Page 78 of Like a Hurricane

“I’ve been shot!” Rett gasps dramatically, dropping to his knees, “The war is over!”

Harper laughs as she runs over to him and something warm and bubbly twists in my stomach as I watch him catch her, laughing with her as he smooshes snow into the top of her hat.

Rett would make a great father, he’s protective and loves so damn fiercely.

We dust off the snow at the door and head in. I was wet and shivering so I head upstairs to change, listening to the giggles from Harper and Rett’s deep chuckle as I climb the stairs.

I’m stripping before I’ve even stepped foot into the room, wanting to get the cold water off my skin and dry but something on the bed catches my attention.

It wasn’t there when I went out with Harper, and I wasn’t sure Rett had come inside before he’d initiated that snowball fight.

Skeptical, but curious, I head towards it. On top of the brown envelope is a phone, the screen dark.

I pick it up and hit the button on the side to unlock the screen but it remains blank so pick up the envelope instead. It’s sealed but it’s thick and has no name on the front to tell me who it is addressed to. Sliding my finger under a gap at the flap, I tear it open and pull out what appears to be glossy photopaper.

Turning them around in my hands I feel my breath get stuck in my throat, my blood turning thick and cold.

Familiar eyes stare back at me, so dark in color they almost looked black, framed by thick lashes but where they’re usually so full of life and light, here they look dull, shadowed in blue and purple that tells of her exhaustion. There were no physical marks I could see but not all trauma leaves scars.

At her side is a man I recognize all too easily.

Malakai Ware stands at my sister’s side, a threat if I ever did see one.

There are more photos, so I lay the one of my sister down and shuffle through the others.

My death. Or my fictional one at least, and on each one I see three words scrawled across them all…

You or her…

They had my sister.

They knew I was alive. Where I was.

And they were using the one thing sure to bring me to them.

Olivia.

I get to the last picture and this one isn’t me, it’s another photo of my sister, in this one she is crying at my father’s funeral, dressed in black, her skin pale and worn.

It was a threat, a lesson that taught me they’d always known where she was, always had access to her and only now they were acting on it because of what I did. Because of what Rett and I tried to lie about.

A sob chokes me, my limbs aching with such heavy grief even holding up these pictures physically pained me. My arm drops and all of the photos slip from my fingers, and as if on command the screen on the phone lights up with a message.

I reach for it, swallowing down the scream I want to unleash.

And even though they’re words on a screen, the weight they carry has my knees buckling. They have my throat closing.

Arryn Lauder.

Death marked.

Olivia Lauder.

Death marked.

Everett Avery.

Death marked.

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