Page 84 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“Hey, peanut. Where’s your mama?”

“She’s not here.”

“What do you mean… not here?”

Arianna shrugs, padding back over to their unmade bed in her semi-asleep state. She curls up under the covers and the sound of quiet snoring restarts. It gives me a stupid sense of satisfaction to see how much the kid trusts me.

Creeping into the room as quietly as possible, I search around, finding no signs that Willow was packing or intending to leave. She must be in the valley somewhere.

Nearly tripping over a duffel bag peeking out from under the bed, I pause to unzip it, finding a few valuables hidden inside. There’s a wooden baby box full of trinkets and pictures of an infant Arianna playing in what looks like a desert.

Beneath that, I find two British passports. I flip them open and stare at the names. My earlier relief at finding her belongings in their rightful place vanishes.

Melody Tanner.

Adele Tanner.

Both Willow and Arianna’s pictures are recent, beneath the false names. The birthdates have also been tweaked too. What the fuck? These can’t be genuine. They’re damn good fakes though, probably worth a small fortune.

The memory of their burned fingerprints comes racing back to me from the mental box I’ve locked it away in, too angry to even imagine someone hurting them in such a way. Arianna’s fingers are healing nicely, the skin pink and shiny.

I’ve been patient. Willow needed time to heal and get comfortable, I know that. Trust is earned, regardless of any blood relation between her and Lola. But I’ve wanted to pin her gorgeous body down and demand answers so many times now.

Somehow, I’ve restrained myself.

Fuck that.

I want the truth.

Finding Willow and making sure she’s okay is my priority, then I can interrogate her until I find out who I need to skin alive and bury in my fucking vegetable patch. Either way, someone’s going to pay for hurting her. I’m done playing nice.

Ignoring Lola calling my name, I thump downstairs and run out into the dark night. There’s no one around. Zach went into town a few hours ago to have drinks with Ryder and his boyfriend who’s in town.

I know Micah’s back in the studio, hiding from the world. He’s been even more off than usual since his little incident in the overpass before the storm hit. No one needs to tell me that something went down with Willow. It’s fucking obvious.

Racing back to my cabin atop the steep hill overlooking the valley, I’m intent on grabbing a flashlight to search the woods in case Willow has gone for a walk and gotten lost. It happens easily enough around here.

My steps are halted by a trembling figure curled up on our hand-built porch furniture. She’s shaking all over, being hammered by the rain pouring down from the dark sky.

Her long black hair looks like spilled ink against her soaking wet skin, tinged bright red from the cold. She’s only dressed in a vest top, oversized shirt and sodden blue jeans.

“Willow?” I shout out.

Her head barely lifts at the sharp bite of my voice.

“Willow! You with me?”

Thumping up the steps, I’m at her side in a flash. Sinking into the wet chair next to her, I run a hand down her bare arm. She’s covered in gooseflesh. Willow flinches but doesn’t move, staring out into the darkness.

“Willow? Say something, baby.”

“My mother abandoned me,” she utters.

My anxiety explodes at the lifeless sound of her voice. She always speaks with such quiet but unshakeable hope. It’s one of my favourite things about her—that indisputable sense of determination that’s kept her going.

“She upped and left without a word when I was Arianna’s age. I never saw her again, and she left me alone with a neglectful drug addict.”

Fucking-fuckity-fuck.

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