Page 231 of Heart of Frost and Scars

Leonid

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It takes me two hours to work up the nerve to open the package Monty left.

If it’s a two-foot-tall, framed photo of Denver, I’ll kill him.

I don’t want a picture of my mother, either. I don’t want that pain. I have enough in my life.

Maybe it’s one of his expensive paintings.

I rip off the paper and stumble back.

A hand-sketched illustration.

Wolf’s illustration of the Turbo Beaver’s cockpit.

A hard knot forms in my throat, and I press a fist to my mouth, gulping down a pained breath.

In a sleek, modern frame, the sketch sits behind glass, its edges wrinkled with wear from being folded and unfolded countless times.

A barrage of memories pummels me. Wolf had broken into the plane and drawn this detailed diagram of the dashboard, our secret map for escape. We memorized it, studied it, and used it to fuel our hope in a dark time. Seeing it framed so carefully, a relic of our shared desperation, knocks my legs out from under me.

I drop to my knees, and a cry wrenches from my throat.

Fucking hell, I’ve tried so hard to keep this locked away. This deep well of misery and loss. I thought I had it sealed tight.

Tears spill from my eyes, and I squeeze them shut.

I miss Wolf so much it hurts. He left a dull, constant ache that I refuse to let myself grieve.

Grieving means confronting the past, and I can’t do that. The abuse, the death—it’s all buried deep, transformed into a simmering rage that I can no longer control.

Frankie’s right. I’ve known it all along. I need help. But the thought of opening up, of breaking through that door and peering into the dark, dismal hell inside, paralyzes me. There’s a terrible place within me, full of gruesome memories, a Pandora’s box that shouldn’t be touched.

If I don’t do something, I’ll end up in jail again. Or worse, I’ll pick a fight with the wrong man and get myself shot.

I stare at the illustration for a long time, tracing a finger along the black ink, remembering Wolf’s expressions as he wielded his sharpies with a skill that always awed me.

He’s gone, but the memories he gave me remain.

So many memories. Good and bad. They all hurt.

In the silence of my grief, there lies another deep and yawning void.

Frankie.

What will I do to get her back?

Isn’t the answer anything? Everything?

Are you willing to let me take the lead? Call the shots? Do this my way, no questions asked?

My ego kept me from accepting Monty’s offer, if I can call it an offer.

He wants to run things. But hasn’t he been doing that all this time? How would this be any different?

I didn’t think to ask him if he was referring to sex or something else? Does he intend to control when, where, and how we fuck her?

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