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“Jackson…. He’ll recover, right?”
I gave her a clipped nod. No matter how deep his scars were, he’d get through it with a mother like Macayla. The question was—would she? Would the guilt hanging over her for what happened to Jackson ever recede? I knew about guilt and how it fucked with you. The dark cloud filled every molecule, demanding to be heard. To control and bring you to your knees.
But if it was the last thing I ever did, I would pull her from the thick, dark cloud and bring her into the light.
The kid showed me every inch of the rodent’s playpen, if you could even call it that. It was more like a plywood monstrosity, and a rodent hazard, if you asked me, but the kid looked proud of it, and told me which screws he put in.
My brain wasn’t focused on screws or the rodent, though. It was reeling with the fact that her piece-of-shit father had forced her to give up her child. That Jackson had been taken away from her, and she blamed herself for what his foster pieces of shit had done to him.
I wanted to fuckin’ kill them, but first they’d suffer. It seemed appropriate for putting the nightmares in the kid’s eyes. Jesus, I’d like to crucify her father for forcing her to give him up. For not letting her make that choice, whether it ended up being the same one or not.
I ran my hand back and forth over my head. Christ. I didn’t like unanswered questions.
“Gotta go, kid.” I headed for the doorway.
“Mr. Gate?”
I turned to peer at him where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the cage. “Call me Vic or Gate.”
“Okay.” He chewed his lower lip and avoided eye contact. “Is God mad at me ’cause I lied and let Waffles out? Will he punish me? ’Cause I can pray really hard.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I didn’t believe in God, but it wasn’t up to me to decide on what Macayla should want her kid’s beliefs to be.
“You won’t be punished, kid. And you don’t need to pray unless you want to. You did it because you wanted to stay and didn’t want to tell your mom. Might be easier next time to tell someone what you want. No one can be mad at you, even God, for asking for what you need. And if they do get mad, then they aren’t worth your time.”
His brows pulled together as if he was thinking about it. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
I walked out of the bedroom and saw Macayla standing in front of the kitchen sink, staring out the window with the water running. She had the glass in her hand but wasn’t filling it up.
She didn’t move for a second, and then she set the glass down, shut off the tap, and turned to look at me. “He let Waffles out on purpose,” she said, her voice scratchy and broken.
“Yeah.”
Her gaze shifted to Jackson’s bedroom, and a tear slipped over the rim of her eye and spilled down her cheek.
“Unpack the car, Rainbird.”
Macayla’s 8th birthday
Vic
The blow to the ribcage sent me flying across the room and crashing into the wall. I collapsed onto the floor, trying to suck in air, but his steel-toed boot knocked the wind out of me.
I gritted my teeth as I struggled to climb back to my feet.
Don’t show him weakness.
Don’t give him that.
I’d only made it to my knees before his fist slammed into my cheek and my head bounced off the steel bedframe.
My vision blurred and I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head before raising my chin and meeting his bloodshot eyes.
“It’s your fuckin’ fault,” he sneered, his bulbous nose red and flaring as he hovered over me. “You killed him.” Spit sprayed from his mouth as he slurred his words. “Shhhe’s gone ’cause of you.”
I was numb to his words. I’d heard them repeatedly for the last year, and I’d blocked them out. I’d blocked everything out.
The days and nights bled together into a black hole. I liked it there. Where he couldn’t reach me. Where no one could.
