CHAPTER 25
THE CURATOR
I used to think freedom meant escape – breaking free from my father and his friends. I thought if I could run away, I’d be free. No bars keeping me inside, no eyes lurking in the corner of my bedroom.
But survival isn’t about running. It’s about choosing where to stand, even when the ground beneath you was never yours to claim.
Mr Lewis gave me a choice: Cold independence or protected captivity. I’d already tried the cold independence approach, the kind that swallows women like me whole, and I decided solitude didn’t make me strong. It made me a target.
But here, under their watch, I breathe deeper.
I don’t trust them – not one bit... at least, not yet, but I breathe because I’ve tasted what it means to matter.
To be seen, even in the dark. And when Sal’s voice brushed against me like velvet, I felt it; the shift.
I know this life isn’t mine, but maybe it could be.
Maybe surviving doesn’t mean escaping, maybe it means evolving.
I am no longer the girl who begged to be saved, the girl cutting one grin away at a time. I am The Curator. Chosen. Reborn. Staying.
Sal doesn’t look at me when he leaves. Instead, I see a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
His jaw is tight, his knuckles white, and the silence between us now louder than the water still dripping from the shower head.
He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to.
The way his shoulders tense as he shuts the door behind him said all there needed to be said.
Clothes are scattered on the bed like an afterthought - because I wasn’t expected to survive.
A black shirt. Jeans. Not much else. I dress slowly, fingers trembling just enough to make me hate myself for what just happened.
Each button feels heavier than it should. I dress like I’m patching up a wound.
I walk out the room, down the stairs, past the dining room.
Sal and Mr Lewis’ voices drifting out – Sal’s is low and clipped, Mr Lewis’ smoother, more dangerous.
I don’t stop long. I don’t breathe. I just keep moving, wondering what would happen if Mr Lewis knew I was snooping.
If I’ve learnt anything of late, mob men don’t forgive.
They erase, unless it’s under special circumstances, and I’m definitely not special.
Outside, the air slaps my cheeks. The wind carries the scent of pine and dust and wild rosemary.
The landscape stretches wide – Valencian hills with the distant hum of cicadas.
I see the stables before I reach them. There are horses grazing, the wind carrying the sound of hooves on the hard ground.
There’s something sacred about the way they move.
Untouched. Unbothered. I used to be like that.
Before the bruises. I stay back, just far enough not to spook them.
But not going to the stables? That’s worse, because Mr Lewis is watching.
I can feel his eyes from the window. So I walk.
The scent hits me first. Leather, hay, motor oil...and something metallic. The stables are colder than they look, despite the early sun rays illuminating rows of gleaming tack and rusty tools. As I round the corner, I see someone. She stands with one hip cocked, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
‘Hi, you must be The Curator?’ she beams, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Waylynn.’
Waylynn is my sun-soaked contradiction – her blonde curls spilling out from a well-worn Stetson.
Her denim is faded, molded to her body like paint.
Her jacket is lightly frayed at the edges, sleeves rolled up to reveal arms that have tossed hay bales, held rifles, and dragged secrets across blood-stained floors.
I know that look.
Her boots thud heavy against the concrete as she strides towards me.
‘Hi, yes, that’s me,’ I nod.
‘Come on,’ she says, her voice smooth like bourbon. ‘You ready to stop being the one that gets hunted?’
‘Sorry?’ I arch a brow.
‘There’s more to being here and staying protected,’ she says, ignoring my question. ‘You don’t just hide. You help. I guess, Boss left it up to me to show you ‘round.’
I follow her past the stalls where horses snort softly.
Beyond the stalls, we pass cars – some gleaming, some stripped.
An immaculate Bentley sits beside a dismembered Jaguar, its parts strewn across the floor like entrails.
Then I see it. A wide table, littered with knives.
One catches the light – and my eye. I stop breathing.
Beside them: rubber gloves, a torn 25kg bag labelled “LIME”, and a wood chipper.
Waylynn gestures towards the table. ‘Cleaners make things disappear. Blood. Bodies. Mistakes. You want to be one of us? You’ve got to learn this first,’ she points to the machine, adding, ‘You can start by cleaning the wood chipper.’
She throws me a pair of rubber gloves. ‘You clean, you survive. You hesitate... you’re next.’ She tips her cowboy hat up and flashes me a grin, then punches me in the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Curator. All is good. The last guy,’ she adds, gesturing to the wood chipper, ‘was late in a payment.’
I gasp.
‘Kidding!...Sort of. Look, the rules are simple. This here is what I call the dirty beautiful. Learn it, you live. Screw it up, and you become it, or you lose a digit. Watch your fingers; this bad boy isn’t for composting carrots,’ she chuckles.
‘I gathered,’ I murmur.
‘Right. It only comes out when demons can’t die by normal means.’
‘Demons?’
‘That’s code for three snitches who thought honour meant chatty confessions,’ she admits.
Then her smile softens. ‘But hey, I like you, Curator. Boss must see something in you, too. You’ve got the kind of look that tells me, I’ve never held a hacksaw, but I’m open to trying new things, or am I wrong? ’
The gloves snap against my skin with a twang, the rubber hugging tightly to my wrists. It’s awkward and unfamiliar.
‘When you’re done here, you can tend to the chickens. If the chipper coughs up any chunky surprises, you can yeet them into the chicken coop. They’ll go full Jurassic Park. Have you ever cleaned out a coop full of meat-eaters?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll need to collect the bones. Check out this one,’ she reaches to the top of a shelf. ‘A damn jawbone. I swear one of them dragged a whole spine last week, so don’t trip and fall over. They’ll eat you alive.’
Waylynn walks away, tossing me a grin over her shoulder. ‘If you need anything…’ she hollers, ‘I’ll be out here feeding the horses, and talking to them like they’re my therapist. They’re better listeners than men. It’s good to have some female non-equine company for a change.’
I don’t answer, just nod, swallowing the tension.
‘Just don’t puke. I can’t do puke!’ she finalises, before disappearing behind a stall, and I exhale.
I pause mid-step, tilting my head up, drawn by the whisper of movement – and there, I see them – two bats, curled asleep above the rafter beams, wrapped inside their wings. My breath catches, and I smile.
Maybe I am home after all.