Page 202 of Never Die for a Sinner
I cry for every version of myself I’ve ever had to bury just to survive.
When my sobs finally taper off into hiccupping gasps, I lie there for a long time, cheek pressed to the dusty hardwood, arms curled around the frame like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth. The picture is old—faded at the edges—but Gran’s smile is just as I remember. Warm. Fierce. Like she knew all my secrets and loved me anyway.
God, I miss her.
Eventually, I sit up and swipe my sleeve across my face, smearing tears and dust together like war paint. I’m not done grieving. I don’t think I ever will be. But grief doesn’t get to rot this place to the ground. Not while I’m still standing.
So, I get up.
I toss the picture on the counter, blast an old playlist Gran used to love—some mix of Patsy Cline, Fleetwood Mac, and angry woman country that I’ve never listened to in my life—and start scrubbing like it’s going to save me. Maybe it will.
Each cabinet I empty, each surface I wipe, feels like reclaiming something. My sanity. My life. My strength.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not still haunted.
Levi’s voice echoes in my head sometimes when I reach for something high up or when I slam a drawer too hard. His laugh. That quiet growl he made when I said something that pushed hisbuttons. The way he’d look at me like I was the only thing he’d ever been sure of.
And then there’s the other voice, colder and sharper—Alex’s. His words echoing back to me, reminding me that I will never be anything more than a pawn in someone else’s game.
But not today.
Today, I scrub blood off the metaphorical walls and sing horribly along to the music until my voice gives out. Today, I let myself be a little broken, a little brave, and a little pissed off at the world.
And when I finally let myself collapse on the couch, covered in sweat and dust and whatever the hell that black goo in the sink was . . . I don’t feelgood, exactly.
But I feel something like hope.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to change the locks. Tomorrow, I’ll go into town and get supplies. Tomorrow, I’ll try to remember who I was before all of this. Or maybe I’ll start deciding who I want to be now.
Tonight, though?
Tonight, I’ll wrap myself in Gran’s old quilt, heat up a questionable can of soup, and let the silence hold me without crushing me.
And that’s enough.
At least for now.
When I climb under the spray of the shower, it’s near dusk, and a quiet calm settles over the clearing outside. The snow has started to accumulate, but it will be a few weeks before it becomes a problem. For now, I’ve got enough old, dry wood stored to last, at least until I can muster up whatever strength I can find to go out and chop wood.
Maybe that could be my new calling. Lumberjack Ava.
Okay, maybe not, but I’ll make it work.
By the time I climb out of the shower, the house is cast in shadows, and the sun is beginning to dip below the trees. I slide on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt because I have every intention of heading into town to get some supplies for the house.
It’s not until I’m brushing my hair that I realize the music in the kitchen has stopped.
I freeze, brush mid-stroke.
The silence is sudden. Suffocating. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fall—itlands. Hard. Like a warning shot.
At first, I try to rationalize it. Maybe the playlist ended. Maybe the power flickered. Maybe I accidentally hit pause with my elbow when I passed by the speaker. But I know I didn’t.
The cottage is old, but she’s reliable. And I know what silence sounds like when it’s natural. This isn’t that.
I set the brush down carefully on the bathroom counter, every nerve ending in my body going on high alert. The kind of instinctive awareness that settles in your bones after you’ve been hunted before. And Ihave.
I pad barefoot to the doorway and press my shoulder against the wall, straining to hearanything. A creak. A footstep. The whoosh of the heater kicking on.
