Page 30 of The Golden Hour

“You got it.”

I gently replace the receiver. Now wide awake, I need to kill a few hours. I consider seeking out Lizzie, maybe chatting for a bit before she goes to sleep, but my guilt for abandoning her rears its head. My empty stomach eventually decides for me, and I head for the kitchen.

The house is a mausoleum, spotless and lifeless, but when I pass Vivian’s office there’s a sliver of light beneath the door. Her voice, low and indistinct, reaches my ears. I suppress a shiver and walk faster.

In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water and a snack, then head back to my room and lock the door behind me. A memory surfaces of a conversation not meant for a child’s ears, triggered by the sound of Vivian’s sharp voice through the office door.

“Handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Get rid of him, Enzo! With Rafael behind bars, I’m in charge of this family. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“You got it.”

Would the recollection of an imaginative child hold up in court? No. Not without supporting evidence, which I don’t have. I don’t even know how old I was when I heard those words. Maybe fourteen? Sixteen? Like any teenager, my worldview was limited, my focus primarily on myself. What to wear to school the next day. Whether or not David would finally ask me out after months of flirting. How to navigate the minefield of high school and an increasingly hostile home life.

God, I wish I could go back in time and slap myself. Tell myself to wake the fuck up and face the nightmare that lived under the same roof. Do the right thing and go to the authorities.

But I hadn’t. I’d liked my BMW convertible. My legacy acceptance to university. My spending account and personal shoppers and the envy of my classmates.

“Your family is full of crooked elitists and murderers.”

Finn was right. In some ways, I’m as guilty as they are.

17

At a few minutes till midnight, I leave the house through the side door of the garage, fingers crossed that it’s still the only exit that lacks a motion-sensing floodlight. It does. With a sigh of relief, I move quickly along the side of the house, then dart across a grass lawn toward the dark thicket of trees near the wall.

I’m breathless by the time I reach my destination: an old, oxidized iron bench safe from the angled ground lights, forgotten behind the border of trees. The surrounding foliage has crept closer over the years, and the peeling surface is sprinkled with bird shit and leaves. Meager moonlight reveals the solitary figure leaning against the wall past the bench.

“Rabbit,” I breathe.

She pushes away from the wall. Her arms surround me and we hold each other tightly, our bodies speaking the words our mouths can’t.

“What the fuck, Calli?” she whispers as we part.

“I can explain.”

“You better.” She shakes her head. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw the news. What happened? Why are you here? It’s because of the governor shit, isn’t it?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Damnit. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stomach it, but I hoped you were chilling in a jungle somewhere with no TV or radio.” She clasps my hands in hers. “You’re not safe here. You know that. That woman hates you, your uncles are savages, and God only knows what your sisters have turned into.”

“They’re okay,” I murmur. “Still clueless, I think.”

I hope.

Rabbit stares at me hard, her face painted with moonlight, heart-shaped features older, sharper, and even more arresting than they were at nineteen.

I finger her short hair. “Orange or pink?”

She smirks. “Orange.”

“I love it.”

“You can’t see the color in the dark.”

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