Chapter 58
Seth
Ilost track of how long I was on the road.
Time stopped meaning anything the second the screen went dark, and it never started again, because everything stayed frozen on the moment her head snapped to the side, on the sound of the gunshot tearing through everything, on the way her voice cut off mid-word.
Everything after that feels wrong.
The road stretches in front of me, endless and empty, but I don’t remember getting on it, I don’t remember passing anything, and I don’t remember making a single decision that lead me here.
My hands are on the wheel, locked tight, my fingers digging in so hard they hurt, but the pain doesn't register the way it should because it gets buried under everything else pressing against me.
I feel all of it at once.
I see her every time I blink, and the image shifts between the way she looked at the end and the way she looked when she said my name, when her voice softened, when she tried to comfort me even as she knew what was coming.
My throat tightens so hard it burns, and I drag in a breath, it gets stuck in my chest like my body has forgotten how to do something as basic as breathing.
I should have been there.
The thought doesn't come quietly, it repeats over and over, crashing into everything else until it becomes the only thing that makes sense.
I should've been there.
I shouldn’t have been watching from a distance, standing in a room while a screen showed me the worst moment of my life. I should've been in that room with her, I should've been between her and him, and I should've killed him before it ever reached that point.
My foot presses harder on the gas, and the engine growls beneath me as the car pushes faster, but the speed does nothing to ease the pressure building inside my chest.
I hear the gunshot again, and it doesn't fade or soften, because it keeps replaying in perfect clarity, like it is still happening and will never stop happening.
I hear Grant’s voice right before it, calm and controlled in a way that makes everything worse, because there was no hesitation and no urgency.
He enjoyed it.
I want to kill him.
The thought settles into me with a clarity that cuts through everything else, and it doesn't feel reckless or impulsive, because it feels like the only thing left that makes sense.
I don't want it to be quick, and I don't want it to be clean, because I want him to feel exactly what he took, piece by piece, second by second, without anything to shield him from it.
I cross into Oregon without noticing the exact moment it happens, the sign flashes past and disappears, and nothing outside this car holds long enough to matter.
I don’t plan where I am going, and I don't make a conscious choice to turn, but my body does it anyway, following a path it already knows.
I don’t want to go there, but I do anyway.
Her house comes into view, and something in my chest cracks open in a way that almost makes me stop breathing entirely, because the sight of it pulls everything back into focus at once.
Police cars line the street, their lights flashing in harsh pulses of red and blue that wash over the house, the yard, the windows, turning everything into something distorted and unreal.
Medics move, not rushing, not panicking, because there is nothing left to save, and the officers stand in clusters with the kind of grim efficiency that only shows up when it is already too late.
They found her.
I slow just enough to see the yard, and that is when I see them.
Two smaller figures stand near the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets, their bodies folded inward under grief too heavy for them to carry.
They are crying so hard they can barely hold themselves upright, their shoulders shaking, their voices breaking in a way that cuts through everything else even from this distance.
My half siblings.
My jaw locks so tight it aches, and for a second my grip on the wheel loosens, just enough to make the thought surface.
If I stop, I will get out, and the moment I step into that yard with my face already burned into every system they have, every cop out there will see a target instead of a person.
They won't hesitate, and they won't ask questions.
I will be dead before I make it halfway across the grass, and my siblings will watch it happen.
I already know it, because there is no version of me that will stay in that car if I let myself think about it for even one second longer. I will walk straight toward them without stopping, without thinking, pulled by something stronger than reason, and I won't make it back out again.
I will try to say something I don't know how to say, something that can never come out right, and I will feel all of it at once. Everything will break open in a way I won't be able to control, and there will be nothing left to hold it together.
I can’t do that.
My grip tightens again, harder than before, my hands locking back into place as I force the car forward.
I keep driving.
The house disappears behind me, but it doesn't leave, because it stays in my chest, in the back of my mind where everything continues to replay whether I want it to or not.
The grief doesn’t fade, and it doesn't soften into something manageable, because it shifts into something colder, something harder, something that doesn't ask for release.
It becomes something I can use.
Grant didn’t just kill her. He made her speak, he made her apologize, and he made her say she loves me while he stood there with a gun pressed to her head.
He took his time, and he made sure I watched every second of it.
My hands shake again, from the force of everything building inside me with nowhere to go.
I press harder on the gas, and the car surges forward, the engine straining as the road blurs beneath me, but it still doesn't feel fast enough.
I don't have a plan, and I don't need one, because the outcome has already been decided somewhere deeper than thought.
I know exactly what I'm going to do when I find him, and the certainty of it repeats over and over in my head, steady and unchanging.
I'm going to make him suffer.
I keep driving, and the world narrows until it is just the road, the engine, and the sound of my own breathing trying to stay even against everything working against it.
Then the passenger seat shifts, and the movement breaks through the narrow focus I've locked myself into.
I didn't look at it at first. I already know.
Luke sits there, one arm draped casually, head tilted, a smile on his face like a bad joke that never dies. He looks solid. Real enough that my hands tighten on the wheel.
“Well,” he says, glancing ahead at the road. “Kind of ironic, right. Both our moms. Headshots.”
He lifts his hand and presses his index and middle finger straight against his temple, thumb cocked. He makes a quick, sharp gunshot sound under his breath. Then he flicks his thumb down like he’s pulling the trigger.
My chest tightens.
“Go away.”
He chuckles softly. “I mean, sure, my mom did it to herself, but still. Very poetic. Family tradition, maybe.”
“Shut the fuck up Luke!” I snap.
“I’m losing count,” he continues. “Seriously, I am. You keep stacking them up, and it’s getting hard to keep track.”
My vision pulses at the edges as I force myself to keep my eyes on the road.
“How many people is it now?” he tilts his head slightly as he studies me, “that you thought you could love and save?”
The words land heavy, they hit something that is already cracked open.
“You couldn’t save Brooke,” he adds. “She barely made it out of that place alive.”
My jaw tightens as my grip shifts slightly on the wheel.
“You couldn’t save your baby.”
My hands falter for a fraction of a second before tightening again.
“You couldn’t save your mother.”
Pain in my chest twists so hard it feels like it might tear.
“You couldn’t save Natalie.”
My breathing stutters as the names stack on top of each other.
“You couldn’t save me.”
His smile widens, like he is enjoying every second of this.
“You can’t save anybody, Seth.”
My hands start to tremble on the wheel, not enough to lose control, but enough that I feel it, enough that it bleeds into everything else.
“So stop pretending,” his voice lowering just slightly, just enough to make it feel closer and heavier. “Stop acting like you're something you aren’t.”
My vision sharpens, then blurs, then sharpens again as I try to force focus back into place.
“Let the rage do what it is supposed to do,” he continues. “Let it burn everything else out of you until there is nothing left but what you actually are.”
“Shut up,” I snarl, the words coming out harsher this time as I try to force him out of the car with the sound of it.
He leans back again, that same expression still fixed in place, but something about him flickers for a second, just enough to remind me that he isn't really there.
Even then, his words don't fade. They stay in my head exactly the way he said them, repeating and digging in deeper every time I try to push them out.
My vision darkens as I grip the wheel harder, my knuckles paling under the strain while I force my focus forward, but it doesn't matter because everything is already spiraling in a direction I can't stop.
I think about the file I pulled up before I walked out, and the details come back in fragments that sharpen as they settle. Names, locations, schedules, a list of people who think they are untouchable. Most of it blurs together now, but one detail stays clear and burns brighter than the rest.
Victor Voss.
He is hosting a gala tonight, and the image forms in my head with unsettling clarity.
It is black tie, set inside a building made of glass and steel, with money layered so deep it turns into arrogance.
The room will be full of people who believe they exist above consequence, above fear, above anything that might reach them where they stand.
The guest list is exactly what it should be. Collective members, donors, men and women who fund unspeakable crimes, all wrapped in layers of private security built to keep people like me out.
Grant will be there.
My breathing turns uneven as my thoughts fracture and collide, refusing to slow down.
I see his face in my head. I see the moment he realizes I am there. I see the shift in his expression when he understands what that means. I see the way his body will move when I put a bullet through him, and I see the way he will hit the floor.
I don't care if I die tonight, I only care that he does. The thought doesn't scare me. It settles into place like it has always been there, waiting for everything else to fall away so it can take over completely.
The road stretches ahead of me, dark, empty, cutting through the night like it is leading me exactly where I need to go. There is nothing behind me anymore, and there is nothing left that can pull me back.
I press harder on the gas and drive, already gone from anything that might have tried to save me.