For Peace. For Andrea. For Heart’s Edge, I’m ready.
The Reaper doesn’t scare me. Neither does this crazy little shit.
His leer turns cold, a dark and ugly grimace—but there’s a familiar sadness there, too. Sorrow, loss, and I think it’s sinking in already that killing me won’t end his pain.
Won’t bring anybody back.
But that ain’t gonna stop him.
I brace myself for a world of hurt as he whispers, “You can tell Jenna and my mom hello when you get there—if you’re worthy of anything but hell.”
This is it.
My legs tense, ready to jump as soon as he lights me up like a candle. I watch him like a hawk.
His finger tightens on the trigger.
And a massive, roaring crash explodes behind him.
My face jerks up as a fire truck comes roaring through the blaze, smashing through the last of the burning walls and bursting out of the riot of flames, bearing down on Justin like a freight train.
It’s my brother behind the wheel.
Holt’s eyes set and grim, his grip on the steering wheel strong as he comes plowing at us without a second’s hesitation.
We lock eyes for barely a breath, and in that moment, I want to scream like I’ve lost my shit.
I trust my brother.
And I throw myself out of the way, while Justin turns with a wide-eyed scream.
He doesn’t have a chance.
I go tumbling into a snowbank and almost roll right into another flaming booth.
There’s a horrible thwack!
Justin disappears under the fire truck’s wheels, crumpling up like a doll with no sound but the crush of bone and the crinkle of collapsing metal and wet spurts of fuel.
Then nothing as the fire truck goes completely still.
Holt kicks the door open, leaning out, breathing hard, then flashes me a grin that can’t mask his tension and the sense of horror in his whiskey eyes, dancing in the firelight.
“Sorry I’m late,” he gasps out. “Got locked up.”
“You just gotta make a joke now?” I groan.
He jumps down from the driver’s seat and lopes over to give me a hand, hauling me up with a strength I don’t have.
I start to collapse the second I manage to stand—but he loops an arm around my waist, and I drape mine over his shoulders. He helps me as we limp toward the fire truck.
Plus, the battered, broken body protruding from behind one wheel.
He’s still alive. Fuck.
Justin’s eyes are glazed and blank but open, flicking back and forth, his lips parted as blood trickles out. His body is a twisted mess, limbs contorted in ways no human body should ever be.
I think he’s looking right at me till I hear his words.
“I see her...” he whispers, his voice guttural, as broken as he is. “Mom, hey...Mom, it’s me...”
I ain’t gonna cry.
I ain’t.
But fuck if that don’t stab me right in the guts.
He’s so young, so screwed up, and if things hadn’t gone so goddamn wrong...
I push Holt away, my strength coming back, taking a halting step toward him.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” I choke out. “Fuck, I saw you like family. Why’d you have to go and...”
The words just die in my throat. Questions can’t fix this shit.
Justin’s eyes clear and focus on me.
And he smiles, this pained and awful and accepting grin.
“H-hey, Chief,” he grinds out. “...y-you...you were a good dad. I’m sorry...when I get mad, I just...can’t think straight. But it’s okay, now. I can think again and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it hurts, Mom, it hurts...”
He trails off in a broken, hushed sob.
I’ve seen that look, heard that anguish before, that trembling, crumpling expression.
It’s loneliness.
The fear that death’s coming, and dammit...no matter what this poor misguided idiot did to me, I won’t let him spend his last seconds alone.
“Help me,” I mutter to Holt.
He gets me down, both of us on one knee.
I reach for Justin’s bloody hand, his shaking fingers, and clasp his weak grip in mine.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” I grind out, my throat so thick I can barely talk. “It’s fucking okay now. You can let go.”
He blinks at me slowly, blankly. My eyes blur, right when his go clear.
His fingers go limp.
And then slip free, falling to the ground with a heavy thud as his head lolls to one side.
I know.
I shouldn’t feel shit for someone who hurt me and mine so bad.
But I meant what I said about him, and I can’t help but think.
That could’ve been me or Holt in another life.
There’s a heavy, somber silence before I reach out and brush my fingers over Justin’s eyes, closing them so he looks more at peace.
“Let’s get him out from under there,” I say. “And then let’s go clear a path.”
23
Till the Fat Lady Sings (Peace)
When I was a kid, there was this film I loved called Meet the Robinsons.
It was this cute CGI thing, with a boy getting whisked off to the future with a time traveler to recover some stolen device. I can’t remember the entire plot, but I remember one scene really well.
The bad guy sends a T-Rex after the kid heroes.
But the T-Rex chases them into a corner and can’t get to them because every time it charges in, its massive head hits the wall while its tiny arms can’t reach, wobbling and flailing and always falling short of the boys.
It’s the best line in the film, the T-Rex talking in this weird Charlie Brown teacher voice to his furious master.
I have a big head and little arms. I’m just not sure how well this plan was thought through.
That T-Rex?
That’s me right now.
I had the brilliant idea to buy everyone a few precious minutes and shelter them inside the ice palace.
Too bad that brilliant idea doesn’t hold up very well under the simple truth that ice melts.
So.
I’ve got a headache and arms full of unconscious girl, and the walls are wet and running and growing thinner as the flames work their way through. People cower back, screaming, whimpering, hopeless, trapped on all sides like fireflies inside a jar.
And I’m just not sure how well my plan was thought through.
Clark edges in closer, staring at the leaping flames through the translucent walls. “Peace...I think we gotta make a break for it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I catch Leo’s eye across the room.
He’s got his wife and kid with him—ugh, I hadn’t even realized they were here, but he’s using his massive bulk like a wall, keeping people inside. I tilt my head his way, but he shakes his in return.
“If we run, everyone runs,” I tell Clark. “And people are going to get hurt in the chaos. We can’t have a stampede. There are kids here.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” he begs. “Burn to death? Shit, I don’t know...”
“There’s still time,” I whisper, and hold Andrea closer, trying not to sense the change in the air.
It’s getting warmer.