48. Harmony
Harmony
Grand Junction is colder than I thought.
I guess days of captivity will do that to you. Days of fighting for your life. You really forget about the weather.
The sun sets earlier here—tucking itself behind the mountains like it’s hiding from something. I get it. I’ve been hiding too.
The motel I found is barely that, to call it a motel is generous of me… Just a cracked neon sign that flickers “VACANCY,” a hollowed-out lobby that reeks of smoke, and a room with no deadbolt and a Bible missing its first hundred pages. But it’s cheap. Quiet. Forgotten.
Just like me.
I spend my mornings scavenging. My nights curled under the thin motel blanket with the burner phone clutched in my hand like a rosary. I don’t sleep much. When I do, it’s a carousel of bad memories and worse fantasies—Damien finding me, holding me down, smiling while everything burns.
I eat stale gas station sandwiches and drink dollar coffee with powdered creamer. I wash my hair in the sink. My reflection is thinner, sharper. I’m starting to look like someone who belongs to no one.
Wh ich should feel like freedom.
But all it feels like is an ache.
I miss them.
Not just Evelyn and Astra. Not just Dante and Lucien. I miss who I used to be when I was with them—before the branding, before the lies, before the gunshot and the escape and the trail of blood I left behind.
The phone buzzes around midnight.
I bolt upright in bed, reaching for the knife first—then the phone.
ASTRA:
Tomorrow is the anniversary. Evelyn wants to visit the grave site. 2 PM. You’re not forgotten. Come if you can.
I reread it five times.
My throat tightens.
The date hits me like a bullet. One year since she died. One year since Evelyn’s world cracked wide open. One year since I started calling monsters by their real names.
I clutch the phone to my chest.
Part of me wants to smash it. Pretend I never saw the message. Pretend I can disappear into this nothingness I’ve been living in and never look back.
But a louder part…
Wants to stand beside them again.
Even if it’s just for one breath.
Even if Damien is hunting me.
Even if the ghosts at that grave site outnumber the living.
I swallow hard.
Tomorrow, I’ll go.
And if it’s a trap… then maybe that’s what I deserve…
* * *
The sky is overcast.
Gray clouds blanket the sun like mourning veils, letting only thin light touch the cemetery. The air smells like damp soil and dying leaves. A breeze moves through the trees, rustling branches like whispered regrets.
We stand in a small circle—Evelyn, Astra, Lucien, Dante, and me—around the grave. No one speaks.
There’s nothing left to say.
Evelyn kneels first, fingertips brushing the edges of her mother’s name. She doesn’t cry. Not today. Her strength is different now. It’s not silence. It’s steel.
“She always believed people could change,” Evelyn murmurs. “Even when they gave her every reason not to.”
Astra sets a tiny bundle of fresh herbs on the soil—lavender and sage. “She made me feel safe. That was rare back then.”
Lucien steps forward next. He doesn’t bring flowers. He brings stillness. “She said the worst men often had the deepest wounds,” he says quietly. “I didn’t believe her. I still don’t. But I wish she were wrong.”
Dante kneels beside his wife. He says nothing.
Just rests a worn photograph between the cracks of the headstone.
A picture of Evelyn as a child, sitting on her mother’s lap, all curls and laughter.
He presses his hand to the earth and breathes deep, like he’s trying to absorb the memory through his skin.
I linger last.
There’s nothing I can offer but truth.
“She would’ve hated who I’ve become,” I say, staring at the name carved in stone. “And maybe she would’ve been right to.”
“No,” Evelyn says, standing. “She would’ve seen your heart before your s ins.”
I almost believe her.
We stand there for another moment—five broken souls on sacred ground—trying to borrow peace from the dead.
And then—
Clap.
The sound cuts through the air like a gunshot.
Clap.
Clap.
Slow. Mocking. Intentional.
Our heads whip around.
Astra tenses beside me. Lucien’s hand slides toward his waistband. Dante steps in front of Evelyn. I don’t breathe.
A figure steps out from behind the mausoleum, boots crunching the gravel like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Damien.
His black coat flaps open in the wind, shirt wrinkled, hair slicked back like a man showing up to his own execution. He has a bloodied bandage on his side. His hands aren’t raised, but they aren’t holding a weapon either.
Just clapping .
Slow.
Measured.
Dead-eyed.
“Well,” he drawls, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Don’t let me interrupt your little memorial.”
I step out to the side to try to separate myself from my friends. I would be devastated if one of them paid the price for my sins.
The birds go silent.
The wind dies.
And everything holy about this place turns to rot.