Page 47 of Riot

I take her hand as she starts to sob, and Kage takes her other one. As she cries, I look around the house. It’s frozen in time, no doubt from the year she lost her husband and daughter. I bet nothing has changed. She’s like a ghost, and I understand how that feels.

“You aren’t forgotten. I’m sorry it took me this long to find you, but you aren’t alone. Your daughter wasn’t the only one who was hurt in that house, and I’m going to make them pay. I’m going to make everyone listen,” I promise as she lifts her tear-stained face.

“We can’t do anything. You are one person, and everyone ignores a small wave,” she murmurs.

“But enough small waves make a tidal wave they can’t ignore,” I tell her, holding her hand tighter. “I will make them remember your daughter and what they did to her, to me, to everyone.”

She watches me sadly before threading her fingers through me. “I heard rumors, but I didn’t know if they were true. I’m so sorry, my child.”

“It’s not your apology I need to hear. They didn’t destroy me then, and they won’t now—plus, we aren’t alone.” I look at Kage. “There will be more of us out there, and I’m going to find them. I’m going to create an army of angry, vengeful women and shove it in their faces until they can’t ignore it. Will you help me?”

“With anything you need. Let’s bring them down,” she replies before wiping her eyes. “Excuse me, let me clean myself up. Drink and eat, I’ll be back.” We watch her climb to her feet with a new strength in her steps.

Getting to my feet, I leave Kage sipping the tea as I wander into the attached living room, looking over the pictures displayed proudly above the fireplace. My eyes catch on one of a girl, her daughter. It’s clearly from a model shoot, and she looks beautiful. Picking it up, I smile at the excitement in her eyes. Her deep brown eyes match her mom’s.

The longer I stare into those eyes, though, the more horror fills me. My entire body turns cold as I stare into a face I’ve seen before. It was just once, but it was enough to stay with me even now.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” comes a voice, and I startle, almost dropping the picture, but I catch it and put it back. Ms. Miller watches me worriedly.

“Stunning.” I nod, my voice hoarse as I glance back at the photograph again.

Memories claw at my throat, and I know we have to get out here. I won’t dishonor her daughter any more than she already has been, nor will I traumatize this woman any further.

I won’t give life to it here in a place of love.

TWENTY-ONE

“You’re really quiet,” I comment.

She has been since we left Ms. Miller’s house after exchanging information. Ms. Miller also gave us the name of someone she has been trying to track down, and with a few calls, I managed to find him. It’s where we are now, outside of the restaurant he currently runs, waiting for him to appear since Ms. Miller thinks he knows something about the past.

“Fallon?” I reach over and take her hand, finding it cold. I blow on it, warming it as I crank the heat in my car. “Baby, you’re scaring me. Talk to me.”

“I knew her,” she whispers, swinging her head to look at me, and I see tears swimming in her eyes. “I saw her daughter the night that happened. I saw her.”

“Sweetheart,” I murmur. There is so much agony in her voice, and when she shakes her head and looks away, my heart breaks for her. She’s trying so hard not to break.

“Don’t be nice to me right now or I’ll cry. I don’t think I’ll stop, and I hate crying in front of people,” she warns, her nails digging into her exposed thigh. Frowning, I carefully pull it free, kissing the mark, and instead, I press her nails into my arm.

“Cut me if you need to.”

Her eyes meet mine once more, and she swallows. “I recognized her eyes. They haunt me. I should have seen it before, but there were so many, I tried to forget. I did. I forgot that night until now as much as I could, but now it’s here.” She slams her hand against her chest. “Needing to come out.”

“Then let it out,” I beg. “Don’t suffer in silence. Talk or scream, but don’t hurt yourself over it, baby. Let me help, even if it’s just to listen, please.” I wish I could do more. I wish I could reach inside her and rip those memories free so she could breathe without worrying about them. I would do anything to make this easier for her.

“What if I tell you and you hate me like I hate myself?” she whispers brokenly. The way she watches me wrecks my fragile heart.

“Fallon,” I snap, and she looks at me again. “I could never hate you. You could tell me you murdered or stole and I wouldn’t care. There is nothing that will stop me from feeling this way about you or being at your side, and one day, you will realize that, but for now, trust me. Please, trust me.”

She searches my gaze, her lips wobbling. “I was there the night she was raped. I remember her dancing and having fun at the party, then I lost track of her and the other models they brought. It was an album release party, which always made the band happy, and they pushed drugs on me, but it was different that night. It wasn’t just coke or the usual. It was . . . It was to make it easier for them. I was their princess, their favorite little girl, and they loved me so much, Kage. I can barely remember that night, but I remember being carried upstairs. One of the doors was open, and when we passed, she was there, lying on the bed with her head turned to the door, tears flowing down her cheeks. I think she was drugged too, and she couldn’t move. There were men around her and one on top of her. Our eyes met for the briefest moment. Her brown eyes locked on mine. She knew what was going to happen to both of us and was unable to stop it. I always remembered that look—the hopelessness and understanding. We were two strangers tied together in hell. I hated myself that night for not helping her.”

“Fallon, you were drugged.” I force the words out, breathing past my fury and horror at what my girl went through. The way she casually spoke about being drugged and taken advantage of makes me think it happened a lot, but she doesn’t need my anger right now. It does nothing. She needs me to listen and support her. This is her life, her past, and she has every right to be angry.

“Still, I blame myself,” she admits.

“Do you blame her?” I ask, and when she shakes her head, I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Then don’t blame yourself. You were young; you were drugged and abused. You didn’t need to be her savior, you just needed to survive, and you did. You survived, baby, and I’m so fucking proud of you for that.”

“Did I? Because part of me is still back there. The worst thing is, part of me believes I deserve to suffer because without it, I would be happy. I would be free, and I don’t deserve to be. How could I after everything?” she whispers. “Maybe I deserve to suffer. Maybe I deserve to be unhappy for the rest of my life, this darkness dogging my steps until it claims me.”

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