VOLTAGE
Cash
Finally. He kissed her. I would’ve bet good money they already had, with all that tension snapping between them. Even now, I swear I saw actual sparks when she took her coffee from him. He can keep pretending he’s in control. He’s not.
“The van’s full,” Stix mutters. We both know the longer we wait, the higher the risk it’ll rain again and the worse it will be hauling boxes through mud. He wants to get it over with. I’d prefer to stall until the coffee kicks in, but I get up anyway.
Then Sara, sweet, still-unsure-what-to-do-with-us Sara, chimes in. “I can help,” she says, already pushing her chair back, ready to join us. Knowing Stix stores more in those boxes than groceries, I hover by the door, curious how he’ll handle the situation.
I know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “Thanks for the offer, but you’re not lifting a finger,” he says, not leaving room for argument. “Go study, that’s what you’re here for. Your future, remember?”
Subtle as a brick.
And boom, here we go. Her spine straightens, chin ticking up as voltage flares beneath her ribs, and I’m not sure if she’s going to fight or explode. Probably both.
Stix studies her. Waiting, testing her without realizing it, or realizing it all too well.
I jump in before she declares war. “Or,” I stretch the word, snagging her attention, “you can supervise.”
She sizes me up, suspicion written all over her face.
“You know, observe us unloading everything, and if it turns into a workout,” I glance at Stix, “you might get rewarded. We could lose the shirts.” I waggle my eyebrows so she knows I’m kidding. Mostly.
I wait. Three. Two. There it is.
Color rushes up her neck as she remembers the first time I caught her gawking.
Stix doesn’t react much but watches her closely.
Sara’s eyes dart down. She mutters a line about SATs and books, and I swear she forgets how to use her legs for a second when she retreats upstairs.
Victory.
Once we’re outside, I laugh.
“You’re evil,” he tells me.
I shrug. “Technically, I saved you.”
“Technically, I wanted her reaction.”
“To what?”
“A push. Just a little one. She still lets her emotions lead.” He’s serious now.
“She’s focused, capable, intelligent, but back her into a corner or try to control her, and the switch flips instantly.
She doesn’t just react, she resists. Even if it costs her.
That’s going to be a problem when she’s back in public.
We’re almost out of time. She needs a stress test.”
That coping strategy doesn’t serve her most of the time.
She’s razor-tongued and keen-eyed, always scanning for weak spots, someone who’s had to defend herself for too long.
Just like when we went for that walk and she tried her hardest to bait me with her snarky sarcasm.
She talks herself into trouble before she realizes it.
She’s survived by defiance and nerve, but that won’t hold up when she goes home.
There will be eyes on her, eyes we don’t know yet, or rather I don’t know yet.
Chris recognized Mariana’s killer, knows where to find him, and he doesn’t tell me shit.
He wants to stop me from going after the guy.
What he underestimates is how determined I am to keep Sara here at the slightest hint of danger. I’ll figure it out myself.
We grab the first crate from the back of the van. It’s heavy. This actually will turn into a workout.
The world still tastes like wet earth and the storm’s tang.
The ground gives beneath my boots, slick enough to annoy.
We move in silence for a few minutes, making several trips to the van and back until I finally say it.
“She’ll hate us for putting her through a stress test.” She wouldn’t need one if she just stayed.
We set the last boxes down on the porch. Her silhouette appears in the living room window, curled over some SAT prep book she’s pretending to read. I know she isn’t taking in a single word. Not after the way we flustered her.
He shrugs. “At first.”
The last thing I want is to picture her in her father’s world again, with the cameras, the fake smiles, and the kind of people who shake your hand while deciding how to bury you. Not that different from the world I grew up in.
The Board is real. I’m sure of it, even if Stix isn’t convinced.
They’re watching, or worse, they’re waiting.
She’ll always be leverage. Her stubborn streak and that blade of a mouth won’t stand against them.
I wouldn’t want to change any of it. The way she is now is perfect, but if you don’t have the weapons or the resources to fight back, discipline is the next best thing.
“She needs to learn when to hold the fire and when to let it loose,” Stix says, his voice low. “To pick her moments. Know when to speak, and when to keep her mouth shut.”
“It’ll work better if we make it a challenge. She’s wired backward. Easy loses her, hard locks her in,” I suggest, and I catch that glint in his eye. He’s already scheming.
I let out a breath and picture the scene: the yelling, the fighting, the breaking. Then the change, the first light of understanding when she realizes we’re not trying to snuff her out but to sharpen her edge. “She needs to stay safe and alive,” I say, and I’m not really talking about the lesson.
We don’t discuss it further. The plan is already shaping itself between us, an unspoken map of drills, limits, and tests. Whether she wants to or not, we’re going to teach her to use that fire and aim it where it matters. Even if I hope she’ll never have to.