Page 90 of Widow's Walk

The front steps are cracked and uneven. I take my time climbing them, lost inside my memories. Memories I wished to rewrite.

Stepping over splintered wood and bullet casings, I step inside and I’m instantly hit with the smell of blood and death. It’s baked into the floors, the walls, the very bones of this place. I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, and I grin. It doesn’t choke me. It feeds me.

Blackwell is silent, following several paces behind me. He knows better than to get too close when I’m like this. On edge and half feral.

The grand staircase is covered in more blood and debris. The chandelier my mother obsessed over hangs low, one side blown out, crystals scattered like teeth. There’s a large blood stain on one wall, like a bullet went through one side of someone’s skull and out the other. And I like it.

I graze my fingers along the wall. What used to feel like a prison now feels like a chapel of bones I’ve earned in blood. Like a god surveying the aftermath of a flood she sent. A cleansing.

The carnage in the dining room draws me in. I walk the length of the long table. A smear of blood stains the floor near the head chair. My father’s seat. I crouch down and press my fingers to it. Cold. Satisfying.

This place was always rotten. Now, it finally looks that way.

We’re back outside again, the air a contrast to the smoke still sitting heavy inside. It’s cold and clean. My skin buzzes with leftover adrenaline, vengeance humming beneath it like a second pulse.

Then I see it. A white van idles in the dark. The kind kidnappers ride around in. No windows or markings. My voice cuts through the silence. “What’s with the van?”

Blackwell’s eyes are clouded. There’s something he’s hiding behind them. He exhales slowly, but doesn’t look away. It’s something I respect about him. When it comes to something serious, he will look me directly in the eye. Always.

“There’s something else,” he says. His voice flat and robotic. He’s nervous about something. If he’s nervous, then it’s something real.

Before I can respond, he gives a single nod to Hawk. The back of the van opens up, and all the blood in my body ignites. Hot and cold. A firestorm in my veins.

One. Two. Three. Four.

My family.

Tied up.

Mouths taped shut.

Dirty.

Shaking.

And beautifully beaten.

They’re dragged out like garbage and forced to their knees. Lined up between us and the house like a sacrificial offering. All four sets of eyes on me. None more burning than Blackwell’s as he watches me with a disquieted unease radiating from him. He’s unsure of how I will react.

He didn’t tell me about this part, and with good reason. I’m not sure if I would have come if he had. The estate was already an internal battle, hard enough to survive.

I stare each of them down. To see them where they’ve always belonged. What I have always fantasized about. It’s literally a dream come true.

I look to Blackwell. I can visibly see him questioning himself, unable to read me. Then there’s movement out of the corner ofmy eye. A large duffle bag, then an even larger one, and a gas can all appear.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Like the estate, these motherfuckers are mine. To break. To bleed. To burn.

Whatever I decide, I won’t be merciful.

A smile curls at the corners of my mouth as I turn to Blackwell. His expression softens when he sees it. “Aw, babe. You shouldn’t have,” I murmur.

A half smirk cracks his face, but the tension in his shoulders never fades. I turn my focus back on my victims, almost foaming at the mouth with anticipation. My eyes lock with my father’s. The patriarch of this monstrosity.

So many scenarios play out in my head. I’ve been imagining this day most of my life. But now that it’s finally here, I can’t decide how I want to do it. How exactly I want to make them suffer. All I know is that their end is onmyterms.

I walk with deliberate steps towards my father. Stopping, I look down my nose at him like royalty addressing filth.

Where’s your power now, daddy?

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