Chapter 28 – June 21, 1994 – Camille
I’d been giddy lately.
I could’ve made something simple for dinner, but baking called to me. Besides, I needed to use the frozen bananas I’d tucked away months earlier.
Humming a tune I didn’t quite recognize, I tapped my foot in time with the ticking kitchen timer. My mismatched oven mitts were stained from past disasters, and my apron was dusted in flour from the muffins—both in need of a wash, though I hardly cared.
The kitchen window had fogged over from the oven’s heat, but I could still make out headlights cutting through the haze.
My heart flipped.
Erich was home.
My legs went soft at the thought of him—his lips at my neck, that low, gravelly sound in my ear as he lifted me off the kitchen floor and carried me to the bedroom.
The timer rang, sharp and loud, just as the front door opened, letting in a rush of warm summer air.
I didn’t turn right away. I pulled the muffin tin from the oven first, careful with the heat, then turned—smiling—ready to greet him like some 1950s housewife with fresh baking in hand.
But it wasn’t Erich.
The shock hit so hard my fingers went numb. The muffin tin slipped, clattering to the floor, scattering ruined muffins across the wood.
Reed.
My older brother.
Navy slacks. An unbuttoned polo. His dark hair was disheveled, like he’d been driving nonstop.
He appeared unhinged—but still put together in a way that made my skin crawl.
Like he’d dropped everything and come straight for me.
Or snorted a line of cocaine and started driving North at a minute’s notice.
My mind stalled.
Fight or flight kicked in so hard I barely registered his voice. His lips moved, curling into that same familiar smile—wrong now. Predatory. His eyes gleamed with something feral.
The fox.
That was all I could think of—the sly fox from the stories our nanny used to read.
And I was the prey.
“No,” I choked, my vision tilting. “No.”
“Happy birthday, Cami.” His laugh broke through, sharp and pleased. “I found you.”
“Get the fuck away from me!” The words tore out of me as I lunged for the nearest thing—the muffin tin—gripping it like a weapon.
If I had to swing it, I would.
Reed laughed again, almost delighted. He bent, grabbed one of the fallen muffins, and took a bite—only to spit it out immediately, swearing under his breath as the heat hit him.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he stepped closer.
“That’s not very polite,” he said, eyeing the pan in my hand. “I thought you’d be happy to see me. It’s your twentieth birthday. It’s been over a year.”
“Leave.” I backed up, keeping the tin raised. I wanted a knife—but I couldn’t risk losing my focus. Not even for a second.
If it came down to it, I’d use my fists. My teeth.
So be it.
“Where’s my son?” Reed asked suddenly, his voice twisting as he rolled the ruined muffin between his fingers.
The question hit wrong.
It knocked me off balance for just a second.
I lowered the tin slightly, confusion slipping in before I could stop it.
And that was all he needed.
His hand closed around my throat.
My back slammed into the wall, rattling the calendar above me. It flipped sideways, crashing to the floor as his face filled my vision.
“What?” I gasped, choking against his grip. I lashed out with my knee, but he pinned me harder, his body locking me in place.
“Don’t play dumb.” His voice came out in harsh bursts. “My son.”
Understanding clicked.
Sick. Twisted.
Of course that’s what they wanted.
A bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat, even as his fingers tightened. I forced myself to meet his eyes—really meet them—and let something colder take over.
What was he going to do—kill me?
No.
I was more valuable alive.
Now that he’d found me, he’d drag me back.
“In bloody clots in a Pennsylvania landfill,” I rasped.
His expression shattered.
“You heartless bitch.” His grip tightened, cutting off what little air I had left. “What did you do?!”
I choked—but I smiled.
And let the hatred hold.
I couldn’t speak around his grip. Heat flooded my face as my lungs fought for air. Reed dropped the muffin with a useless plop, and his fist came at my eye.
The impact burst my vision into black dots. My head slammed back against the paneling as I cried out.
“You’re the reason everyone in my life is dead!” Reed shouted, spit hitting my cheeks. “Mom drank herself to death. Dad let himself get shot. You’ll burn in Hell for killing my son!”
I couldn’t see him anymore—shadows and movement as I gasped for air. Then he let go.
The muffin tin clattered to the floor, the baking mitts following as my hands flew to my throat. I choked, drool slipping from my lips as I coughed, bracing myself against the wall.
Air came back in ragged pulls.
Then his knee drove into my stomach.
The force knocked the breath out of me again as I collapsed, curling instinctively. I swallowed bile and lifted my head just enough to see his polished black shoes beside my face.
I grabbed his leg before he could kick me.
He hadn’t expected it.
He cursed, trying to shake me off, but I held on—then yanked. Hard.
He went down with me, catching himself awkwardly as I surged forward, adrenaline drowning everything else. The spots in my vision faded as I let out my best battle cry and climbed over him. I started swinging.
The first punch cracked against his nose, pain shooting up my arm. I didn’t stop.
I barely registered the hits landing—only the fury behind them.
He caught my wrists after a few strikes, breath ragged. With a twist, he flipped us, pinning my arms above my head. His full weight pressed into my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.
“Cami.” The name came through clenched teeth.
My blood boiled.
I wished he’d lean closer—just enough for me to bite him.
“You’re coming home with me,” he said, voice dropping as he leaned down. Close—but not close enough. “We’re finishing what we started. Mom and Dad are gone. It’s just us. We can be happy. We can have our own—”
The words cut off.
Neither of us had heard the cabin door open.
The crack of metal against bone split through the air. Reed’s body went slack, his weight shifting off me as he collapsed into the cabinet with a dull thump.
For a second, all I heard was ringing.
Then I shifted my attention upwards.
Steel-gray eyes. Hard. Focused.
Erich stood over us, crowbar still in his grip, his jaw tight as he took in the blood pooling across the kitchen floor.
“So this is brother dearest,” he said, dropping the crowbar. It clanged against the linoleum, echoing in the silence. Gauze peeked from beneath his torn sleeve—I could only hope he hadn’t reopened the wound. “I have some ideas. But what do you want to do?”