Chapter 40
NOAH: Three months earlier
I try shaking her from my mind, but the more I shake, the more I set her free.
“Dad!” I call out, gripping my head as I step onto the yacht that used to be my prison. It’s since been renamed… KNOT MISSING.
Oh, the irony.
And oooh… my fucking head!
My arm twitches at my side, like a wire sparking beneath my skin. I shake it out, but it twitches again, sharp, involuntary, like my body’s trying to flinch away from a memory.
Noah, would you calm down? she says, her voice zipping through my brain.
I shake my head harder. “I don’t want to be here. Can we please leave?”
This is the last place I ever wanted to be again. I swore I’d never step foot back on this boat. Every instinct in me is screaming to run—but that’s how this survives. And I’m done letting it survive.
Soon, Noah. Soon.
I slap the front of my head. God, I wish she would shut up and leave me alone.
“Noah? Welcome back, son.”
My head snaps up as Dad rounds the corner with the confidence of a lion—his boat, his world—but his smirk falters the moment he sees the knife in my hand.
“What are you doing?” He laughs, like this is a joke.
Like I’m a joke.
I am no fucking joke.
That’s right, Noah. You can do this.
I grip my forehead. “Pleeease be quiet!” I hiss under my breath. My arm twitches again.
Putain!
Putain!
Putain!
“Well, just look at you,” Dad sneers. “Still as pretty as I remember.”
His words scrape against my nerves. I take another step closer, watching the confidence crack in his face.
He’s afraid. Good.
I want him afraid.
I’ve spent my whole fucking life afraid!
“Meera!” Mom squeals from behind him, and he abruptly turns.
And that’s when I pounce.
I plunge the knife into his back. Again. And again. And again.
I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
I am K-N-O-T stopping.
That’s right, baby. Don’t stop.
“This is for Noah,” I shout, twisting the knife in what I hope is his heart.
“And this is for America!” I pull the knife out and plunge it right back in with more force, more fury, more anger.
“And this”—spit sprays from my lips—“is for Alex!” I ram the knife into his shoulder, completely missing my target. I shake out my arm before attempting to remove the knife from the bone. It takes a lot of effort—more than I ever imagined. I’m not that strong.
Yes, you are, Noah. You are strong. Stronger.
A splash of blood hits my cheek, and I’m momentarily thrown back into the rain.
Noah, stay focused. Don’t go there!
Shut up, Meera!
No. No. Nooo.
I shake my head, wiping the back of my hand across my cheek, smearing blood across my face. I glance down at the knife buried deep in his motionless body. It’s stuck. It doesn’t matter. I’m not worried about fingerprints.
Because I don’t exist.
None of us does.
I lean over his back and trace my initials into the blood… N.J.
“Meera?”
I jolt at the name. Mom freezes, then takes a step—then another—back as if she’s seen something she can’t place.
My name isn’t Meera. Why would she call me that?
Unless…
No.
She can’t see her. That’s impossible. She’s inside me. Not beside me. Not behind me. Inside me.
Mom’s gaze falters, fixed just over my shoulder.
There’s nothing there.
There is no there.
A pressure gathers at the edge of my thoughts, like someone leaning forward to be noticed. Like breath near my ear.
Stop.
Mom must recognize the name. From before. From all those years of hearing me talk when no one else was in the room. From the whispers. From the pauses that sounded like answers. Maybe she heard the name slip out. Maybe she’d stood outside my door and listened.
Maybe she’s always known.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, fingers fumbling at the blond hair falling into my face as I shove it aside so she can see my eyes. Meera has green eyes—mine are blue. Clear blue. Can’t she see the difference?
For a beat, the boat tilts, a soft but disorienting sway, and a cold thought slips in: if she can’t even get my name right, what else is wrong?
“Mom?” My voice cracks. I look down at my hands and freeze. Blood slicks my palms, glistening under the moonlight.
I’m even more confused when I see my father’s limp form crumpled at my feet.
My eyes widen.
Jesus, Noah. Not now. Don’t lose your focus.
Lose my focus?
Lose my damn focus?!
I swat at my ear, desperate to flush her voice out of my head. Only Mimi would do something like this—Mom knows that! Not me. I would never do this.
I’m a coward! A fucking sissy! Always have been.
It’s why I made Meera stay with me when America left—because I was too scared to be alone.
Too scared I’d get lost in the rain.
I was afraid, damn it!
Afraid!
Dissociative identity disorder—that’s the official phrasing—the neat little line on my chart. It means I share a brain with Meera.
Trauma does that, you know? Splits you. Gives you whatever mechanism it can to keep you alive. Hands you versions of yourself you never asked for.
To be clear, my mechanism had always been the rain, the steady hiding place in my head.
But Meera? She wasn’t mine. She was just… borrowed.
Borrowed because she never actually belonged to me in the first place—she belonged to my sister.
Meera was America’s mechanism for survival. Mimi too. Those were her identities. Her alters.
Her fucking disorder!
I stumble over the puddle of blood and collapse into my mother’s arms.
“Oh god. Oh, baby,” she cries. “I’m so sorry, Noah.” Her thumbs trace my cheeks, trembling against my skin.
Sorry? For what?
For watching that monster rape my sister? For watching him hurt me?
For keeping us trapped in this drifting hell on water?
Sorry that you tried your best?
That you helped me escape?
That you were trapped too?
I know, Mom.
I know.
“I forgive you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the thumb that catches my tears.
Then… I let her go. My hands shake as I move down the hallway, each step thick and heavy, like wading through a storm. But in order to reach the dreams on the other side, I have to walk straight through this nightmare first.
At the far end of the yacht, I reach the railing. The metal is cold beneath my palms. I swing my legs over the edge and close my eyes.
I breathe in.
And out.
And in again.
“Je t’aime, Mother.”
“I love you too, son,” she sobs, her hand closing over mine, as if she can anchor me through the fear she knows I have of the water. “Set her free, Noah. Don’t take her with you, baby. Let her go. She doesn’t belong to you.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.” I look at the dark water and almost laugh. “She doesn’t know how to swim. None of us do.”
“Oh, Noah,” she whispers, releasing my hand.
And I jump.
Straight into the writhing water and the depth of my dreams. Tearing myself free from this prison. Ripping apart the voice that’s webbed through my mind. It’s over. This nightmare—it’s finally fucking over.
“He’ll never touch us again, America! I promise you! He’ll never touch us again!” I shout, breaking the surface and spitting my words into the crashing waves.
Disoriented, I clutch the wooden planks of the dock and hoist myself up, rain lashing down, mingling with my tears.
You got this, baby. Now… run!
My feet slip. My head swims. The dock blurs into the water and sky. I don’t think, don’t plan—my body just moves before my mind can catch up.
And I run… straight through the rain.