I lie there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, as dead on the inside as Cyrus Moseley is in the ground.
Jackson leaves after that. There’s nothing left for him to stay for. He’s already stolen everything he can.
Back to his wife.
Back to his life.
And mine?
It’s been left to die slowly on a photographic carpet of another man’s crime.
I hear the ding of the arriving elevator carriage and then the metallic whoosh of the doors sliding shut. After that, there’s the tick-tock of a distant clock.
I’m still lying there, staring at the ceiling. I feel pain and I feel nothing, all rolled into one. The tears staining my cheeks are those of an imposter’s.
The tick-tocks grow louder. They’re joined by a faint buzzing in the air. Like a warning. Like a chorus of Palmetto bugs just before a summer storm. The back of my neck starts prickling as an even darker shadow creeps over my skin.
Tick-tock.
Bzzz.
Beads of crimson burst from the join of the wall and the ceiling above me. I count them, one by one, as they gather and swell before succumbing to gravity, leaving perfect streaks of red down to the floor.
Like prison bars.
Like trail marks leading the way back to him.
To us.
Are they real?
Wincing, I sit up slowly while fighting back tears. I fix my bra before tugging the tails of my shirt together and looking around for my heels.
My mind is set. My mind is broken again.
I grab my bag, and then I’m gone.
CHAPTER SIX
Luca
Judgment Day.
Most people devote their lives to preparation for it. They speak of it in hushed whispers. And whether they admit it or not, they live in fear of it, vehemently avoiding the pitfalls of temptation so as to serve their God. To appear favorable in His eyes in order to be deemed worthy enough to walk beside him in the Kingdom of Heaven.
The wages of sin is death.
My Judgment Day came ten years ago as I knelt on the dirty floor of that cabin, my hands pressed against my stomach, the coppery stench of my own sin seeping through my fingers. My temptation called my name in a shattered tone before turning her back and leaving me to die.
Run, Madi.
I wasn’t supposed to live. I had every intention of meeting the God I’d heard so much about that day, then demanding the answers his followers never gave.
And in case they lied, I also prepared to burn for all eternity as well.
Neither happened.
Instead, the blood staining my hands didn’t end my life; it gave it purpose. It pulled the knife from my stomach and placed it in my hand.
Run, Madi. Run while you still can.
Ten years, I’ve waited. Ten years, I’ve searched. I should have known God would have held her from me until now. The date is sacred. A number as branded as deeply into my skin as it is in my mind. It’s September, the month marking twelve years since I first saw her. Since I watched her chase a solitary ribbon floating on an uncommon breeze. It was meant to be this way. As much as I craved her—tasted my own blood in substitution of hers—our story was always written for twelve.
It’s the number of completion, after all.
It signifies the beginning and signals the end. The chance to wrap up this stage in life before moving on to the next. We are co-creators in our karma and it has finally come to fruition.
Judgment Day.
And here I am again, facing another one. Another knife. More blood.
Only I’m not allowing Madi to run away this time. Instead, she’ll never run again. I’ve made sure of it. Because today, she’ll walk into a courtroom and sell her soul for mine.
The chains around my wrists rattle as I shift in my chair. I’ve been sitting in the same one for over an hour now waiting on her. The guards came for me at four o’clock this morning, my parting gift to Sledge, along with a missing tooth.
I told him that first day—I like souvenirs.
After a cold shower and a fresh jumpsuit, they shoved me into this room to wait.
And wait.
I suppose it’s meant to put me on edge. Idiots. I spent the first eighteen years of my life in solitude waiting for my sweet rose to bloom and then twelve more waiting to watch her wilt.
Patience is my greatest strength.
A click toward the front of the tiny room draws my gaze upward. I clasp my hands together, the sweat between my palms gathering like an unholy baptism. I know it’s her before the shock of red hair passes through the threshold.
She’s the only one who ever broke my shield. The only one who could ever draw blood from steel. Fucking weakness. I hate her for it.
Hate. Love.
Aren’t they one and the same?
“Luca,” she says, those green eyes giving nothing away as she steps inside the room and takes her seat across the table. She’s wearing another black pantsuit, layered and thick like a bulletproof vest. I stare at her, saying nothing as she opens that damn brown folder, shuffling papers as if today is any other day. As if she didn’t just close the door on her own Judgment Day. “I trust you slept well.”
Something has been off with her all week. I can’t name the color, but the shade is familiar. It darkens her eyes and marks her face. Her make-up is way too heavy, almost like she’s disguising herself from me. What did I say about masks, cara mia?
Each time I’ve asked her, she’s given the same canned answer. “What do you think is wrong, Luca? You’re compromising my ethics.”
Which is a bullshit answer. She has none. I took them when I took her.
This is something else...
“Madi,” I nod. “And no, I haven’t slept in ten years.”
She doesn’t react, instead, strewing papers out on the table before folding her hands behind them. “This is our last meeting before the trial begins. I have to know that you’re clear on everything we’ve discussed. That you know exactly what to say when I put you on the stand.” It’s not a question as much as a confirmation. She knows damn well I know what the fuck to say. I should be the one asking her that.
She’s the one who looks like she’s about to throw up.
“Nothing is covered up that will not be revealed or hidden that will not be known.”
She entwines her fingers, her knuckles turning white. “Do not quote the Bible to me right now, Luca. You’re the one on trial, not me.”
Capturing her gaze, I lean across the desk as far as my restraints will allow. “Are you sure about that?”
Madigan’s jaw tightens. She’s not only fighting me, she’s fighting herself, and that black seed I planted within her years ago. The one that has taken root and grown with time. I can see the twisted, gnarled branches coiled behind those veiled eyes—hidden only by a layer of skin and defiance. She can deny it all she wants, but we both know I stole more than her innocence that day.
I stole her salvation.
Breaking eye contact, Madigan presses the heels of her palms into her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. I watch as she lowers her arms, folding them across her chest and slowly rising to her feet. “I’ll do everything I can,” she says, pacing the perimeter of the room, “but you have to know it doesn’t look good. Normally, I have months to prepare, but since all the media coverage and public outrage pressured Judge Harris to expedite the court date, I haven’t had sufficient time to craft a credible defense.” She stiffens as she realizes she’s paced her way by my side. “It-it could go either way.”