Page 2 of Fractured Loyalties
The older one crouches down, flashlight grazing my face. "You okay, kid?"
I nod. Because I am. I’m fine. I’m breathing.
He frowns. "He’s not even shaking."
They lead me past the blood. Past the body slumped sideways against the recliner. Past the whiskey glass that didn’t spill. I don’t flinch. I don’t look away.
They take me to a station. Then to a home. They hand me a toothbrush in a plastic bag. Tell me someone will come soon. That I’ll be safe.
But they don’t give me what I want.
Not the truth.
Not the power to stop it from happening again.
So I make a promise to myself to learn, to adapt and build.
Control is the only thing that can’t be taken.
And next time, I won’t be the boy in the closet.
Next time, I’ll be the one pulling the trigger.
Chapter 1 – Mara – Present Day - Routine Disrupted
The ocean always sounds like a lie in the morning. Soft, harmless. Like it hasn’t devoured bodies. Like it didn’t once nearly take mine.
I listen to the waves through the barely cracked clinic window as I set out pens for intake forms, tip the Sharpies into alignment, and stack brochures into three perfectly flush piles. The early fog hangs just outside the glass, dense and waiting, but inside it’s still. Clean. Tame.
The air smells like lemon antiseptic and eucalyptus. I let it settle into my lungs, imagining it might disinfect something inside me.
Every movement I make is part of the script I’ve carved for myself since I got here. Paper goes there. Clipboards face left. Phone ringer off before eight. It’s a small performance, but it works. No one notices a ghost if she’s useful.
Celeste breezes in exactly seven minutes late. Her heels don’t echo in the hallway; they announce. She always looks like she belongs in a different film. Sharp ponytail. Navy dress. Cool, almost bored elegance. When she sees me, she gives a soft nod.
“Morning, Mara.”
“Morning.” I keep my voice calm, keep my eyes low, just shy of deferent. Not too submissive. Not too assertive. That middle line where no one feels the need to look too closely.
She disappears into her office without a word about the fog or the schedule. Alec follows not long after, carrying two coffees and that look he always gives me—measured, warm, careful. Like he’s trying to figure out which part of me is still broken today.
I pretend not to notice.
The first hour is always quiet. A few emails, a call from a pharmacist double-checking our PTSD prescriptions, an appointment reschedule. I let the rhythm settle into me, anchor me. There are no shadows in repetition.
Until I check the mail.
There’s a handwritten envelope tucked between a new therapy journal catalog and a bill we already paid. The envelope is thick and rough, like handmade paper. No return address. Just my name, printed in block capitals. It’s the kind of thing you only ever see in movies about stalkers and long-buried secrets.
I close the office door before I open it.
Inside: one sheet of unlined paper, folded once. My fingers hesitate. The paper smells faintly of smoke.
The message is short.
Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?
I stare at it. My pulse drops into my stomach, heavy and slow. Not fear—not yet. First comes the suspicion that maybe this isn’t real. Maybe it’s a cruel joke from a patient, or a misdelivered threat.
