Page 112 of Cruel Cravings

Her brows knit. “Brontë…”

“We can escape. You might not get to be with your sister,” I admit in my deep, hoarse voice. “But you’ll always have me. I’ll always be by your side. We can make it out together.”

Her breath catches, a few more tears slipping down her cheeks, but this time, it’s not from mourning. It’s not sorrowful but hopeful. She nods, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s escape together.”

I kiss her again, harder this time, as the sound of helicopters grows louder, their searchlights sweeping across the warehouse window. But I don’t care. Nothing matters except the vow we’ve made.

Grabbing her hand once we’re dressed, I pull her with me toward the door. We’re going to make it out of the city and start over somewhere new, or we’re going to die trying.

36.Jael

Grave - Grave - Nessa Barrett

A year later…

The sea glitters like scattered diamonds beneath the afternoon sun. Water roll onto the shore in slow, gentle waves before retreating again, leaving white foam against the golden sand in their wake. I watch the shoreline in silence, lost in my thoughts as I scoop up handfuls of sand. The tiny grains slip through my fingers seconds later, only for me to repeat the motion and gather more like I’m building an invisible sand castle.

The sun’s out and shining bright and the sea breeze carries a salt in the air. Many would glance around and call this the perfect day.

For miles to come, nothing but crystal blue waters stretch out before me and the other tourists and locals wandering the beach.

For the first time in my life, I feel untethered.

As light as the breeze that’s blowing through so late in the afternoon.

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be here—sitting in the sand, watching the waves, feeling this free—I wouldn’t have believed them. It feels dreamlike, a kind of heaven made just for me. No more dark, padded rooms or blood-streaked cabins in the woods. No more Midnight Society, no more endless, obsessive search for something just out of reach.

Instead, I’m graced with the rush of the tide and the powdery blue ceiling that’s the sky.

I cup another handful of sand, pressing it between my palms, enjoying how the grains feel both gravelly and silky, when a voice breaks through my thoughts.

“—the Cleaver murders that terrorized the city of Easton last year still remain one of the most infamous crime sprees in modern history. Authorities maintain that the investigation will be kept open until the person behind the murders is apprehended.”

The voice comes from a tourist a few feet away, reclining on a beach towel, phone propped against her thigh, the speaker volume turned up as she hides behind large sunglasses.

A crime podcast.

Her husband groans and shifts beside her. “Can you turn that down? Nobody wants to hear that crime junk on vacation.”

She huffs, but lowers the volume. “It’s interesting.”

“It’s about a serial killer. It’s depressing.”

“We have a very different definition of what’s depressing, Luke.”

Their bickering continues, soon veering into other topics like how Shannon always pays attention to her phone and how Luke can’t seem to stop being a Debbie Downer.

I sit listening nearby, slowly smirking to myself.

A part of me toys with the idea of wandering over to introduce myself like I’ve done so many times before when someone was mentioning the Cleaver case. I would wander overin whatever disguise I was wearing that day and strike up a conversation, fully aware the person was increasingly confused by how familiar I looked.

Kaden Raskova, dubbed the Cleaver, wasn’t the only famous criminal coming out of Easton.

Jael Hendrix was giving him a run for his money, and like him, she was on the loose. She was still at large to this day.

There have been the occasional sightings. Someone in Panama swearing they saw a young woman who looked just like her or a casual tourist in Thailand recognizing her at a street market, but they were all claims that led nowhere.

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