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No guilt when I raze it to the ground. But those feelings, they’re for another day. I inhale deeply, my mind swirling with thoughts as I try to piece together what could have led to this moment.
My senses hone in on the smallest details, searching my memory for what I missed as I race down the stairs to my basement. I don’t hesitate by the open door, even though I rarely leave it open. My heartbeat matches the rhythm of my footfalls crashing down the stairs. I rush to the middle of the finished side of the basement, spinning in a circle and looking for . . . I don’t know what. It’s not like I expected her to be huddled in the corner with Aunt Dixie and Hunter.
I exhale sharply and drag my hand over my face, the scruff on my chin scraping at my palms. I guess, maybe I was expecting that. But it’s clear they’re not here, and worse, I can’t even tell if they were.
Disparaging thoughts that sound a lot like my mother's voice flick across my consciousness, embedding themselves in the soft tissues of my brain where I'm most vulnerable.
You should have prepared her, protected her.
You failed her and your aunt and your nephew.
You failed them all because that's what you do.
You're a failure just like your father.
I grunt at the mental onslaught, shouldering open the door to the storage side with more force than necessary. The door handle slams into the drywall with a low thunk, and I stare around the room. My chest heaves with exertion like I just ran a marathon and not across a basement.
The unfinished side of the basement was like a forgotten realm, where shadows crept along the forgotten memories shoved in plastic storage totes.
At a first glance, it looks exactly the same. The wall of shelves on one side, a rarely-used workbench on the other. And the door to the underground tunnel connecting my house to Silas’s.
I open the door to my side of the tunnel with ease. It’s not even locked. I squint, staring at my hand wrapped around the metal handle and try to remember if I had locked it.
I don’t know if I did. It’s one of those things I don’t think about often, since we’ve never had to use it before. We tried it out, of course, when we built it. But we haven’t needed it.
I step into the tunnel and cup my hands around either side of my mouth. “Evangeline! Aunt Dixie! Hunter!”
But only silence answers as I stand at the entrance of the dark tunnel. Flipping open the flashlight app on my phone, I cautiously make my way inside, my heart pounding. My footsteps echo slightly against the metal walls, the only sound down here. I walk all the way down to the locked door that connects to Silas’ house.
It’s . . . empty. They’re not here.
“Fuck,” I bark, fisting my hand against the door and closing my eyes for a second.
I didn’t realize it until this moment that I had quietly hoped that I would find them in here, safe and sound. But I fucking know better than to hope.
You would have thought that this life would have burned the last vestiges of hope right out of my bloodstream but no, there it was, flickering like a dying candle in the wind.
That little voice in the back of my head isn’t wrong, no matter how much I wish it were. I didn’t protect her, and I should’ve prepared her more.
But we’ve grown complacent in recent years. Content to live our lives on the fringe of criminal activity. Our instincts grew dull in the midst of peace.
Regret is a ruthless siren, she’ll drag your ass into the depths of your own hell. And then she’ll drown you without remorse. And she’s doing her fucking best to sink her talons into me right now. I don’t have the luxury of time. Besides, I try to make a habit of not giving in to the temptation of regret.
But there are moments, however infrequent and fleeting, when the weight of it all comes crashing down on me. The burden of everything I’ve done in the name of the Reapers is heavier than I ever imagined.
And eight years ago, I found myself thanking a god I didn’t believe in for putting her in my path, for snuffing out the burning embers of regret and reigniting the spark of life within me once more.
It’s fucking lame and corny and a thousand other adjectives that paint me as a cliche, but it’s the truth.
I . . . I thought she was a gift for all the shit that I had endured, my personal image of hope in a world where savagery was the norm.
But if the universe was merciful enough to grant me her then, what have I done to deserve this?
What have I done to deserve her being taken?
I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots and willing myself to think.
Think harder, think faster.
