Page 29 of Isaia

I’m pulled from my thoughts as her front door creaks open. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrowing as she steps out.

She’s wearing a halter-style mini dress and heels, her legs long and bare beneath the hem, her hair falling loose and wild over her shoulders. It’s not a dress that merely turns heads—it demands it. She stands on the porch, digging through her bag, completely unaware of the way she’s pulling me apart piece by piece.

Where the fuck is she going?

The thought burns through me, sharp and possessive. I grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache, my mind spiraling. She doesn’t belong out there. Not in that dress.

I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding as she finally finds whatever she’s looking for in her bag and closes the door behind her.

I flick the cigarette out the window and start the engine.

Looks like someone’s dying tonight.

Chapter 10

EVERLY

Iwalk out of my house, making sure to lock the door behind me. Molly’s already texted me twice, asking why I'm taking so long. Going to this bar for drinks was never on my agenda, but she refused to take no for an answer.

My phone buzzes with another text. “Yes, Molly,” I mutter as I rummage through my bag, searching for the damn thing.

I slide open the text, only it’s not from Molly. It’s my mom. And since communication between me and my mom is as rare as a solar eclipse these days, the sight of her name has my heart sinking straight into my stomach.

I’m flying into Chicago this weekend. I’d like to see you.

If it’s about Anthony, I’d rather not.

It’s not about him. There’s something I have to tell you face to face.

Suspicion rises.

Is Michele going to be there?

Your stepdad has nothing to do with this. Please, it’s important.

Please.

There’s a sudden sense of dread clawing its way up my throat, a thick and viscous cloud of unease settling over me. My mother wouldn't break her routine of willful ignorance about my life unless it was important, unnervingly so.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it. So, I dial her number, and she answers on the first ring.

“Everly?”

“Mom. What’s going on?” I go to sit down on the porch swing.

“It’s not something I’d like to discuss over the phone.”

“Is it your husband? Did Michele hurt you?”

“What? Of course not.” She says it like the thought alone is absurd, but in my opinion, it’s not too far-fetched. That man is capable of anything, and the loving-husband facade he wears so convincingly doesn’t fool me. He married my mom because she’s beautiful, a trophy wife. She ticks all the boxes for a man like him—a man who uses his wife as a fucking show-pony.

“Mom, if he’s using you to get to me?—”

“I have cancer,” she blurts, and my mind, everything, freezes.

“What?”

There’s a pause followed by a heavy sigh. “I have stage three breast cancer.”

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