Page 70 of The Truths We Burn

I lost a little sister and a brother the day she died.

Anger surges through me, even more than when this first started because I know who was involved, whose fault it was.

When Alistair told us what was on the tape he found with Briar, I wanted to act immediately. I wanted to fillet Greg West like a fish and turn him into dog food, then take a day to think up the most painful way to torture someone before testing out theories on Frank Donahue.

I’m haunted, forever, by the way he so easily chose Rose. How he so selfishly was able to choose between two human beings he’d created, ones he’d watched grow up.

Greg got what he deserved. He’d admitted to being the one who injected her with the drugs causing her allergic reaction. He’d been the one who caused her death, and we had handled it accordingly.

But Frank, he’s still out there, breathing.

Walking around, smiling, acting like his actions didn’t kill his daughter. He’s the whole reason all these people have to die.

My hands start to twitch because of irrational temptations. If I’m not careful, I’d let my anger fester so much that I’d take Frank out myself, and I know I can’t do that yet.

Like Alistair said, we need to be patient so we can stay safe.

There had been times I wanted to tell him to shove it up his controlling ass, just because I didn’t care about my own safety. Prison doesn’t scare me—what could they do to me that I hadn’t already been through out here?

But the boys.

I don’t want that for them.

So, I stay patient for them.

Always for them.

I lean forward, grabbing the hose that lies on the table and placing the tip inside my mouth.

I’m at Vervain, a hookah bar in West Trinity Falls that’s just as sketchy as the town it sits in. There’s no one who hates Ponderosa Springs more than Wasteland townies. Something we have in common.

I take a steady, long drag from the hookah, feeling the smoke rush my lungs. As I exhale, a dense cloud of smoke rolls from my lips, and I take another hit before setting the hose back down.

I would have preferred to be born on this side of the tracks to begin with.

Here it’s eat or be eaten, packs of savage dogs fighting for scraps, bleeding for a chance at a better life. That’s how character is built, how the weak are weeded out.

I was raised among the rich, where it was corrupt or be corrupted.

But Vervain, it’s the embodiment of West Trinity.

It’s dirty, gritty, and gives me a break from the headache of constant goddamn prestige. The blinding cleanliness and trendy aesthetics.

Music leaks from the old speakers, a combination of throw yourself off a cliff and rap.

Just what I like.

Through the haze of Fumari Ambrosia–scented smoke, I catch a glimpse of my waitress.

I lean back into the booth, sinking into the seat farther and resting my arms across the back. My half-lidded gaze follows her around as she buses tables and men twice her age stare at her ass.

Blood rushes south, and my jaw tightens.

Her face is hidden in the dark lighting, but occasionally, she steps into a stream of low light, exposing the color of her hair.

It’s not natural—I know because it fades right before she gets it touched up, exposing her roots.

But tonight, it’s freshly dyed the color of champagne and copper, strawberry blonde flames that cascade down her back, swaying as she walks and swivels around.

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