Page 64 of Insurgent

I watch Danny as his back straightens and he looks out the window as the sun starts to rise.

“He will die. I will avenge Samuel’s death. I will slit Trig’s fucking throat and stare into his eyes as he bleeds out. Mark me.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Bexley

2019

I wake and a wrecking ball of pain hits me in the gut. Jumping up, I fly to the bathroom and puke. I sit back against the tub after I flush the toilet and the tears fall. I put my face in my hands, coughing and wiping down my cheeks, looking to the ceiling for some answers. It’s only been hours since I lost Samuel. Only a short time since I watched him leave me.

He sounded so scared, so childlike. His words keep replaying in my mind.

“I don’t want to die.”

And I just sat there, lying to him. Telling him he was going to be okay. Telling him bullshit.

I stare down at the floor, void of energy, but knowing there are things I have to get done.

I look to the watch on my wrist. It’s morning, but Danny’s blacked-out curtains don’t let the sun through. The sun could never shine again, and I’d be okay with it.

There’s no controlling grief. It’ll go when it decides to. I learned that from Mama’s death.

I loved Samuel in my own way. He was my best friend, and watching someone die in front of you, who was such an important part of your life…there’s no getting over that.

Regardless, I can’t sit here and let it consume me. Not yet anyway. I have a funeral to plan and I’ve got to find that bottle.

I reach for the sink and pull myself up, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Redness lines my eyes, and they’re swollen. I cup my hands and let them fill with water. I splash my face.

Grabbing my toothbrush, I attempt to clean my teeth and then throw my beanie back over my head, wishing I’d brought my shades. I’d like to make zero eye contact today. I take off Samuel’s shirt, place it back into the bag, and slide on some jeans and my Tracers, along with a long-sleeved tee and my long coat.

I look in the mirror a second time, swallow the tears back that won’t seem to stop, and turn to walk out of the room.

Looking over at the dresser, I see a pair of Ray-Bans. I snatch them up, along with my purse and phone.

I walk down the stairs and take in the few people who are already at the bar this early in the morning. Some have coffee; some have a beer.

“Good morning,” Mae says to me from behind the bar. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Please,” I say, walking up. “Where’s Danny?”

She turns to look my way as she fills up a cup. “He and the boys went out.”

I nod, wondering what that means exactly.

“Cream?” she asks.

I shake my head, bringing the cup to my lips.

“I’m sorry about Samuel,” she says sadly.

I look at her for a moment, hearing her words. How many people will say that to me over the next few weeks, months, hell, even years? I’m a widow now. I’m too young to be a widow.

Mae’s got blonde dreads and wears black-framed glasses. She’s got a sleeve of tattoos and fire red lips. She fits in here. I feel like I stand out like a sore thumb.

“Thanks.” I look up at the TV and see the news is on. They’re covering the shop.

“A young man was gunned down yesterday evening at A-Street Flower Shop and the police are questioning if it’s gang-related,” the news reporter says.

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