Page 75 of Jayson
No wonder she looks like that—like she’s been fighting shadows in her own head and losing every round.
She’s not unraveling because of me. She was already hanging by a thread. And I just happened to be the knife.
I clench my jaw, fists curling tight against my thighs. I don’t know if I want to kill her father’s ghost—or dig him up just to make sure he’s dead enough.
“What did you remember?” I ask her.
“Dad was always super friendly towards Riley, but the next morning when the police knocked on our door, he painted Riley in a bad light. He made it sound like she was a street kid who most likely ran away. He told the police he was alone that night, even though he had friends over. It didn’t make sense why he would lie about something like that.” Keira’s gaze snaps to mine, pupils blown wide. “Why would he lie about that, if he didn’t have something to hide?”
I don’t answer. Rage is climbing my spine, hooking claws into vertebrae.
She continues like she can’t stop now, like the words finallyhave teeth. “I asked Dad about it later. He told me I was overtired. Hallucinating. But this morning, standing in that pantry… I smelled the cereal. It threw me back to that night so hard I could feel her hand leave mine.”
Tears slip free, but she swats them away, furious at their weakness. “I have no proof. Just memories that won’t line up straight. But something happened that night. Something ugly. And I think my father made it happen.”
She’s shaking, hair falling loose around her face, chest heaving.
I push off the chair, crossing the room until my shadow covers hers. I crouch, forearms on my knees so we’re eye-level.
“Listen to me.” My voice is low steel. “You know why I killed your father, right? I killed him because of what he was—a broker in bodies. That makes your father the most likely suspect in your friend’s disappearance.
Her lips part, disbelief bleeding into something darker.
“I don’t know the details,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “But logic says your father must have been involved.”
Tears tremble on her lower lashes, catching the lamplight like shards of glass—delicate but lethal. “Why would he do that?”
“Because that’s what men like him do, Keira.” My hands knot into fists on my knees. “Traffickers don’t see daughters or friends. They see currency.”
She lets out a sound I’ve only ever heard on battlefields—half-laugh, half-sob, raw nerve exposed. “I can’t even blink without seeing her.”
I reach out. Stop short before touching her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, but her eyes track the hover of my hand like she’s not sure which is worse—my touch or the void that the lack of it leaves.
“Your ghosts don’t want to stay buried,” I say quietly.
Her shoulders quake. “Why can’t I remember?” The words slide out on a whisper so thin it almost breaks. “I can recite every Friday sleepover, every homework session… but when I reach that night—” Her throat locks; her next breath rattles. “All I get is static.”
“Your brain’s protecting you,” I answer, softer now. “Trauma edits the footage. Slices out the worst frames so you can keep breathing.”
“But I need those frames.” Her hands claw at her own sleeves, nails pressing crescents into skin. “I need them to make sense of why she never made it home.”
I lean forward, anchoring my elbows to my knees so I don’t reach again. “Then you drag the memories back, one at a time.”
She shakes her head, hair spilling over her shoulder. “What if remembering kills me?”
“It won’t,” I tell her.
She looks up, eyes wrecked and shining—but not broken.
Her gaze holds mine, trembling but defiant, like some part of her is daring me to be wrong.
Then she inhales. Long. Shaky. But hers.
And with a breath that nearly guts me, she wipes the tears away before they fall, dragging her sleeve across her cheek like a warrior smearing warpaint.
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she says.
“Then don’t be.” I sit back, finally letting the silence settle between us like a promise. “You’ve already made it through hell. You just forgot how loud your roar is.”
