Thirty-Five
JENNA
I learned something about Fang during our interaction: it was never me who was the issue.
In every instance where he’s avoided me, it was never about what I’d done; it was about how he feels.
He isolates himself when shit gets too real, just as he has for the past twenty-four hours.
Sure, I saw him when we all sat down to eat last night, but the man spared me a vague stare and bundled Molly up to eat in another room.
I heard his voice as he prepped his daughter for bed.
Saw him outside in conversation with Darko.
And I felt his eyes on me in the dark when he hesitated in the doorway after we’d all turned in, checking on those of us still sleeping in the parlor before his boots slowly carried him up the stairs.
He wants to protect me. At least, he thinks he might.
He thinks I’m selfless.
That I’m a good person despite my constant mistakes.
I lift the semi-warm mug of coffee to my lips and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Sleep was a bitch last night—hard floor, thin cushions, and Darla softly snoring.
Pretty sure she’s getting a head cold. The Kid didn’t seem too bothered, curled closest to the fire.
One of the prospects dragged a steel fire-guard in from outside, brushed it off, and placed it on the brick hearth.
I think Dolly might have said something when she saw The Kid’s bedding folded to one side.
It’s a new day, yet like I told Fang, it feels no different from the last. Chaos still needs my father here, and I still need to figure out how to make that happen.
Can I lie? Can I convince him that I’d truly take everything I know to the cops?
Or will he call my bluff? Fang’s not wrong—I know a fair bit about my dad’s time with the Devil’s Breed, but how relevant is it now?
And can they truly prove much of it beyond the word of one jaded daughter?
Would it lead me to my own downfall? That’s the more pertinent question. Would spilling the beans on my father inevitably point toward my own crimes?
I expel a sigh and mutter against the lip of the mug, “Happy Tuesday, motherfuckers.” Or is it Monday? I’ve lost track of the weekdays, the date having no relevance either.
I take another swig of the rapidly cooling coffee.
“Do you have room for one more?” Kathy stands in the doorway, matching mug in her hands.
“Always.”
“You better save space for me.” Darla edges into view, wrestling with a massively oversized puffer jacket. “Hell’s bells.” She punches one arm through a much-too-long sleeve. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful for the clothes they’re giving us. But damn. What giant left this in the lost property?”
“Would you like to swap?” Kathy gestures to the trench coat she wears.
Darla’s suspicious gaze lifts to hers. “Like that would go down well.”
“What do you mean?” I straighten the cushion on the seat beside me.
She shifts her gaze to me as though to say, “Do I need to explain?”
Right. Circus.
“You don’t have to join me if it’s too cold.” I offer them the out, but neither woman takes it.
“We’ll survive.” Darla settles on a chair a little farther down the porch and melts into the jacket. “We have so far.” She shakes her head as though to scold herself for souring the mood. “The Kid told me I was snoring last night. Sorry.”
“No bother.” I wrap both hands around my mug, even though there’s little residual heat in it. “Maybe ask Jezabel if they have something to help clear your nose.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I might do that.”
“How did you sleep?” I ask Kathy as she settles on the chair beside mine.
“Good.” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Better than I have in a long time.”
Darla raises her eyebrows suggestively.
Kathy chooses to ignore the taunt, and silence falls over our little group.
“What’s Anna doing?” I ask, breaking the odd standoff.
“She’s having breakfast with Molly.” Fang’s awake then.
“Thank God the girl found out her name,” Darla says. “I couldn’t believe it when Kathy told me what you said. Who would have thought getting her to talk would be so simple?”
“Right?” I finish the coffee yet keep the cup in my hands, unwilling to part with the physical distraction from the awkward tension in our conversation.
Kathy stays quiet while she nurses her drink. And Darla, always the first to speak her mind, stares off at the fields as though stuck on what to say next.
I draw a deep breath. You’ve done harder things. “Is there something I should know?”
Each woman looks at the other.
“Not something you should know, as such,” Darla says. “More, something we were told.”
“Why didn’t you say your father belonged to the same club as the one who took us?” Kathy blurts.
Maybe spontaneous combustion is a thing, because fuck me, am I suddenly hot.
I drop the blanket from my shoulders. “I didn’t want you to judge me based on who he is. Was.”
“It’s not about judging you,” Darla explains. “We had a right to know.”
“Why?” I challenge. “How would knowing have changed your situation?”
Darla rolls her lips and swallows. Kathy seems content to let her run the argument.
“It’s a matter of safety,” Darla explains. “When you purposely withhold something that important, it makes me ask why. Were you there to spy on us? Is that why you’re still here now?”
“No,” I exclaim. “Not at all.”
“Surely they would have let you go, though?” Darla frowns. “The amount of hands we passed through, someone must have known they fucked up.”
I turn the empty mug on my lap.
I stiffen as realization slowly dawns on her face like the sunrise over the fields. Fuck it.
“They didn’t know,” she whispers, hurt and confusion warring for dominance in her eyes. “They had no idea you were one of them, did they?”
I don’t dare look at Kathy.
“Who told you about him?” I ask. “Who said that my father used to be a Devil’s Breed member?”
Neither one appears keen to reveal the source of the information. There are only two people who know, as far as I’m aware: Fang and Chaos. But what if they talked about me at church? What if I was a topic of discussion? Then anyone could have filled them in.
“What were you doing there, then?” Darla asks, leaning in.
I pull my thumbs from the mug’s handle before I clean snap it off. “Same as you. Waiting to be bartered or sold.”
“Bullshit,” she counters. “They wouldn’t do that to a member’s daughter.”
“Ex-member,” I stress. “And they didn’t know, remember? I didn’t grow up in the club. Nobody knew who I was there.”
“Circus said the sheriff wants to talk to us again about Anna,” Kathy interjects. “Do you know anything about that?”
Fuck. Do I continue to lie? Continue to do all the things Fang accused me of for the sole purpose of saving myself? Nothing changes unless we do. Acid churns a hot eddy in my stomach. Somehow, this seems the worst revelation of all.
“They know who her family is,” I say quietly. “The sheriff probably wants to ask questions about that.”
“I don’t get it,” Darla says. “What would we know about her family?”
I want to tell her to stop asking questions. To wrap my hands around her throat and yell at her to shut the fuck up. A shiver ripples down my body at the realization this is probably how it started with Mary-Beth.
I grip the mug in my lap, convinced if I can keep my hands on the ceramic then there’s no chance I can blackout and harm either of these women, too.
“Why would we know anything, Jenna?”
My chest aches, heart pounding. Sacrifice wouldn’t be what it is without the accompanying pain. If it were easy, everyone would do it. But that’s exactly what I have to do now if I ever hope to maintain a relationship with people I care about—sacrifice my ill-bought safety for their peace of mind.
“Mary-Beth is—was—Anna’s sister.”
Kathy inhales sharply, gaze fixed on me, wide-eyed. Darla leans forward, elbows to her knees to bury her face in her hands. The reprieve doesn’t last long, Darla bolting upright to exclaim, “What the fuck, Jenna? You knew that?”
“Not the whole time.”
“But you’ve known for a while, right? How long?”
“I figured it out at the hospital.”
She melts down her chair.
“How?” Kathy whispers. “How did you figure it out?”
Again, my first thought is to lie—no—omit the truth and merely say they look alike, which they do. But why jump ship now when I’ve only just set sail? Lock in, Jenna.
“Their father belongs to another MC. I recognized Mary-Beth when they put us all together. She recognized me a few days later.”
Darla rolls her head back and groans.
Kathy presses her lips together, eyes glassy with emotion. “You’re the one who did it, aren’t you?”
What do I say to that? A simple ‘yes’? It seems inadequate given the gravity of the lie. Again, not a lie, just an omission of the truth. “She threatened to out me to our captors so that she could buy her way out.”
“And killing her seemed like the only feasible option at that point, right?” Darla grows even more languid and resigned in her seat.
“It wasn’t intentional.” Yes, it was. “At first.”
Kathy scoots her chair away from mine and closer to Darla.
It’s the most painful thing she could have said.
“I understand if you tell the sheriff when he’s next here.”
Darla huffs a laugh, tossing one hand. “Sue. Because it’s no big deal, so we’ll just wait until he pops by for a chit-chat and a coffee. ‘Hey, Mr. Sheriff. Great biscuits you brought with you. By the way, Jenna murdered Mary-Beth.”
Kathy whimpers in the back of her throat.
“Fuck. May as well wait until Anna brings it up first to let her know too, huh?”
If I could disappear—straight merge with the wood beneath my ass—I would. “Please don’t tell her yet.”
“And when is the right time?” Darla jerks upright, leaning forward in her seat.
“Let the police do it. Let Maisie tell her. She’ll know what to do.”
“Yeah? And what do you do when she breaks down? Cries? Feels betrayed? How does one fix that?”
I don’t say anything. I knew Darla was straightforward and blunt, but fuck, she can be mean too.
Not that it isn’t warranted.
“I’m sorry.” Fuck the rock in my throat. “I freaked out when it happened, and things just spiraled deeper after that. I didn’t know how to tell you guys.”
“You just said you didn’t want to because it’d change how we look at you,” Darla hollers, one hand extended out before her.
Kathy tucks her knees up, nibbling on the point of a lapel.
“And it has,” I yell back, knowing if I don’t, I’ll cry. “Hasn’t it?”
“How could it not?” Darla volleys. “You fucking murdered someone. No. Not just someone. Another kidnapped woman.” She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, her back hitting the chair. “All because she saw you as a way to get free. How fucked up is that?”
“That’s not how it is.”
“Isn’t it?” she cries. “Because I can’t see how it could be anything else. Your selfish and thoughtless actions cost someone their life,” Darla states harshly.
I want to argue it further—to say that Mary-Beth was a horrible person, but that doesn’t excuse my actions, does it?
Everything I told Fang was the truth, and at the time it felt like a valid reason to defend myself.
But was it simpler than that? Is there some part of me deep inside that was purely jealous that she had a way out, and I didn’t?
“I’m sorry.” I set the mug aside, allowing the blanket to fall from my body as I stand.
Both women stay quiet, the tension choking the icy air as it moves down my throat. I skip down the steps and head for the trees, feet moving faster with every step I take until I’m running, sprinting toward isolation and detachment from the world around me.
I fucked up. I know that.
But what was more insane was that I truly believed that once people heard my reason for what I did, they’d understand. That I’d be met with trepidation, sure, but also empathy.
I killed Mary-Beth to save myself in a situation that didn’t seem to have any other options.
But take the facts into the light of day, and it’s a whole different scenario without the driving emotions behind it.
Hands shaking, I pull the burner phone from my pocket and stare at the blank screen. My thumb makes hasty work of the options, and I lift it to my ear.
It rings. And rings.
The fucking thing rings until his voicemail cuts in, the factory message recited in my ear in cool, detached monotones.
I hang up and promptly throw the fucking phone as hard as I can to get it as far away from me as possible. It’s a poisoned weapon, a promise of forever and the end.
It lies in two pieces at the base of a pine tree.
“Fuck!”
Knees to the littered ground, I set both palms on the cool forest floor and search for stability.
Air moves in and out of my lungs, and yet I still feel as though I can’t breathe.
I’m too numb to all of this to cry anymore, too depressed to care.
And worst of all, I’ve lost any hope of resolution that may have kept me moving forward.
There’s only one path out of here now that they all know.
Only one door left open.
And once it closes behind me, it won’t reopen again as long as I draw breath.