8. Mallory
MALLORY
The house was quiet when I got home. Too quiet, especially when I knew for a fact Mom was inside. The car was parked out front, and her purse hung by the front door when I wandered in, but the woman herself was nowhere to be found, which made me uneasy.
Everything about tonight had left me off balance.
I dropped my house keys in the bowl by the door, the familiar clink echoing through the stillness. “Mom!” I called as I walked through the house, but I got no response. My ears did pick up a faint familiar thud.
Going to the basement door, I opened it and trotted down the narrow stairs, one hand trailing along the wall for balance in the dim light.
There was a reason Mom picked this place.
A basement had been nonnegotiable when she’d been searching for a home to rent.
It had nothing to do with needing storage or more space. She had other plans.
Mom stood in the center of the room under the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Her gleaming dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not a strand loose.
She wore a sports bra and leggings, both black and fitted.
Her shoulders were relaxed, but her eyes were sharp as she assessed the wooden target dummy against the far wall.
The dummy was already scarred with use, dents clustered around the center, splinters radiating out from repeated impacts, the wood grain exposed where paint had chipped away.
She held a knife loosely in her right hand, blade pointing down, completely at ease before her wrist flicked, a small, controlled movement.
My mom had skills, and watching her, I was envious.
She was so confident and powerful. Nothing seemed to scare her.
I wasn’t sure I’d inherited any of her courage, her spirit, or her grit.
She was one of a fucking kind.
The knife left her hand in a clean arc, spinning through the air.
Thud.
The blade buried itself deep, dead center into the dummy’s chest.
She didn’t look muscular. Not in the way someone might expect a killer to appear. No bulging biceps or obvious strength. She was lean and elegant, her body honed from hours of disciplined training.
She’d learned skills that didn’t require brute force. Precision over power. Speed over strength. The technique came from years of practice, from treating violence like an art form demanding respect and dedication. And she practiced like it was religion.
Other moms went to PTA meetings and hot yoga classes. Mine could throw a knife blindfolded and hit the same spot fifty times in a row.
She never trained me to become like her. A killer. She taught me how to throw a punch. How to get out of a grip. How to recognize when a situation was about to turn bad and position myself accordingly. How to use my surroundings as weapons when I didn’t have one.
“It’s as important as anything you learn in school,” she’d told me once, adjusting my stance while teaching me to break someone’s hold on my wrist. “Sometimes more. They don’t teach you survival in algebra II.”
I’d believed her.
I still did.
She crossed to the dummy, pulling the knife free with a twist, and when she turned back, she finally noticed me leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching. Her lips curved into a genuine, warm smile full of love reserved only for me.
My brows lifted. “I take it your date didn’t go well?”
“On the contrary. We’re seeing each other again. Tomorrow, actually.”
“Then why the sudden grueling workout?” I gestured at the collection of knives laid out on the folding table nearby. “You only do the full routine when something’s bothering you.”
A glint sparkled in her eyes, and I knew before she even spoke that something cringy was going to come out of her mouth. “I had to burn off some…energy.”
I groaned. “If that’s what I think you’re implying”—I wrinkled my nose, holding up a hand—“gross. Spare me the details.”
She laughed, flipping the knife between her fingers. “You’re the one who brought it up. I was just going to say the date went well. Really well.”
“Mom.”
“What?” She was grinning now, enjoying my discomfort in the way only parents could. “I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to have—”
“Stop talking.” I stepped farther into the room, arms still crossed defensively. “Please. I’m begging you. Stop.”
She made a show of zipping her lips, but her eyes were dancing with amusement.
I took a breath, changing the subject before she could traumatize me further. “Did you enjoy the food, and for the love of God, don’t make it sexual.”
She tossed the knife casually in the air and caught it by the handle without looking. The blade spun perfectly, landing in her palm. “It was tasty. Highly recommend. What about you? Did you enjoy your first night out with friends?”
Going to the table, I ran a finger down the hilt of a blade. “Yeah. It was…insightful. Did you worry about me?”
Her eyes flicked toward me, knowing and a little too perceptive. “I always worry about you but not for the reasons you think.”
A part of me wanted to tell Mom about the missing girls, but another voice, just slightly louder, said not yet. I wasn’t ready to give up this life, not when I was starting to feel like it could be home. “We had fun. Paisley brought a friend, and they took me to this Italian restaurant.”
“Riveting. No parties? No boys?” She set the knife down and picked up another one, testing its balance.
“Give me another week or two, and I’ll be fully embracing the teenage experience, drugs and all.”
Her lips twitched as she wiped at her brow. “How did I get such a cynical daughter?”
Turning around, I braced against the table, my lips curving. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
“You’re good at using sarcasm to cover up when something is bothering you. You get this look. Right here.” She tapped between her eyebrows. “A little crease that gives you away every time. What’s on your mind, Malibu?”
Shit. Reading people was like Mom’s superpower, next to killing without leaving a trace of evidence. It’s how she had been able to get away with it for so many years. She was careful, methodical, and rarely made mistakes. “Nothing’s wrong,” I said, but even I didn’t believe it.
She smiled like she could hear the lie as clearly as I could. “Okay.” She moved back to the target, throwing the knife without preamble. Another perfect hit, just left of center this time. “So, when do I get to meet these new friends of yours?”
I plucked one of her spare knives off the table, passing it from hand to hand. “Let’s wait to see if they stick around,” I said, testing the grip, feeling how the handle sat in my palm.
She watched my hand, eyes narrowing slightly. “Looser wrist. You’re holding it too tight.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re stiff,” she interrupted.
I adjusted my grip, relaxing my fingers slightly.
“Emotionally stiff,” she corrected, a hint of a smile in her voice.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.
“Don’t doubt yourself.” She moved to stand beside me, not touching but close enough that I felt her presence. Her instructor mode. “Everyone will love you. How can they not?”
If it were only that simple, then Maddox would be falling at my feet. “You’re required to say shit like that to me.”
Her smile softened a fraction, warmth glimmering in her expression. “Maybe, but it doesn’t make it any less true.” She stepped nearer, beginning to circle me slowly, not threatening but assessing. “And if they don’t like you for who you are, they don’t deserve to be your friend.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s only complicated if you make it.” She completed the circle, coming to a stop in front of me. “You don’t adjust yourself to fit someone else’s expectations. They either rise to meet you or they don’t deserve your time.”
I turned the knife over in my hand, watching the light catch the blade. “That’s a very Mara Hales philosophy.”
“It’s kept us alive,” she said simply.
“It’s also resulted in multiple deaths.”
“Only of people who proved they didn’t deserve to keep breathing. There’s a difference.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic because I believed in what she’d done. I understood.
She was quiet for a moment, studying my face the way she studied targets before throwing.
“Be careful,” she said quietly, and all the humor had drained from her voice.
“Don’t let the wrong people get close.” She reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture so maternal it made my chest ache.
“No place is safe. No one is without secrets.”
For the first time since we moved here, I wondered if it wasn’t a coincidence we ended up in Elmwood. Did my mother already know about the missing girls? Was she here to make sure it stopped, that the people responsible never got the chance to take someone else?
I wouldn’t have put it past her.
Mom was good at maneuvering, at deception, at pulling strings no one else could see.
“I can handle myself,” I said, and I meant it.
She smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. The worry there was real, tangible, humming between us. “I know you can. That’s what I’m afraid of. Maybe I taught you too much. I don’t want you to be like me. I’ve always wanted a better life for you.”
“You did your best, Mom. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. What you did was important. It mattered. I know that.”
“I have many regrets, but having you was never one of them.”
She might not regret me, but she did regret meeting my father.
He was a topic I learned young was off-limits.
Talking about him hurt her, and for someone as strong as my mom was, it was painful to see her hurt.
So I stopped asking. I avoided talking about the man I knew next to nothing about. Not even his name.
“Your turn,” she said, stepping back to give me space. “Show me what you remember.”
This was her way of dodging a deeper conversation. We were both good at ignoring our feelings. I glanced at the dummy; at the scarred wood she’d hit a dozen times tonight alone. Then I threw. The knife spun through the air, and I held my breath, waiting.
Thunk.
Not dead center, but I still hit the target, about three inches off from my mark.
“Not bad,” she said. “You’re getting better.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the knife. Or about everything else I was learning without meaning to. About survival. About secrets. About the way darkness recognized its own.
Sometimes I scared myself.