Chapter 14 – Marlowe
Chapter Fourteen
MARLOWE
Damian throws himself into the driver’s seat. I barely have time to jump into the back before he slams the door, the engine roaring to life. Bridger climbs in beside me, Cody taking the passenger seat up front. No one speaks.
The air in the car is tense, humming with unspoken words, with frustration, with fear. They’re barely keeping it together.
The road stretches ahead, dark clouds rolling over the sky, thick and low. The heat still lingers, clinging to the earth, but the pressure has changed. I feel it in the air, the heaviness, the weight of something inevitable.
Then the skies crack open.
The first drops hit the windshield like tiny pebbles, then more, harder, relentless.
Within seconds, it’s a monsoon, rain slamming against the glass so hard the wipers can barely keep up.
Water streaks down the side windows in frantic, messy patterns, blurring the outside world into nothing but a smear of gray and motion.
But Damian doesn’t slow down.
The tires slice through the wet pavement, sending up sprays of water as we speed down the road. I grip the seat in front of me, heart hammering, breath shallow. The storm is alive around us, the rain deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside his car.
Then, through the downpour, the shape of a building emerges from the haze. A small school, barely visible through the curtain of rain.
Damian pulls into the parking lot, jerking the wheel hard. The SUV skids slightly on the slick pavement before coming to a sudden stop.
The second the car is in park, he’s out, the door slamming behind him. Bridger and Cody move just as fast, but I’m frozen for half a second, my eyes locked on what they see.
A lone figure sits on a metal bench in front of the school.
Motionless.
The rain soaks her completely, plastering thin fabric to her frail frame, her graying hair clinging to her face in wet, tangled strands. Her hands rest limply in her lap, fingers curled inward, shoulders slightly hunched, as if she doesn’t even feel the storm raging around her.
She looks just like the woman in the photograph. The one surrounded by the three boys, her face stern but warm, sharp-eyed, full of life.
This is her. This is their mother.
And she looks lost.
A lump forms in my throat as I shove open my door and step into the rain. It hits me like a wall, soaking through my clothes in seconds.
Damian is already in front of her, kneeling, his voice low, urgent. “Mom.”
She just blinks up at him, slow and distant, like she’s seeing him through a fog.
Oh, God. She doesn’t recognize him.
For the first time since I met him, Damian looks… small. Lost.
My throat tightens painfully.
Damian kneels before his mother, hands raised slightly, palms open in a slow, careful movement like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Mom, it’s me,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s Damian.”
She stares at him, her face twisting, eyes darting frantically between him and his brothers standing behind him. Her lips tremble, her fingers twitch in her lap, and for a split second, I think she recognizes him.
Then she screams.
A raw, broken sound that makes my blood turn to ice.
She scrambles back on the bench, her whole body shaking, hands flying up in a defensive position. “Get away from me!” she cries, her voice shrill with terror. “Stay back! Don’t touch me!”
Damian’s entire body stiffens, pain flashing across his face so fast I almost miss it.
Bridger takes a cautious step forward. “Mom, it’s okay—”
“No!” she screeches, swinging her arms wildly. “Stay away from me and Clay!”
Clay?
I don’t know who that is, but the name seems to anchor her fear, twisting it into something deeper, something more primal.
She pushes herself off the bench so fast she nearly falls, her legs unsteady, her thin frame swaying like a branch in the wind.
Damian stands quickly, reaching for her. “Mom, please—”
She lashes out.
Her frail hands slap against his chest, her nails clawing weakly at his arms, her panicked breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “Get away! You’re not supposed to be here! Clay said to stay away!”
I’m paralyzed, watching as she swings again, her arms flailing, wild and desperate. Damian doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop her, just lets her hit him, lets her fists connect with his soaked shirt, his rain-slicked skin.
He just stands there, letting his own mother attack him. Over and over.
Cody steps forward, his expression pained. “Mom, it’s us. It’s Cody.”
But she’s beyond hearing now, caught in the grip of something none of them know how to fix.
The fear in her eyes is real.
She doesn’t see them as her sons.
She sees them as the enemy.
And none of them know what the hell to do. I don’t think. I move.
Stepping between them, I lift my hands, not toward her, not close enough to startle her, but just enough to shift her focus. “Oh no,” I say suddenly, a sharp inhale like I’ve just remembered something important. “I can’t believe I forgot his lunch.”
The woman stops mid-swing, her breath hitching.
I blink, turning my face up like I’m talking to the sky, wiping a hand over my soaked forehead. “God, I’m the worst mother.” I shake my head, pressing my fingers to my temples like I’m overwhelmed. “He’s going to be so upset with me.”
She blinks at me, her confusion breaking through the fear, her arms still raised like she’s unsure if she should fight or listen. “Who?”
I let out a heavy sigh, exasperated, shifting my weight just enough to look impatient but not threatening. “My son,” I say, letting a little bit of frustration seep into my tone. “I was supposed to drop off his lunch before noon, and now I’m standing here in the rain like a complete idiot.”
She swipes a trembling hand over her wet hair, blinking against the water running down her face. She’s still breathing hard, but something in her eyes shift.
“I was looking for his teacher,” I explain.
She tilts her head, frowning in concentration. “Oh,” she breathes, her voice soft, distant. “Are you… Jason Tibble’s mother?”
I swallow down the rush of relief clawing its way up my throat. I have no idea who Jason Tibble is, but it doesn’t matter. I do now.
I nod quickly, giving her a rueful smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Her expression changes in an instant. The fear drains from her features, her shoulders relaxing, her whole body going slack like I flipped a switch inside her mind.
She smooths her rain-soaked dress, shaking her head with a deep sigh.
“That boy,” she mutters, exasperated. “He hasn’t been handing in his homework. ”
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head like this is just another typical problem in my day. “Tell me about it. He keeps telling me he did the work, but then somehow it just disappears. I swear, it’s like magic.”
She presses her lips together, eyes narrowing, and there, there’s the look of a teacher, one who has heard every excuse in the book.
“Oh, I know that trick,” she huffs. “You tell him he needs to start showing his work. I’m his teacher, Ms. Cross, and in my class, there are no disappearing assignments. ”
I nod quickly, soaking in every word. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure he knows that.”
Another sigh. Another swipe at her hair, slicking it back. Her face softens even more, her breathing evening out.
I chance a glance at Damian.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide with disbelief, rain trailing down his jaw in silver lines. His fingers hang motionless, tense, like his body hasn’t caught up to what his eyes are telling him.
The rain stops as suddenly as it started, the heavy downpour fading into nothing, leaving only the sound of water dripping from the bench, pooling in cracks in the pavement. The air hangs thick and damp, scented with wet earth and asphalt.
But Delilah doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still focused on me, her expression settled into that no-nonsense teacher look, as if we really are just two people discussing a difficult student.
I shift my stance, keeping my tone light, like I do this all the time. “Would you mind if we talked more about Jason?” I ask, glancing at the wet bench where she had been sitting. “Maybe somewhere drier?”
She looks down at herself, as if just now realizing how drenched she is, how the fabric clings to her frail frame, the chill setting into her bones.
She lets out a small, tired sigh. “Oh, that would be nice,” she says, smoothing a hand down her dress.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, just standing out here in the rain.
” She laughs, shaking her head, and for a brief moment, I can almost see the woman she used to be, the sharp, strong teacher, the mother of three boys who probably gave her hell growing up.
I glance toward the SUV. “I was about to grab a coffee. Maybe we could talk more about Jason over a cup?”
Her eyes light up, and she nods. “Oh, that sounds lovely. I could use a good coffee.”
I gently rest my hand on her arm, guiding her toward the vehicle, careful not to move too fast, not to let anything startle her. She walks beside me easily, like this is completely normal.
But the moment we get closer to the SUV and she notices the three brothers following behind us, the fear snaps back into her face.
She stops abruptly, her grip tightening around my wrist.
Her whole body stiffens. Her breath quickens. Her eyes dart wildly between them, filling with fear. “Who are they?” Her voice is sharp, her fingers digging into my skin. She takes a step back.
Damian stops walking.
“Mom, it’s us,” Bridger says, his voice soft.
But she doesn’t hear him.
Or maybe she does, but she doesn’t recognize them.
Her eyes stay locked on them, and then, barely above a whisper, she says, “Are they Clay’s friends?”
I feel Damian’s energy shift, a slow, simmering strain winding tight inside him. Cody’s throat bobs with a hard swallow.
Delilah shakes her head, gripping my wrist tighter, her breath coming faster. “Clay’s friends are no good,” she whispers. Her eyes are wide now, almost frantic. “They are very, very bad people.”
A sharp chill runs down my spine.
Damian’s hands curl into fists.
I don’t know who Clay is. But whatever he was to her, whoever he was in her life—it was something bad.
I lift my hand slowly, keeping my body turned toward her, like I’m shielding her from them.
Then I gesture toward Damian first, my voice smooth.
Reassuring. “Oh, no, no, you’re mistaken,” I say, offering a soft smile.
“That’s Jason’s father, Damian. And these two?
” I nod toward Bridger and Cody. “They’re his very concerned uncles. ”
A flicker of hesitation passes through her expression. The panic in her eyes dims just a little. She’s trying to fit the pieces together in her head.
I keep going, gentle but firm. “They’re not Clay’s friends. They don’t even know who Clay is.” My voice dips, softening. “But they do care about Jason. A lot. They just want to help me. Jason is such a handful. We really need your guidance.”
She blinks, her brows knitting together. Her fingers twitch against my wrist.
I press on. “They even offered to drive us to get coffee. They’ll even pay.” I tilt my head slightly, giving Damian a pointed look. A silent message. Look what I’m doing for you. Lying to your mother. Covering for you. Because we both know you’re not nice guys.
Damian’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say a word.
I turn back to Delilah, keeping my voice light, coaxing. “That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Coffee? Somewhere warm?”
She hesitates, her wide, uncertain eyes flicking to Damian, then back to me. The fight inside her wavers, the edges of her fear blurring.
Finally, after what feels like forever, she gives a small nod. “Yes,” she says, her voice distant, distracted. “Yes, that does sound nice.”
Relief crashes through me, but I don’t let it show. I just keep my hand on her arm, guiding her toward the SUV. She follows, her steps slow, tentative, but no longer fighting me.
I open the door, helping her inside, and only when she’s seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap, do I let my shoulders relax.
I glance at Damian again, meeting his eyes just before I shut the door.
You owe me.
The brothers move like ghosts, silent, shell-shocked, their expressions frozen somewhere between disbelief and pain. They don’t look at each other, don’t speak, just move on autopilot, opening the SUV’s doors.
I slide in beside Delilah, keeping my hold on her frail hand, the feel of it so fragile and delicate, the wrong move might break her all over again.
Damian notices.
I feel his eyes on me, the slow shift of his anger crumbling into something else. Something softer. Something he doesn’t want to feel.
Bridger climbs into the passenger seat this time, and Cody takes the wheel.
As soon as his door shuts, Bridger turns slightly, just enough for his voice to reach me but not his brothers. His throat works like he’s forcing himself to say it, like the words are foreign in his mouth. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I swallow hard and give the smallest nod.
Then Cody pulls away from the curb, and for a moment, the only sound is the hum of the tires against the wet road.
Then, out of nowhere—
“Oh, boys!” Delilah’s voice is light, bright, like sunlight breaking through a storm. She beams at them, eyes shining with warmth, looking at each of her sons like she’s just now noticing they’re here.
“You’re all here,” she says, squeezing my hand once before letting go, her frail fingers pressing against her chest as she takes them in. “Where are we going?”
Cody’s knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. Bridger stares out the window, his expression distant.
But it’s Damian I look at.
And Damian looks wrecked.