Chapter Sixty-Eight
THE CLUBHOUSE WAS still hummin’ like a body comin’ down from a fight. Boots dragged across hardwood, men’s voices low as they traded scraps of the story back and forth, and downed drinks in celebration.
But even with all that noise, the air had shifted. Just ‘cause the war’s over don’t mean the ghosts vanish with it.
I found Momma sittin’ on the back porch, her silhouette cut against the moonlight.
She had a chipped ceramic mug cradled in both hands, steam long gone cold.
Her hair was looser than I’d ever seen it, strands of silver catchin’ the breeze.
Her shoulders sloped like the years had finally settled their weight there.
But her eyes—when she finally looked up—were the same.
Soft. Steady. Clear enough to calm a man.
“I figured you’d come find me,” she said, not liftin’ her gaze from the dark yard.
I dropped down on the step beside her, arms heavy across my knees, the wood groanin’ under me. “Too much in my head not to.”
We sat in the kind of quiet you don’t rush. Not empty silence, but the kind that lets the ground cool before you stir it again.
“You know everythin’,” she said after a long while. Not a question.
I nodded, slow. “Started in dreams. Then Ash told me pieces, Uncle filled in more. And tonight…” My jaw clenched. “Tonight Gabrial gave me the worst of it.”
Her fingers shifted against the mug, the tiniest tremor.
“I saw him,” I said. “The man I thought was my father. Saw him shot in my head, and you standin’ over him.”
Her breath didn’t catch, didn’t falter. She just said it plain, “I was.”
I turned toward her then, searchin’ her face. She didn’t cry. Miriam Thorne was done with tears. But the weight in her words—it was heavier than stone.
“He was gonna hand you over,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but it cut. “You were nine. You didn’t understand what the Prophet wanted from you, but I did. He said if you wouldn’t submit, you’d be punished. Called your fear rebellion. Said pain would make you holy.”
The words slid under my skin like fire old as bone.
“You were the Prophet’s son,” she went on, her jaw tight. “Property, that’s what they called you. Not a boy. Not my boy.” She looked out across the yard, her hand curlin’ white around the mug. “So I stopped him.”
The flash of it came back hard, smoke, a scream, the way my lungs felt like they were drownin’ in heat.
“I didn’t want you to see it,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t risk him touchin’ you first. Afterward… you weren’t the same. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t sleep. And then one day, you just… shut it all away.”
“Because I made it gone,” I muttered.
She nodded, eyes glintin’ in the porch light. “I wasn’t lettin’ that place have you. Wouldn’t let it carve you hollow. I wanted you free, Zeke, even if it meant carryin’ the fire myself.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was thick, packed with years of unsaid truths.
“And Sable?” My voice came rougher than I meant.
Her head turned then, her gaze diggin’ straight into me. “I saw myself in her. And in those kids. That hollow look, they branded me with it once. You don’t forget it. You can’t. That kind of hurt, it lives in your marrow.”
I swallowed hard, throat tight.
“I never thought Gabrial would remember me,” she said. “Back then, I was just the Shepherd’s wife. Quiet. Invisible. But his father must’ve told him about the child I carried.”
“He remembered,” I said. My fists curled against my knees. “And he wanted you to pay for it.”
“I figured as much.” She set the mug down with a care that felt final, like the weight in it was gone. Then her hand found mine, strong, work-worn, comforting.
“I’d do it again,” she said. “Every inch of it. And not just for you. For her. For the family you’re buildin’ with her.”
My chest burned. Not with rage this time. With somethin’ close to hope. The thought of Sable wearin’ my ring, my patch. My ol’ lady.
It wasn’t just a blessin’. It was a reckonin’.
“Don’t bury it this time,” Momma said, her grip firmer now. “Don’t shove it down deep ‘til it festers. Feel it. Let it scar, let it heal. Or it’ll haunt you every damn step.”
I nodded once, small but sure.
Wasn’t ready.
But I was listenin’.