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PartOne
“Silence is the most powerful scream.”
- Unknown
Prologue
Once,someone told me that it's our darkest moments that truly define us. In those hours of shadows and despair, we learn what we're truly made of. They said that if we rise to the occasion in those depths, we can overcome any obstacle, conquer any fear.
That someone, well, they also labeled me a pill-popping drunk.
I cut that person out of my life so hard it gave me whiplash.
They were wrong. Dead wrong.
Crawling into a hole with the fluffiest of blankets, drowning in the agony that life can bring, and crying until dehydration threatens to send you into an early retirement doesn't carry an ounce of shame. Choosing wine as your solace, to hydrate in a way that might make you drunk—for that one instance, one night, or maybe a few more, doesn't make you a drunk. There's a difference.
However, and I want this crystal clear, after the tears have fallen like rain and my face has been washed, and I've reassembled the pieces of my soul, you better believe I'm coming for you.
Because, my dear, when I finally stand up, when I dry my tears, when I scrub the weariness off my face and screw my head back on, I'll do more than just face the day. I'll rise with a vengeance, an unyielding strength, a power born from the very fragments of my broken heart.
And baby, when I rise, I rise with a fire that even the darkest depths of hell couldn't contain. I'll be a force to reckon with, a storm that won't be silenced, a defender who would unleash the very depths of hell to protect the ones I love.
In this world, where darkness prowls and evil lurks in the shadows, there's no limit to how far I'll go to protect the ones I love.
One
If desperation had a scent,it would hang in the air like the tang of fryer oil mingled with the musk of blood money. Regrettably, in my profession, we’re all denizens of desperation, wrestling with the tempest of misfortune and want, and striving to reach for a glimmer of happiness.
Life, they say, is a canvas painted by our choices, and they tell us that happiness resides within, a treasure of the heart and soul. I, however, have little patience for that soothing philosophy. It’s as hollow as a cracked vase, because sometimes, no matter how fervently we strive, we can’t reshape the hand we were dealt by life.
Others claim fate weaves patterns through our lives, each misstep a stitch in its tapestry, but that grand tapestry, the one that assigns meaning to every action, every fall? I regard that notion with suspicion. It feels like an excuse, a comforting fiction we tell ourselves.
Though, to be fair, there’s a chance I’m wrong.
Then again, there’s also a chance that I’m right.
“Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome requested your section.” Tatum blows a bubble and lets it pop too close to my ear. In fact, everything is too close, too loud, and just plain too much. “And before jumping down my throat, I told him you are leaving early today. Heads-up, he wanted to know why.”
Side-eyeing my coworker as I ring out what I thought was my last table, I ask, “And what did you tell him?” As casually as possible, I peer over her shoulder to my section. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome sits in the back booth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was working. He isn’t, and I do know better. People who come in here to work have files, laptops, and even paper. It’s only ever him in this diner, sitting in the same booth, quiet and imposing, and just…watching.
He also never asks questions.
“I told him you had a rendezvous,” Tatum hisses at me before resuming her obnoxious gum chewing. There’s something oddly comforting about the rhythm of her chewing and the way she pops and smacks. Perhaps it’s my fractured psyche finding solace in what seems like a liveliness I lost long ago.
“I don’t have a rendezvous, Tatum.” As the register prints my receipt, I pat the paperwork in my apron pocket—the real reason I’m leaving early today—and assure myself that it’s still real and not a figment of my imagination or a daydream. Even now, I look around as though someone will sneak up on me and steal it from me, and I’ll have to start the fight all over again.
I’d fight because the fight is worth it, even if it left me exhausted and weary.
“I know that, and you know…” She sighs like the dramatic redheaded queen she is. Crossing her arms, she leans against the counter beside me. Her tight white shirt pushes her breasts up like a shelf, and a pang of jealousy rips through me. She calls it her knockout shelf and says that it gets her all the tips. That’s the only reason I feel any sort of jealousy. “What was I supposed to tell him? That you took the day off to celebrate your custody win?”
“It’s the truth.” I rip the receipt out and turn around. The diner’s scent kicks up a notch as I inhale and acknowledge its presence. It’s a deep-fried state of living, and it’s my living. “Lies are messy, Tate.”
She doesn’t answer, only grunts at me in disagreement. Tate would rather lie than tell the world how she really feels.
“Hey, toots!” Sal calls from the kitchen loud enough for the lingering church diners to sneer at him. He just takes it in stride and sneers right back. Short and balding, Sal owns the diner—the one he named The Tulip.It sounds like a nightclub and looks like a cottage core wet dream, with fake and real hanging plants and an open kitchen. It’s like a hipster’s paradise in the midafternoon. “Table six is up.” He rings the little bell that isn’t necessary.
“Duty calls.” I push myself away from the counter, my sticky tray in hand, and make my way toward Sal.
