Page 8 of The Golden Hour

My uncle taught me to shoot, against the family’s wishes. That small rebellion wasn’t what led to his assassination; rather, it was merely one straw among many that broke the camel’s back. Or, more accurately, ignited my family’s innate, vicious nature.

We live, love, and die for the family…

My heart thumps against my breastbone, reminding me that I’m alive on borrowed time. I knew it when I ran—that they’d find me someday—but it was worth it to live a little outside the family’s rule.

Her rule.

Moonlight chases shadows across the floor, the tree outside my window bending and swaying in the wind. An owl hoots. My stomach rockets to my throat, my fingers spasming on the gun.

Now that there’s some distance between me and what happened in the motel, I realize it’s unlikely Finn was sent by my stepmother. He would have recognized me immediately, and his shock at discovering my identity had been genuine. But the fact is, he still knows who I am—my name, anyway—and the vitriol pouring out of him could only mean he has history with us.

With my blood-soaked, wicked family.

It also means I’m no longer safe in Solstice Bay.

Adrenaline makes way for thick, slow tears. I didn’t lie to Fred—I do love it here, and the thought of leaving is a physical pain, mirroring the severing of the precious, tenuous roots I allowed to grow.

Caught between the forest and the sea, bordered to the north and south by uninhabited coastline, this sleepy town was my dream come true. I’d allowed myself to feel hope for my future. To believe I might live past thirty.

My mistake.

Roughly wiping my tears, I consider my next move. I don’t have a valid passport, so leaving the country is off the table. I have no contacts outside those who’d like to see me six feet deep, no old friends I can call for help.

Mentally cataloging how much cash I’ve hoarded working at the bar, I surmise I can drive for a week straight before having to stop. Maybe I’ll go south, to New Mexico or Arizona.

“Stupid. So stupid,” I hiss at myself.

I should have dyed my hair. Cut it. Bought colored contacts. Done a thousand small things to protect myself. But I hadn’t, vanity and naiveté my Achilles’ heel.

I can almost hear my father’s laughter, his mocking voice telling me, “You’re not smart enough to be on your own, my pampered princess. So shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”

When all was said and done, I couldn’t do what was required of me. And if there’s one thing you don’t do as an Avellino, it’s run from your responsibility to the family.

* * *

Sounds from the kitchen downstairs jolt me awake. My neck spasms as I lift my head from the floor where I passed out just before dawn. Blinking the grit of dried tears from my eyes, I groan as I straighten my near-numb legs. At least I had the sense to put the gun back in the lockbox, though I left the lid open just in case.

I normally sleep right through Molly’s morning routine of making tea and feeding the cats, but my sleep was restless, laced with darkness, poisoned by fear.

Sunlight streams through the window over my head, a stark contrast to my lingering nightmares. Last night’s winds blew off the clouds, and though we’re a good month away from spring, you wouldn’t know it by the birds chirping and seagulls squawking.

But I won’t be enjoying a nice run this morning. No lunch at my favorite café or sketching down at the cove before my evening shift. I’ll be packing my belongings and sneaking out of town.

Pushing to my feet, I make my way into the en suite bathroom for a quick shower, then throw on jeans and a sweater. My duffel bag comes out of the back of the closet, and twenty minutes later, it holds everything I own in the world.

I hoped Molly would be gone by the time I was finished, but when I crack open my bedroom door, I can hear her humming downstairs.

With everything she’s done for me, I dread having to bail without so much as a goodbye. Of course, the other option is to lie to her, but I’m too tired and heartsore to think of an excuse for my sudden departure. Either way, I’ll be leaving her in the lurch at the bar. I’m not sure I can handle her disappointment on top of my own.

I shift, and an ancient floorboard groans.

“Grace, is that you? Just brewed a pot of coffee. How about oatmeal for breakfast?”

“Yes, sounds great, thank you.”

Her kindness stings, a reminder that until meeting Molly, I’d never known the unconditional care of a mother. Something so simple for her—offering me coffee and oatmeal—is as foreign to me as hugs and lullabies.

I swallow the lump in my throat, grab my glasses from the nightstand, and make my way downstairs. By the time I reach the kitchen, there’s a steaming bowl on the table for me with an assortment of toppings. Brown sugar. Cream. Strawberries, blueberries, and diced banana.

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