Chapter 39 #2
I reach for the handle anyway, whispering to the storm that lives inside me. If I die, at least it’ll be in the rain. I drag the window down, and a wave slaps me in the face—a cold, angry kiss. I spit out the salt. I need the rain. I need it to hide my tears. If they see my tears, they’ll see me.
Rain and tears… rain and tears… rain and tears…
I chant it like a prayer. Like a spell. Until the words blur into waves. And the storm swallows me whole as I squeeze through the window.
I step onto the ledge. The metal bites cold against my bare feet, slick with ocean spray. Waves slam into my shins, their rhythm pounding like a second heartbeat.
Turning around, I pull the window closed behind me and press myself flat against the hull.
My fingers cling to the slick surface, searching for balance, for something solid to hold on to.
Carefully, I shuffle sideways along the narrow ridge, the sea hissing below, rain beginning to spill from the dark sky above.
Each drop hits like needles—sharp, cold, cleansing.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in the salt, the storm, the freedom.
Then—finally, fucking finally—
I move… into the rain.
“Noah!” I shout. “Noah, open your eyes, sweetheart.”
His head shakes—hard—almost violently, like he’s trying to expel a ghost. I gently pry his trembling hands away from his face.
“Please—don’t make me leave the rain,” he cries, voice cracked and desperate.
I pull him up from the chair and into my arms. His whole body quivers, fragile and tight, heart pounding against my chest like a war drum.
“There’s no rain, baby,” I murmur, smoothing his damp hair back. You made it. You’re out of the rain, Noah. It’s gone.”
I press his face to my chest and hold him close, trying to steady him with the rhythm of my own breath. “Tranquilo, ya estás a seguro,” I whisper into his hair. “You’re safe now.”
His arms fall limp at his sides, and he gulps in air like he’s drowning—like he’s still underwater.
“Elijah,” he gasps.
I take his hands, wrap them around my waist, and anchor him there. “You’re out of the storm, Noah. There’s no more rain. Not here.”
Slowly—hesitantly—he lifts his head from my chest. His eyes meet mine, framed by wet lashes that cling like frost to glass.
“It was her Bible,” he mouths, voice barely there, lips shivering.
I brush the sweat from his brow, thumb lingering at his temple.
“What was?”
“The book,” he says, swallowing hard. “The one my mother gave me… it was her Bible.”
The punishing rain is exactly what I need to hide behind. No one will see my tears. No one will bear witness to the last breath I take. I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never see my sister again—or meet my brother.
I guess that shouldn’t matter. He never even knew I existed. But I hope America tells him about me—that I loved him. Really loved him.
I hope that one day I’ll dance in his dreams—pull a smile from his face when he closes his eyes. And I’ll keep him safe. I promise I will. He’ll never have to hide in the rain.
And if by chance he does… I’ll be there.
To dance with him.
I hum deliriously, giving myself over to the pelting rain, letting my mind drift to its soothing rhythm. “Take me away,” I whisper, surrendering to the storm’s power of protection.
It will be over soon.
I’ll be free.
With that final thought, I spread my arms wide—
And surrender—
“Son! Are you okay?! Can you hear me?!”
My eyes fly open through a blur of tears.
“Son, let’s get you to safety! Hop on!”
A hand grips my arm, yanking me forward. I tumble headfirst into a small rowboat, the wood cold and slick beneath me. The sky above is black, but the moon burns bright as a spotlight. I squint as the waves thrash against us, the boat rocking in wild, uneven jerks.
I think I’m going to puke.
“Hold on!” the man shouts over the wind. “I’ll get you to shore!”
Putain! Why is he yelling? My head throbs, skull splitting, and the salty air sears my eyes.
And the rain—
What happened to the rain?
I drag my wrists across my face, wiping away the tears that won’t stop. Except—they’re gone.
I jolt upright, heart pounding, and the yacht looms in the distance, lights flickering against the waves.
“Putain! I need to get off this boat!”
“Settle down, son,” the man says, voice steady, roughened by age. “I’m an old man. I’m rowing as fast as I can. We’ll be back on shore shortly.”
He reaches behind him, uncaps a bottle of water, and hands it to me. “Looks like they didn’t find anything.” He nods toward the yacht as he rows.
“W-what are they looking for?” My voice cracks as I pour the water down my throat too fast. I forget to swallow and double over, coughing.
“Careful there.” He pats my back with a heavy hand before picking the oars back up. “Probably drugs,” he says simply. “A yacht that size’s gotta be owned by a drug lord.”
The sand grinds under the hull as he hits the shore. The man hops out first, tugging the boat higher onto the beach.
“Come on, son.” He offers a hand, patient and kind. “Let me give you a hand.”
But the moment my feet hit solid ground—
I drop to my knees.
Eleven years.
Eleven fucking years since my toes last sank into sand.
I grab fistfuls of it—wet, cold, perfect—and toss it into the air like confetti.
“Merci!” I yell to no one in particular. “Merci beaucoup!”
The words break from me like laughter and tears rolled into one. Freedom tastes like salt. Like rain.
I turn toward the old man, crawling up the slope of drier sand as my legs shake beneath me.
“You’re welcome, son.” He smiles over his shoulder, hauling a few remaining items from his boat. “Next time, don’t be so damn stupid as to swim at night. It’s dangerous. You’re lucky I spotted you. And never—ever—swim without a life jacket.”
“I won’t, sir,” I promise, still breathless, still half-dazed from everything I’ve just survived.
The air smells different here—damp, earthy, real.
I risk another glance over my shoulder.
The yacht looms like a ghost in the distance, bobbing in the restless dark. Police lights flash faintly from the dock, red and blue bleeding across the water. Radio static cuts through the sound of waves, voices overlapping in French and English.
And there—
My mother.
She stands beside them, her long skirt whipping in the wind. It’s too dark to tell if she’s handcuffed.
But I know she is.
And even from this distance, I swear I can feel her eyes on me.
“Here you go, son. You don’t want to forget this.”
My attention snaps back to the present just in time to see the old man extend the worn leather-bound book toward me.
My mother’s Bible.
I barely have time to react before I trip over my own feet and land flat on my ass in the sand.
“Some power that book has, huh?” he says with a crooked smile.
For once, I’m speechless.
Totally and utterly speechless.
I scramble to my feet, brushing sand from my clothes with trembling hands, eyes fixed on the Bible, now soaking wet, and cradled in my palms like something fragile.
I’d forgotten all about it.
Somehow.
The last thing I remember was tucking it under my arm as my mother shoved me toward the hallway, toward freedom, toward whatever life waited beyond the rain.
And yet—it’s here.
Still with me.
Still—mine.
I nod a stiff thanks to the old man. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
Then, I take my only chance—
And run.
“I don’t know why she did it.”
Noah folds his hand into mine as I guide him over to the kitchen sink. I grab a hand towel, hold it under the running water, then wring it out. Gently, I press the cool cloth to his flushed face.
“Everything I needed was slotted between the pages of the Bible,” he mumbles from under the towel.
I move it slowly across his cheeks, then up to his hairline, blotting gently by his ears. I feel the tension in his body soften just slightly, like the warmth of his skin is letting go in small increments.
“Like what?” I ask, dragging the towel down the side of his neck. He exhales, soft and shaky, the coolness grounding him.
“My adoption papers, for one.” His voice steadies. “The names of my real adoptive parents were there. Their address in America too.”
He lowers the towel slightly, his eyes unfocused, lost again—but this time not to fear. There’s something quieter in the blankness, a fragile processing of truths long hidden.
“There were letters… from Erica. I assume they were intercepted by my father, but for some reason, my mother kept them. They were postmarked from New York.”
A sniffle escapes, and he drags his wrist across his nose.
“I found a plastic teardrop too. Three-dimensional. A bookmark—one end tucked between the pages, the tear hanging over the binder. Of course, Erica was an artist. I recognized her work instantly.” A sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“It was like a mini snow globe, except in the shape of a tear. Inside… it held the rain.”
He looks up at me, eyes glistening. “And my tears.”
I rinse the towel again and hand it over, letting him take it this time. He wipes at his eyes, calmer now. “She was always so creative,” he whispers. I wait, giving him the space to breathe.
“A keycard was also tucked between the pages,” he adds. “It belonged to a locker at a gym in downtown Paris. When I got there… I found cash. Lots of it. And copies of sketches my sister had turned over to the authorities.”
He pauses. I say nothing. Something tells me that was Gabriel’s cash.
“There was a note attached to the pile of drawings,” he continues, eyes fixed on something far away. “‘Follow me through the rain,’ it said.”
He meets my gaze—clearer now, stronger. “I knew exactly what she was referring to,” he says. “We were of the same mind, after all.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Feeling a small weight lift from both of us.
“Sounds like your mother was in cahoots with your sister?”
Those sad eyes turn even sadder. I set the washcloth aside and cup his face gently between my hands. His skin is warm, soft beneath my palms, and I feel the tremor of tension that’s been coiled there for years.
“Maybe.” He breathes the word against my touch.
It’s clear he’s still struggling to fully accept it. Can’t say I blame him. Eleven years trapped by those people—trust doesn’t exactly come easy.
“I guess,” he murmurs.
I tread carefully with my next question. He’s placed his sister on a pedestal—and I want to respect that. Honestly, she did orchestrate his escape. She’s the reason he’s standing here now, breathing, alive.
“Noah…” I pause, searching his face. “Your sister sounds like a wonderful person.”
“She is!” He beams. And for a moment, that smile feels like sunlight cutting through the storm that’s followed him his whole life.
But I have to ask. Even if it shatters that light for a moment. Even if it risks everything.
“Do you happen to know why she didn’t tell Alex about his child? Or you? Or why she walked out on her family? Why she made arrangements for us to adopt Ana… only to come back and blackmail Gabriel?”
His smile falters. I don’t stop. “And why did she complicate things by leaving her artwork tattooed on Alex’s body? A puzzle, for Christ’s sake. Why is she so goddamn hard to understand?”
The questions pour out of me, one after the other—fast, raw, angry.
Noah blinks. His mouth parts slightly. “That’s… a lot of questions,” he says softly.
I release a breath, run my hands down his arms. “But they need to be answered, Noah. If not by you… then by her.”
He shakes his head, slowly. The childish way he moves it side to side does nothing to deter me. If anything, it makes me push harder.
“From what I understand, she showed up at your apartment the other night?”
He exhales heavily, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “That wasn’t America.”
When his gaze falls forward again, defeat clouds his blue eyes. “Then who was it?” I press.
He fidgets with his shirt, tugging at the neckline, staring down at his feet. “Mimi. Meera.” He glances back up, lost. “But it definitely wasn’t America.”
I blink and reach for the bourbon, checking the label before pouring. Yup, definitely bourbon. Maybe the burn will help me make sense of this conversation. My chest feels tight, my mind spinning, but I need to hold steady. Noah needs me to.
I toss the shot back, the smooth fire sliding down my throat.
“I’m scared,” Noah whispers, pulling me from my daze. “Not of America. But of… them.”
And there it is again—another riddle wrapped in fear.
Before I can respond, he surprises me—takes my hand away from the glass and brings it to his trembling lips.
“America is my sister.” He exhales, breath shaking against my knuckles.
“Or Meera, if that’s what you choose to call her.
It’s not her real name—she doesn’t even know her proper name.
But she’s the reason I survived the storm, Elijah.
She’s a good person. I swear she is. You have to understand…
she had to survive too. And she loves me. A lot.”
He presses a soft kiss to my fingers. I freeze, stunned by the boldness of it—but I don’t pull away. I let him hold them there, resting against his lips, because I can feel the truth trembling through them.
“I know this doesn’t make any sense to you,” he goes on, voice breaking.
“Or to anyone else because you were never forced to hide in the rain. But America and I… we had no choice. To survive the nightmare, we had to exist outside of the darkness. Behind the rain. Our father may have taken our bodies, but he could never reach our souls. Do you understand?”
“I’m trying, Noah. I really am.”
He sighs, the sound small and broken, then pushes on anyway.
“He couldn’t take what he wasn’t able to see.
You have to believe me when I say that what America did—to Alex, to Ana, Emilee, and Gabriel too—it was out of necessity.
Out of love. Her actions were meant to protect them… because she loved them.”
I take a step back, dragging my hand from his lips. A vein throbs at my temple, the room suddenly too close, too tight.
“She blackmailed us, Noah.”
“No!” he shouts.
“She turned her back on her entire fucking family.”
“She didn’t!” he screams, the sudden force of it slicing through the air.
The shot glass tips, shattering across the counter, bourbon splashing over my hand.
“America would never turn her back on her family!” His voice cracks as his body jerks, eyes wide and dazed, shining with something close to panic. His arm twitches, as if it carries the weight of every choice he’s ever made.
“She was protecting them. She tried—”
He swallows, breath stuttering.
“And when she lost the ability to keep going… I stepped in. I finished it.”