Chapter Seventeen

The morning started good.

Better than good, really — hopeful in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in too long.

The house was clean for once. Not just tidied, but scrubbed down to the bones — floors mopped, curtains laundered and swinging fresh against the open windows, winter’s stale breath finally chased out.

The air smelled like lemon soap and damp lilacs.

Outside, the sun slanted low and bright across the neighborhood, painting everything in a soft gold that made even the potholes and sagging fences look almost hopeful.

Today was court.

Today was Sam’s evaluation appointment at Family Services — the mandated monthly check-in to assess how she was adjusting. Stacey had taken her early, promising cocoa afterwards if Sam was brave, her easy smile covering the nerves she never quite managed to hide from me.

I had kissed Sam’s forehead, smoothed her hair, buttoned her sweater just so. She had gone without fuss, waving solemnly from the backseat of Stacey’s minivan, her fingers pressed to the window like she didn’t want to leave, like maybe she knew I needed one more second of her.

I had watched until they disappeared around the corner.

Then I had come back inside and set about cleaning like a woman chasing absolution. I even laid out my court clothes—navy slacks and a blouse that didn’t wrinkle, the kind of thing that said I was dependable. Stable. Like someone who should be trusted with a life.

By the time noon rolled around, I was humming under my breath, sleeves pushed to my elbows, the vacuum growling steadily as I worked my way down the hallway.

I felt good.

Steady.

For the first time in months, I believed it might really be okay.

The court hearings, the evaluations, Naveen’s endless maneuvering — I would outlast all of it.

I would call Bianca tonight.

Ask for help, finally, like I should have done from the start.

No more pride. No more hiding.

I switched off the vacuum and listened to the silence stretch out around me. Not ominous. Not heavy. Just quiet. Just mine.

I left the machine standing in the hallway and went to the kitchen to wipe down the counters one last time before changing into my court clothes.

I was rinsing the rag under the tap, humming, when the back door creaked open.

The wrong sound.

Too soft.

Too slow.

Too certain.

I turned — and the world narrowed down to two shapes moving fast and sure through the kitchen doorway.

No words.

No threats.

Just gloved hands grabbing my arms, yanking me forward into the sharp edge of the counter. My head snapped back from the impact. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

I tried to scream. A hand clamped over my mouth, the glove reeking of sweat and bleach.

Another hand — quick, clinical — gripped my wrist and twisted it out.

Something cold kissed the inside of my arm.

Pain bloomed, sudden and hot and deep.

I thrashed. Kicked. Bit down hard enough to taste the salt and leather of the glove.

But it was too late.

Blood welled fast and thick from the slashed veins, splattering across the clean white tile.

My knees buckled.

They held me up with professional precision as the world slid away.

They let me fall. Like a stage cue had been met.

Then one of them crouched, putting the steak knife loosely on my hand.

The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was one of them stepping neatly over the vacuum cord, then pausing to adjust a magnet on the fridge. A child’s crayon drawing straightened, carefully centered. Just a job. Just a scene. Just another woman who broke under the weight.

No panic. No rush.

Just a job finished cleanly.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And then there was nothing.

No house.

No court.

No Sam.

No me.

Only the slow pull of blood leaving my body in heavy, greedy pulses.

The world

dimmed to a

point

and

winked

out.

Somewhere in the black, something tugged.

Not hands.

Not voices.

Just the ache of absence.

Hugh’s voice, low and tired, humming from the kitchen. The press of his chest against my back at night, one arm slung heavy across my ribs. That quiet, knowing way he’d smile when I said I was fine and he knew I wasn’t.

I could almost feel him—just beyond the dark, waiting. Not rushed. Just there.

If I stepped into the quiet, I’d find him.

No more court dates. No more fear. No more hunger or noise or ache. Just his arms around me again. Just the two of us, like we were before the world turned.

I missed him. God, I missed him.

My soul ached with it.

The thought of seeing him again opened something raw and sweet inside me.

I wanted to rest.

To go where he had gone.

To finally be together again.

And I almost did.

I almost let myself fall all the way through.

But then—

Sam’s laugh, wild and hiccupping, crumpling her whole face. The smell of her hair after baths, sharp with lavender soap. The fierce stomp of her little foot when she insisted on pouring her own juice. The weight of her hand, slipping into mine like trust was the easiest thing in the world.

I was so close.

Did any of it really matter against the promise of being with Hugh?

But the thought of her—alone, waiting, wondering why I wasn’t there to pick her up cracked something deep inside me.

The darkness folded in tighter.

And I folded myself tighter against it.

No.

Not yet.

Not like this.

Pain slammed back into me first — a tidal wave through the hollow wreck of my body.

Then breath — ragged, wet, pulling fire into lungs that had already stopped once.

Then heart — a shuddering, brutal kick that slammed blood back through ruined veins.

I gasped, coughing on copper and salt, the taste of blood thick and burning on my tongue.

The kitchen blurred back into focus — broken dishes scattered across the floor, blood-soaked rags sagging off the counter, the dull hum of the fridge filling the ruined air.

The clean, lemon-soap scent was gone now. Overpowered by the iron stink of blood. My blood. My house. My life.

I was lying in the ruins of everything I had fought for — and somehow, impossibly, I was still alive.

I rolled onto my side, muscles screaming. The blood slicked under my palms, warm and sticky.

The wound on my wrist twisted, skin crawling, twitching. Without my permission, the old power surged—violent, ravenous, remembering its shape inside me. The torn flesh began to knit, jerky and spasming, like a zipper forced closed by hands too angry to be gentle.

You promised, Hugh’s voice said in my head, sharp as glass and grief. You swore you wouldn’t use it again.

I had sworn. At his bedside. My hands wrapped around his skeletal fingers.

I had sworn to love him, in sickness and in health. To let him go with dignity. Because he believed it was wrong. Because he believed magic wasn’t natural. Wasn’t holy. Wasn’t meant to meddle in life and death.

"It isn’t God, Allie," he’d said, voice thinned to ash. "You aren’t God. It isn’t grace. It’s a trick. And you know better."

I had nodded. I had agreed. I had wept. And I had promised. To let the world turn without me twisting it. To let death be death. To never use it again—not even if I could. Not even if I had to.

The skin shivered against itself—trembling, twitching, pulling the severed veins back into ugly, knotted seams. I could stop it. Even now—even broken, bleeding, half-gone—I could reach inside myself and rip the magic loose. Let it all fall apart. Follow him into the dark.

So I let go.

I honored the promise. I followed him. And the dark took me.

—my heart stopped.

No beat.

No breath.

Just stillness.

Just peace.

And I would’ve stayed in the darkness.

If it weren’t for her.

Sam.

Sam, who had no choice. Sam, whose fate was being decided without her say. Sam, who would be alone in a world she didn’t understand, in the hands of people who would never see her as anything but a prize to be bought and sold.

It broke my heart.

I had kept every promise I’d ever made to Hugh. Chosen to love him above all else. But Sam? She hadn’t chosen this. And I would not abandon her. Not now. Not ever.

I surrendered.

And the magic took me. Furious. Starved. It didn’t soothe. It scorched. It ripped through me without mercy, dragging torn flesh together in raw, brutal seams. I clenched my teeth against the howl clawing up my throat as the broken veins knotted shut, muscle and sinew pulling themselves together, rough and ugly and furious.

And somewhere—deep and distant—I felt it: a tether break.

The moment I died, he lost his grip.

Naveen.

Everything I hadn’t wanted to believe—his silence, the letters, the settlement offer, the subtle erosion of every defense—I saw it now for what it was. A slow siege. A quiet sentence. Whatever magic he’d used to keep me small and afraid, it only worked while I was alive.

I had died. For those few seconds. And it set me free.

The men were long gone. Confident. Certain. They had left the scene tidy. A depressed woman, overwhelmed by court battles, child custody, grief. A woman who had finally broken under the weight of it all. A woman who wouldn’t be showing up to court this afternoon.

They would have the papers ready. Death certificate. Custody default. Sealed affidavit already in the judge’s hands. A woman who had abandoned the child. The unstable woman overcome by the burdens of her life who couldn’t be trusted to choose life, so they chose for her.

The witnesses.

The narrative.

Sam’s case would disappear into the system before nightfall.

Unless I stopped them.

Unless I got up.

I shoved myself upright, hand pressed to my side, blood smearing across my jeans, my shirt, the still-damp tile. The clock above the stove ticked on, indifferent.

12:47 PM. I still had time. Barely.

The world tilted. I staggered, caught myself against the counter. My breath sawed in and out of my chest, thick and painful.

I wasn't dead. I wasn’t done. I was still here.

And I was going to make them pay for every second they thought I was weak enough to kill.