looking.
But I am looking.
And I know damn well I locked it earlier.
The cold air creeping through the opening brushes against my bare arms, and suddenly I’m not sure if it’s the chill or fear that raises goosebumps along my skin.
I lift the gun and take one step closer, peering out through the gap.
The clearing looks empty. Still. Snow dusts the back porch, undisturbed.
But that doesn’t mean someone didn’t already come in.
I step back and shut the door quietly, clicking the lock into place. Then I twist the deadbolt for good measure. My breath catches when I turn and notice—
One of the mugs from the drying rack is missing.
It had been there earlier. I remember. Blue ceramic with a chip along the rim. Gran’s favorite.
Now it’s gone.
Which means someone was here.
Maybe still is.
My grip on the revolver tightens. I move quickly, silently, checking the rest of the cottage room by room, until I reach the last place—Gran’s old bedroom. The door is mostly closed, just barely ajar.
I swear I didn’t leave it like that.
I don’t breathe as I nudge it open with the toe of my shoe.
Inside, the bed is untouched. The closet door is open an inch.
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure whoever might be hiding inside can hear it.
I raise the gun, hand steady, voice low and hard. “If you’re in there, you’ve got three seconds to step out before I put a hole in the door.”
Silence.
Then—
A soft creak.
I don’t wait. I kick the closet door open and step back, gun raised.
Empty.
Just coats and old blankets and the musty smell of cedar and time.
I stand there for a long moment, pulse still racing, before lowering the weapon.
There’s no one here.
That is, until they wrap their arms around me from behind.
I try to scream, but a gloved hand slams over my mouth, dragging me back before the sound can leave my throat. My feet skid across the floor, kicking wildly, and my elbow connects with something solid—but it barely slows them down.
They’re strong. Too strong.
And silent.
The revolver clatters to the floor just out of reach, spinning across the wood like it’s mocking me.
I thrash harder, desperation overtaking fear, nails clawing at their hand, trying to twist, bite, anything —but they’ve done this before.
I’m thrown forward onto the bed, and my hands are ripped behind my back and cuffed. I wince at the pain of the metal digging into my bones, and try to fight them off, but it’s no use.
Then a voice—cool, calm, and far too fucking sinister—slithers out of the darkness like a blade against my spine.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I twist onto my back, dazed—and freeze.
“Hello, Ava,” he says, voice smooth and low. Too calm.
My eyes dart to the object glinting in his hand.
A syringe.
No. No, no, no.
“You,” I whisper, voice barely audible. My entire body seizes with instinctive terror. “Don’t—don’t do this.”
He tilts his head, black eyes glinting as he studies me like something beneath glass. “They warned you, Ava. You should have listened.”
I push back against him, trying to kick, trying to move, but I’m boxed in. There’s nowhere to go.
“Don’t,” I breathe, trembling so hard my teeth chatter.
But he’s already lunging. The needle sinks into the side of my neck with a sickening sting. I scream—but it’s already fading into a slur.
Fire spreads from the puncture down my spine.
I gasp, trying to fight it. Trying to move. My limbs go numb. My head spins. My tongue goes thick and useless in my mouth.
“Levi . . .” I slur again, desperate. My vision wobbles, tunneling at the edges.
He leans in, brushing hair from my face with terrifying gentleness. “I told you Cross would get you killed.”
The world is spinning.
Levi was right . . .
I want to scream. Fight. Do something .
I want to tell him to go to hell.
Unfortunately, all I can do is black out.
The first thing I notice when my senses crawl back from the void is the sickness.
It doesn’t just settle in my stomach—it ravages it, twisting and roiling like a nest of snakes.
Acid claws up my throat, leaving a trail of fire as I shift on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor.
Pain radiates from every point of contact.
My joints groan, stiff from whatever cocktail of drugs Alex injected me with.
The air is heavy. Wet. Foul. It clings to my throat, thick with the scent of mildew, rust, and something unmistakably iron— blood. It coats the back of my tongue with every breath I take, and I gag before I even open my eyes.
When I do, it’s like peeling open wounds.