Prologue
Death.
Heartache.
Vengeance.
This isn’t a tale for the tenderhearted, the judgmental, or those who refuse to think outside the box and look at the broader picture. Those who think that everything is black and white. Simple. Cut and dried.
It’s not. There’s always shades of gray.
It’s easier to say “I’d never” when you’re sitting safely at home with the people you love most right by your side. When grief hasn’t woven itself so deeply into the fabric of your DNA that it can never be unraveled. There can be no separation. And even if you tried, it would only result in you becoming a frayed and tangled mess.
It’s easy to say you’d never walk the treacherous moral tightrope. But you aren’t the one who plummeted to the depths of hell, littered with the agony of loss and the anger of injustice, and had to claw your way out.
This story isn’t scrawled on pristine white pages in bold black ink. Marred, torn, and blood-spattered, its chapters hold deep gouges inflicted by betrayal.
This story is about a woman who had everything taken from her.
And how she took it all back.
Her
PRESENT DAY
OCTOBER
“Fuck you, bitch!” His eyes spear me with pure hatred, and I’m sure he’s pissed for a multitude of reasons.
One of those might be due to the lethal broadhead arrow piercing his thigh and pinning him to the chair—and an uncomfortable one by the looks of it.
But the real kick in the teeth is that a woman is doing all this to him.
Me.
“Now, now.” My tone drips with condescension. “Is that any way to talk to a lady? I’m merely saying the Dixie Mafia should pay better than this.” With my bow in hand, I gesture to the interior of the house we’re in. It’s so goddamn plain, it looks institutional. “Plus,” I muse conversationally, “I think this place could use a woman’s touch. Don’t you?”
“Fuck you!”
When I slam the steel edge of the bow down on his left knee, he howls. “You really should broaden your repertoire of responses.” I fix him with a look of exaggerated sorrow. “I think you’re just blaming me for your heinous excuse for surveillance.”
His piece-of-shit partner snarls at me, teeth and gums showing the evidence of his monogamous relationship with chewing tobacco. Blood seeps from the wound in his shoulder where an arrow pins him to the back of the chair. “We ain’t into no anus shit!”
I stare at him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Maybe I ought to beat the shit out of you with a dictionary instead.”
Dipshit with the arrow through his thigh glares at the other man. “She said heinous, not anus, you asshole!” Then he turns to me. “You won’t get away with this. Boss’ll notice us gone and send guys after you.”
When my mouth forms a grin laden with pure menace, the men’s expressions change in a flash.
“Oh, I’m banking on it, boys.”
I wasn’t always like this. I lived a simple life. I was married to a wonderful man and had a beautiful little girl. My dad was the typical doting grandfather.
Then one day, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. They took everything from me and nearly succeeded in taking my life, too.
Sometimes, I wish they had. I wish I’d died right along with them. Instead, I got left behind, buried beneath the suffocating rubble of heartache and devastation.
Now I’m extinguishing the lives of those who played a part in taking my family from me.
It’s time to see that justice is finally served.
Caitlin Ashford
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Seaside Cove
(bordering Wilmington, North Carolina)
“I am so proud of you.” I put the car in Park, glancing to ensure the cookie cake is still unscathed on the passenger seat, and smile back at my six-year-old daughter, Willow.
She grins. “Thank you, Mama.”
I exit the vehicle before helping her from the back seat. Pure joy and excitement are etched on her as she holds the thick card stock sheet in her little hands. “I can’t wait to show Daddy and Paw-Paw my award!”
We round the vehicle where I’d parked behind Bullard’s Gun & Pawn, our family-owned shop, before heading to the rear door and walking inside.
My grandfather opened this shop after he came back from the war and eventually handed the reins over to Dad. After he’d finished serving in the Marine Corps, my father expanded the variety of merchandise sold, and business began booming.
We never expected tragedy to strike while I was away at college, but within a month of my graduation, everything fell apart when my mother passed away from a brain aneurysm. My plans to work for a firm and put my degree in computer systems analysis to use were immediately shelved. Returning home from Appalachian State to help Dad as he reeled from the sudden loss of Mom, I assisted his then-right-hand man, Deacon Ashford, in handling the shop.
Though Deacon and I went to high school together, we hadn’t run in the same circles. He’d been on the quieter side back then while I’d been head cheerleader and class president. Since I’d been away at college, he’d gone from the cute boy from high school to a handsome man my dad relied on.
Working side by side with him, I’d come to see for myself how wonderful Deacon was, and it wasn’t long before we fell head over heels for each other.
“Paw-Paw!” Willow rushes through the back of the shop to the Employees Only doorway, her little shoes pattering on the well-worn linoleum floor.
The shop is currently free of customers, and I set my purse and keys behind one of the display cases near a register. My father schools his features before stepping away from Deacon to face Willow. His smile is wide as he holds out his arms to her.
“How’s my favorite girl?”
She wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him, starting right in and showing him her Student of the Month award.
I let out a little sigh when my husband snags my eyes and musters a weak smile for me. Deacon and my father sometimes bump heads, and though it never lasts for long, it’s to be expected when two “chiefs” are trying to work and run a business together. Plus, having Dad live with us means Deacon never really gets a break from him.
My husband saunters over and tugs me in for a kiss. I melt at the feel of his lips on mine, wishing the kiss would last a little longer.
I’ll admit, I’ve been struggling for the past year or so. It’s not that I don’t love Deacon—I do. It’s just that something’s…missing. Our marriage makes me think of when you tour a home for sale, one that’s beautifully staged but lacking true personality. The walls aren’t adorned with photos of a smiling family, and finger-painted artwork doesn’t hang on the refrigerator door. There isn’t an old frayed blanket folded and draped over the back of the couch that we can’t bear to get rid of because it holds so many memories and is perfectly soft.
I’ve been feeling like my marriage’s gauge is precariously tipping toward E, and I’m at a loss on how to remedy it. I understand there’ll be ups and downs, and after being together for nine years, the idea of divorcing Deacon and disrupting Willow’s life—making her split time between her parents—sears my heart. But I’m feeling exceedingly more despondent, like a third-party observer in my marriage.