Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
KYRA
“How does it feel?” Mom stalls near the front door while I stand in the center of my new house and stare at the hole over my head.
“Daunting.”
“In a good way?” she prompts hopefully.
“I think so.” I move to the windows and flick the latches, shoving them open to let in some fresh air. “I’m excited to bring the ideas I have to life.”
“Just don’t overextend yourself,” Mom warns.
“That’s what Devon said.” I FaceTimed my brother the minute I finalized the sale papers, hoping he would share my enthusiasm.
My brother merely reminded me how alike Dad he’s become since he joined the Corps. Also confirmed that my father hasn’t run his mouth to anyone about my alter ego, either, or I doubt Devon would have taken my call.
Mom wanders through to the kitchen and tests the tap. “The electric is on?”
“Yeah.” I push a box of my belongings toward the side of the stairs with my foot. “The wiring will need an upgrade sometime soon, but it’s safe for now.”
“That’s good.” She opens the oven door to look inside and promptly closes it with a frown. “How do you plan to cook?”
“The cooktop works, and I have an air fryer.”
“Good.” She turns to survey the space with a deep breath. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”
“When you can visit.”
She spears me with a withering look. “Your father’s that busy with work, I could be here every day, and he’d never know.”
“Until his neighborhood spies said something,” I mutter, flicking the flap on a box to remind myself what’s inside.
So much of my stuff has been in Mom and Dad’s garage since I got back, and my memories of what I kept and what I gave away are fading.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come to the appointment with you? ”
I managed to secure Mom a consultation with a pain specialist next week. Cost a pretty penny to get a long consult at such short notice, but it’s money well spent. I’d do it ten times over if it eased her days just a little.
“I’m sure.” She lifts a canvas bag stuffed with bedding. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you set some things up?”
“No.” I stare at the bag in her hands. “The furniture won’t arrive until tomorrow, and I’m keeping things to a minimum until I’ve painted and fixed the floors. I’ll probably shove most of this in that weird room off the laundry until the majority of the work is done.”
“I suppose that’s practical.” She stares through the door to my bedroom and out the side window. “At least your garden will provide plenty of blooms in summer to brighten the place.”
“Yeah,” I say halfheartedly. I suppose it will.
She crosses to where I stand, frozen in contemplation, and places a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I’m kind of looking forward to the time alone, even if I’m a little apprehensive after the incident with the Devil’s Breed.
They don’t know where I live—at least, I don’t think they do. I’ll be fine. I am fine.
I listen for Mom’s car leaving as I stare up at the ceiling again, imagining how it’ll look when I’m finished.
No contractors are willing to start until the New Year, so for now, it’ll be me and the giant trip hazard in what will become my office when it’s repaired.
The house was clearly neglected. Forgotten and forlorn are the words that spring to mind when I cast my eye over the stained and peeling wallpaper.
But I know how to fix broken things. I was one once.
Given the weight in my chest where my love for life should be, I think I might be one again.
I don’t know what I expected from Jinx by confronting him about his issue, but radio silence wasn’t it. I left the ball in his court, but it feels as though he’s left the game entirely.
And as much as I chastise myself for the negative self-talk, I can’t ignore the worry that maybe it’s just my love that’s not enough for him to face it.
Maybe he’d fight for someone else. Someone like that lawyer.
Not a slightly overweight, average-looking daughter of a small-town Sheriff.
Snap out of it, girl. Self-loathing leads to obsessing over the solution, and the solutions have historically never been healthy.
I beat that demon years ago, and I don’t plan on going back there.
“Where should I start?” I say out loud as though the house will answer, voice echoing off the barren walls to force me from my spiraling thoughts.
Her energy is quiet, but I can feel it. The desire to be loved. To be allowed to shine.
Yes, I’ve decided my house is a girl.
Although given the renovation headache she presents, maybe she is a man?
My gut tugs me right, toward my bedroom, and I wander through to a space dappled in late-morning light breaking through the trees. Spots of warm yellow dance and trip along the floor at my feet, dust motes drifting through the shards of sunlight that split through the paneled windows.
I think I’m going to love it here once she’s restored. Once she’s more like me.
I think this house will become my therapy.
The most pivotal stage of reclaiming myself to date.
I set my phone on the windowsill, select a playlist with a steady upbeat tempo to keep me moving, and then dig a fresh trash bag out of the stack of cleaning supplies.
The first hour passes quickly, the sun slowly withdrawing toward the window as it climbs higher in the sky.
I clear out the bedroom, sweep what’s too small to pick up into a pile in the center of the floor, and then shift across the great room.
The music is almost too quiet to hear since I left my phone behind, but it doesn’t really bother me as I retreat into my thoughts while peeling the loose strips of paper off the wall.
Another week has gone by as I find my feet at the council. Another week of watching my online income shrink due to my neglect. And another week of finding it hard to care when this break feels so right. I hustled so hard to get where I did, but was it ever going to be a lifelong career?
More so, if it wasn’t for the change to the laws, would I still feel the pressure to do it now that I’m back? My heart says yes, but my head tells me I still wouldn’t put out content at the volume I used to.
My life is changing, and I can’t find it in myself to be mad about that. I’ve needed this for a while: the excuse to slow my pace. To disconnect and find wonder in the small things again. I just denied the reality long enough that it started to take its toll on me.
Physically. Mentally.
I’m not ashamed of how I made my money. I don’t regret it. But I’m tired of the hustle, and standing here in the pale daylight as I methodically peel loose paper from the walls feels right. Peaceful.
Calming.
There’s no pressure to check my numbers after I’m done. No mental gymnastics when a style of video doesn’t perform as it has in the past. No questioning how I look or fussing with my environment a dozen times before I hit record for the fourth time.
There’s just a house that’ll become a home and the unknown promise of a new path in life.
And that fills my chest with the kind of pressure that’s welcome. The pressure of a full heart.
Pressure that turns back to rock when I take a step back and remember where I am. What’s happened to put me here, now, in an incomplete house.
He said I’m a whore. But I’m so much more than that. I built something from nothing, and all without his support or encouragement.
And it cost me everything.
Clouds mask the sun when I cross the threshold to the bedroom and retrieve my phone, shadows building in the corners of the room.
The temperature has dropped, but the cool breeze that trickles in through the open door and windows still feels nice against my skin.
Device in my hand, I stare out the dusty panes at the garden that butts up against my neighbor’s timber paling fence.
The cloud creates a strange blue haze over the light, which, mixed with the warmer tones breaking through, paints the flowers in a magical hue.
I envision a table. Maybe wrought iron with decorative elements. Maybe timber. But small and cute with the kind of chairs that you sink into, losing hours to a simple hobby as the afternoon goes by.
I imagine what it would have been like to sit there with Jinx, losing hours to conversation as we catch up on the years gone by.
He asked why I left, and I then asked him why he stayed, thinking at the time it was sad that he missed the chance to explore the world outside Temperance. But maybe he was right, and I was wrong? Perhaps living here—in this town—wasn’t the issue?
Perhaps it was as basic as the house I was in.
My parents didn’t neglect me. I’m thankful for that. I always knew I was loved as a child. But what they did do was restrict me. Clip my wings and hold me close. Criticize and direct me.
And in return, I flew as far as I could once I finally broke free of their nest.
Folding to the floor, I settle against the wall beneath the windowsill and bend my legs before me.
My battery is depleted from the music, but I’ve got enough left to make it maybe until I get back to Mom and Dad’s, as well as satisfy my curiosity now.
I pull up the Google app, punch in keywords for the question that’s burned in the back of my mind since seeing Mrs. Tallomore at church, and wait for the results.
Temperance arson fire Kings of Anarchy
I need to convince my heart that he isn’t a good man so that this ache will go away. So I can fill the space he occupies with something that will actually fill my cup, not make me drink from it in large gulps.
The top response is from the local paper.
I tap it instantly and then wait impatiently while my low service loads the main picture at the top of the article.
It’s a shot of a burned-out truck in front of a gutted building.
At first, it sure sets the mood for the story, but the longer I look at the image, the more I realize the photographer has strategically positioned themselves to frame the worst of the damage within the photo’s boundaries.
The less-affected parts of the building eke into the edges of the shot, with the fire seemingly contained to the front half and the truck.
I skim read the article, hunting for clues on what, where, and why.
Mainly looking for an indication of why my father would drop charges on such a serious incident.
The reporter lays out the bare details, half their word count stating the obvious, like major repairs required to the building, and that the blaze started at the truck.
But two-thirds of the way down, I find what I wanted.
The paragraph explains that the site was once owned by a grain farmer, who later split it among multiple buyers for commercial use.
But the history became foggy, and so, when they uncovered chil—
I drop my phone against my legs and stare across the room. The fuck?
—children’s bodies beneath the timber foundations, an investigation was launched.
Sheriff Green states that there is no definitive timestamp on how long the bodies have been there yet, and so he doesn’t have anything outside of a few initial suspects, which he doesn’t wish to share at this time.
Blah, blah, blah, more sentences stating the obvious.
Updates will be provided as they become available.
And then there’s nothing… No update. No further stories. No closing notes.
Just—poof—the story is gone like the initial article was an April Fool’s joke.
I draw my legs in and fold them before me, hands resting in my lap with the phone loosely held between. Well, I guess I got the proof I wanted. There were freaking kids buried on their land.
And my father has done nothing.
None of this lines up. The man I grew up with would have made it his personal mission to find the people or person responsible and ensure justice was swift and loud, assuring Temperance that their loved ones are safe once again.
The only way I could imagine him staying silent and complicit is if the Kings of Anarchy either paid him off—which is also gravely against my father’s ethos—or if they have something over him.
Holy shit. Did the Kings of Anarchy blackmail him to drop the case? Is that why he’s so damn angry at them all the time? Because they forced him to compromise his tightly conservative morals.
How long has this shit been going on?
The initial shock draws tight in my gut, balling and crystallizing into a budding rage.
How fucking dare they? It’s bad enough they believe themselves to be above the law, but above God?
Above the moral code, far enough that they think it’s not only okay to commit such heinous crimes, but even better to get away with it?
A shiver rattles down my body. And I believed Jinx was good at heart. How goddamn foolish am I? How easily charmed?
Fuck that club.
And fuck Jinx for making me believe he was worth hurting for.