Chapter 20
The Lullaby
The bar was quiet at this hour.
I'd been sitting here since Matt left—or maybe he'd left hours ago, or maybe just minutes, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats.
The chairs were up. The lights were off.
The only illumination came from the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across the wood floor, painting the bottles behind the counter in shades of amber and gold.
I was alone.
For the first time in weeks, I was alone.
And I didn't mind.
Not anymore.
The lullaby started without permission.
I didn't try to stop it. Didn't try to push it down or bury it or pretend it wasn't there.
The melody rose from my throat, soft and broken, the same distorted Brahms that Gabriel had used during our sessions.
The same notes that had once made my shoulders drop and my jaw go slack and my mind go quiet.
But it was different now.
The lullaby didn't control me anymore.
I controlled it.
I'd reclaimed it.
Note by note, breath by breath, killing by killing.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I've been thinking."
"About the memories."
"About the ones that don't fit."
"About the ones that contradict each other."
"I've decided it doesn't matter."
"I've decided to stop trying to sort them out."
"Real or not real, they're mine now."
"I'm keeping them."
"All of them."
"Even the ones that hurt."
"Especially the ones that hurt."
I'd stopped trying to sort real memories from false ones.
It had happened gradually—or maybe suddenly, or maybe somewhere in between, time had stopped meaning anything. The effort of separating truth from invention had been exhausting, consuming, a weight that pressed down on me every waking moment. And for what?
What did it matter if Gabriel had really said those words?
What did it matter if Sasha had really existed?
What did it matter if Rue had really been there, or if I'd imagined her, or if she'd been someone else entirely?
The memories were mine.
They were part of me.
And I was done fighting them.
"You're broken."
Matt's voice, from weeks ago.
"But that doesn't mean you can't keep going."
He'd been right.
I was broken.
My mind was broken.
My memories were broken.
But I was still here.
Still standing.
Still fighting.
Still hunting.
Still alive.
The door opened.
I didn't look up. I didn't need to. I knew who it was.
"You're still here."
Matt's voice, soft and steady.
"I'm always here."
"It's almost dawn."
"I know."
"You should sleep."
"I know."
"But you won't."
"No."
He walked to the bar and sat on the stool beside me. His presence was warm, familiar, the kind of warmth that came from weeks of shared silence, of shared meals, of shared nights like this one.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking."
"About what?"
"About the lullaby."
"The one you're always humming?"
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"It used to control me. Gabriel used it to trigger my conditioning. Whenever I heard it, my body would respond. My shoulders would drop. My jaw would go slack. I'd be ready to receive instruction."
"And now?"
"Now it's mine."
I hummed a few bars, soft and low.
"I reclaimed it."
"How?"
"I don't know. I just... decided. That it was mine. That it didn't belong to him anymore. That I could use it the way I wanted to, not the way he wanted me to."
"That sounds like healing."
"It sounds like survival."
"Same thing."
He made coffee.
I watched him move around the kitchenette—measured the grounds, poured the water, pressed the button. The machine whirred to life, filling the bar with the scent of dark roast and something else, something that reminded me of mornings.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about something."
"What?"
"The movies. You mentioned it a while ago. That we should go sometime."
"I remember."
"I think I'd like that."
He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable.
"You want to go to the movies?"
"Yes."
"With me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I've never been. Not that I can remember. And I want to. And I want to go with you."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—small, almost shy, the kind of smile that made him look younger.
"Okay. We'll go. This week. Pick a night."
"I don't know what's playing."
"Neither do I. We'll figure it out together."
He poured the coffee into two mugs and carried them to the bar.
"There's a new store opening at the mall. The one we went to before."
"The one with the bear?"
"Yeah. The one with the bear."
"What kind of store?"
"I don't know. Something for the home. Candles, blankets, that kind of thing."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I thought you might want to go. When we go to the movies."
"You want to go to the mall too?"
"I want to spend time with you, Bunny. It doesn't matter where."
The words landed in my chest like something warm.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We'll go to the mall. Then the movies. A whole day."
"A whole day."
"Is that too much?"
"No. That sounds perfect."
I hummed the lullaby again.
The melody filled the bar, soft and warm, and Matt didn't flinch. He didn't ask me to stop. He didn't look at me like I was crazy. He just sat there, drinking his coffee, letting the music wash over him.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. For staying. For being here."
"I'm not going anywhere, Bunny. You're stuck with me."
"I don't mind."
"Good."
He finished his coffee and set the mug down.
"I should get some sleep. You should too."
"I will. Soon."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He stood up and walked to the door. At the threshold, he paused.
"Bunny."
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you came to the bar that night. I'm glad you stayed. I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
He walked out, and the door closed behind him, and I was alone.
I looked at my reflection in the bar's dark window.
The woman staring back was a stranger. She had hollow eyes and blood under her nails and a braid that was coming undone. Her dress was pale pink with ruffles along the hem, and her lips were chapped, and her cheeks were pale, and she looked like someone who'd seen too much and survived anyway.
But she was starting to look familiar.
The woman in the window.
The woman I was becoming.
Not Lilah.
Not Bunny.
Not Gabriel's creation or Matt's charity case.
Just... me.
Whoever that was.
Whoever I was becoming.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I'm still here."
"I'm still hunting."
"I'm still fighting."
"I'm still yours."
"But I'm also mine."
"I'm starting to be mine."
"I hope you're proud of me."
"I hope you're not angry."
"I hope you're still waiting."
No answer.
There was never an answer.
But for the first time in weeks, the silence didn't feel like abandonment.
It felt like peace.
I stood up and walked to the door.
The street outside was empty. The streetlamp flickered. The shadows shifted. But there was no one there. No shadow. No figure.
Just me.
And the dawn.
And the lullaby.
And the hunt.
The sun was rising over the city.
I stood in the doorway of The Lost Hours and watched the light spread across the sky—pale gold, soft pink, the color of new beginnings. The streets were waking up. A truck rumbled past. A bird sang somewhere in the distance.
"I'm coming, Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Your good girl is coming home."
I had the rest of my life to find him.
However long that took.
However many bodies I left behind.