Page 64 of Jayson
But the universe—destiny, fate, whatever—likes to experiment with cruelty. That night, it decided to throw a curveball the exact second my crosshairs settled on the mayor.
Keira Bishop walked through the door.
Wrong place, wrong heartbeat, wrong second on the clock. And suddenly the line was no longer straight. It looped, tangled, dragged me with it. The echo hadn’t died before I knew two things with certain clarity: she saw my face, and I couldn’t pull the trigger a second time.
Keira’s eyes were wide enough to hold the whole horror movie. No scream. Just that silent, glass-shard inhale, like the world had stolen all her air, and destiny had punched her in the throat.
It all came down to timing again.
If she’d arrived five minutes earlier, she’d have found her father sleeping, and I may not have stepped into that room. Five minutes later? A silent house and a cooling corpse. Instead, she stepped in at the exact microsecond that split the two versions of reality—the second that forged a new history neither of us saw coming.
She backed up, knees trembling, mouth shaping a plea she never got to voice. I crossed the room, gun raised, adrenaline roaring so loud it drowned out any thought. I don’t even remember lowering my weapon. I remember her pulse under my glove when I grabbed her wrist—too fast, too tight—and the involuntary flinch that stabbed straight through my ribs.
She fought back when I reached her, and tried to run as I lead her out the back, through the manicured rose garden that signified money and power. My window for escape was measured in heartbeats, and I couldn’t afford to waste time as I bundled her into the waiting car. Ghost was behind the wheel, scowling. He doesn’t like baggage. I didn’t have time for his judgment.
We peeled away, tires whispering on wet asphalt, her eyes locked on mine, full of questions I didn’t have answers to. The irony tasted like copper on my tongue: I just blew up her life, only to save it.
Hours later, I sat in the dim glow of my grandmother’s kitchen. The house that should have felt like home didn’t; it was a mausoleum of memories I couldn’t exhume. Keira was downstairs, locked in the single cell in the basement.
Nina slid a mug across the table. Coffee, black and scorched. “You going to tell me why there’s a stranger in my basement?”
“Because timing’s a bitch,” I muttered. It was the only explanation I would give her.
“Guilt looks heavy on you, son,” she said softly.
“Fate feels heavier on her.” I didn’t choose the timing. That cosmic thing chose me. “Maybe this is the universe balancing its books,” I said. “Took my sister, gave me?—”
“Careful,” Nina warned, and I bit off the rest of my words. Because I was about to call Keira redemption, and that’s a weight no girl deserved to carry.
Near dawn I stood outside the basement door, palm flat against the wood. I could almost feel her breathing, rapid and uneven, the rhythm of a caged bird. I thought of my father screaming at a gravestone, calling me a murderer. I thought of the drunk who never served a day for stealing two lives. I thought of glass shards sparkling on asphalt like false stars.
Timing decided who lived that night. Timing decided Keira would be my undoing, or my saving grace, depending on where the second hand landed next.
I whispered into the door, so low it was impossible for her-or anyone else-to hear me, “I took you so he couldn’t take you from me.”
Then I turned away before the words could twist into something softer. Something dangerous. Because every second I lingered, the clock kept ticking, and timing—relentless, merciless timing—might have decided to finish what it started.
And I wasn’t ready to know which ending it picked for us yet.
We drive backto the mansion in silence, Keira’s suitcase in the trunk of the SUV.
The afternoon presses against the windows, thick and cold, turning the highway into a dull vein through the woods. The tires hum; the engine’s growl is steady, patient—unlike the wildfire in my skull. I keep the speed one notch under reckless, one hand at the wheel and the other resting against the window.
Beside me, Keira folds into herself, chin tucked, arms wrapped tight as if she can hold her ribs together. Her reflection ghosts in the glass—wide eyes, hollow cheeks, hair a mess of rain-damp curls. Every few seconds, the light sweeps over her face, lighting the bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes.
I should say something. Ask if she’s warm enough. Offer water or music or the simplest scrap of comfort. Instead I clamp my jaw shut. Words are cheap currency today, and I’ve already spent too many on guilt.
The trees fling streaks of black across our windshield. Wipers hiss.
Timing,the universe sneers. I’m so deep in the spiral I almost miss her voice.
“I’m not going back to uni.”
Six words. Quiet. But they hit me out of no-where.
My head snaps toward her before instinct slams it back to the road. “What?”
She stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road before us. “I’m not going back to uni.”
