Page 44 of Oathbreaker

I resist groaning as Uvalde’s blood races down the drain, filling me with renewed satisfaction.

I am in control.

Hanging my head in the shower spray, I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories. Not the memory of the recent past—of killing Uvalde. My memories transport me back to all those years following behind my father.

My brain takes me back to Isla Cara. I was ten.

They writhe on every surface of the ballroom. Combined, there are at least a hundred naked bodies swirling together. They look like snakes as they move on the floor. Across the balcony where I stand overlooking the scene, a bright red light flashes in a steady rhythm. Blinking, pulsing.

Flash.

Father takes my shoulder and leads me to the place he never allows me to see. He’s proud of me now because I did what he wanted and didn’t cry.

Flash.

Father dials in the combination for the metal door, and when we enter, he flings his hands wide, spinning slowly to show the enormity of his treasures—diamonds, rubies, gold bars, art canvases, cash.

Flash.

“This will all be yours, son. It is your birthright.”

I’m in awe.

I touch the gold coins—their weight heavier than I'd imagined in my palm. I lean forward to draw the scent of the pyramid of dollars into my nose. The stacks are taller than I am.

Flash.

A VCR/DVD combo sits on a wooden crate. It doesn’t look like it belongs there. A videotape sticks out of the device, with smeared handwriting on the white label. I start to pull it out of the TV. Father stops me.

Flash.

“What is it?” I ask him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder again. “It’s what keeps us in power.”

Flash. Flash. Flash.

As the shower rains over me, I ground my body into the feeling of the slick tile beneath my palms and focus on the water running down my spine.

I am here. I am in control.

I revel in the fact that the commissioner is dead.

Commissioner Uvalde. Morris Winthrope. Benjamin Brigham.

I exit the shower and rummage around for a T-shirt and pants to use as pajamas. I’m used to sleeping naked. When Winter and I shared a bed, I usually wore only a pair of boxers for her benefit.

Now I cover up because if she needs me in the night, I don’t want to add to her fears. That’s also why I sleep with the door open…although sleep is rare these days.

When I leave my bedroom, I fight the urge to go to Winter. She’ll come to me when she is ready. I need to give her space if we’re ever going to come back together.

I continue to the kitchen but stop short when I see August there.

We haven’t spoken to each other much. I get the sense that he’s avoiding me, but I’m ashamed to say I haven’t sought him out either.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s just that I’ve been so caught up in my shit. I’ve been so caught up in my inability to keep Winter safe. Can I keep him safe, or will I cause him to be hurt too?

“August,” I say. The sharp drop in adrenaline causes my voice to sound hoarse.

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