Page 61 of Welded Defender
I press my forehead against the cold passenger window, watching pine branches sag under the weight of melting snow. “Yeah,” I say. “But it’s my bullshit to deal with.”
CHAPTER 33
Marcy
The winter sun hangs weak but bright, casting sharp glints off the snow crust blanketing my aunt’s yard. We’ve spent most of the morning outside, knocking ice from the shrubs and scattering seed for the cardinals that dart along the fence line. My hands have gone stiff inside my gloves, but the simple rhythm—scoop, scatter, watch the flash of red wings—keeps me anchored.
It feels good to do something useful.
Something that has nothing to do with hiding or running or fear.
“See?” my aunt says, shaking the last seeds from her palm. “They remember where the food is. They always come back.”
Two cardinals dive for the same patch of ground, wings flashing crimson against white. The smaller one retreats with a sharp chirp while the victor pecks away triumphantly. Something clenches behind my ribs at those last words.
We stay outside until the birdseed runs out and my fingers go completely numb.
“I’ll get started on the hot cocoa,” my aunt says, her breath forming small clouds. “With extra marshmallows.”
I kick off my boots at the door, leaving twin puddles of melting snow, and hang my coat on the wooden peg before shuffling into the warm kitchen. Cinnamon and cloves still linger from this morning’s oatmeal. My phone vibrates against the granite countertop where I abandoned it earlier, the screen casting blue light across the polished surface. I pick it up and my stomach drops.
Six missed calls. Four from Nova and two from Wes. My voicemail icon flashes red like a warning light, but before I can press it, the phone buzzes in my palm, skittering like a trapped insect. Nova’s name fills the screen, bold and demanding. My stomach plummets as if I’ve missed a step.
My aunt’s wooden spoon stops mid-stir. Her eyes—the same golden brown as my mother’s—catch the shift in my expression. “Go on,” she says, gentle but firm. “Answer.”
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the green icon. Fear closes my throat. What if it’s bad news? What if it’s Landon?
But I press anyway.
I step into the next room and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
The voice that comes through is so loud I jerk the phone away. “Marcy?” Nova’s breath hitches between words. “Oh, thank God—I thought—I kept getting your voicemail?—”
“I—I know, I’m sorry, I?—”
“There’s no time.” Her words rush together. The phone crackles with movement—footsteps on concrete, a metal door slamming. “Brett pressed charges against Landon. He told the cops Landon assaulted him.”
My fingers go numb. The phone slips, and I catch it with both hands.
“What?”
“They’ve got him at the station now. Becket’s there but—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Marcy, I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do.”
Something squeezes behind my sternum like a vise. I gasp but can’t pull in enough air. My knuckles go white gripping the back of the couch as Nova’s voice buzzes through the phone against my ear.
“They’re saying it’s serious. Like… like he could actually get charged. Brett’s playing the victim, saying Landon attacked him unprovoked.” Her voice cracks. “Marcy, you know that’s not true. You were there.”
I press my fist to my mouth, shaking my head like I can undo her words. Images slam into me—Brett’s sneer, Landon’s fists connecting, the threats that still echo in my ears.
”My face will be the last you see…”
“Please.” Nova’s voice breaks, her breath catching. “You’re the only one who can help us—” She swallows audibly. “If you don’t come?—”
“I’m on my way.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, hoarse but certain.
Silence stretches across the line. Then: “Okay.” Nova exhales, the static rush of air filling my ear. “Okay, good. Just—” Another pause. “Just drive safe, okay?”
“I will.”
