Page 33 of Destiny

More eye flutters. Can’t she just open her damned eyes?

“Please, Grandma. Please spare us all.”

“Do you think I’m some kind of monster, Ava?”

Her voice is stronger now, and when her eyes flutter, this time they open.

The fierceness of their blue color overwhelms me. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot, but the piercing blue of her irises…

Unreal, almost. Yet somewhat familiar…

She doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t turn to look at me or at Dad, but her eyes are open now.

“Grandma, why did you reach out to me? What do you want?”

“What I’ve always wanted,” she says, her voice soft with a touch of gravel. “To be a family. With my children. My grandchildren.”

Dad stiffens.

I nod to him, gesturing.

He doesn’t move.

“Tell me what you need, Grandma.”

“I just told you.”

Her eyes close, and she says no more, even after I try speaking to her again.

“She’s asleep,” Dad finally says.

“Are you sure? She appeared to be asleep before.”

“No, I’m not sure.” He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not sure of anything where she’s concerned.”

I rise from my chair, grab Dad’s arm, pull him into a stand, and lead him out of the bedroom, closing the door. “You need to talk to her,” I whisper. “Call her Mom. It’s what she wants. I think you’re the only one who can get through to her.”

“She has another child,” Dad says.

“I know. But you’reBrad’schild.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, but then he finally nods.

He gets it. But—

“I can’t. I hate her.”

“I know that, Dad. In my way I hate her too. But you’re the only one who’s going to be able to get any information out of her.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, Ava. As you say, she reached out toyoufor a reason. You. Not me, not your sister. You.” Dad looks at me then. Stares at me, as if he’s memorizing my face. “You know? I always thought you had your mother’s eyes. But now I realize… They’re hers. Wendy’s.” He takes a step back.

I swallow. I was thinking the same thing myself. My eyes are a brighter blue than Mom’s.

They’re just like Wendy Madigan’s.

“But that doesn’t make genetic sense,” I say. “Anything from Wendy would come through you, and your eyes are brown.”

“Genetics don’t always make sense,” Dad says. “Living on a ranch, you find that out quickly. Sometimes you put your best stock together for breeding, and the calf that results is substandard. There’s no way of knowing.”

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