“There’s something twisted in that girl,” Gray says as I approach my bike.
“I know,” I say, feeling the weight of my stupidity. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
Gray swings his leg over his bike. “We’ve bought ourselves some time, but not much. We need to find a way to get Kayla out of Redbird.”
I nod, mind already racing ahead to the next step. “She won’t listen to me. We’ll have to find some other way to convince her.”
We pull away from the clubhouse, and I don’t look back. Not at the building that was once my second home, not at the men who were once my brothers, not at the life I just walked away from. I keep my eyes forward, on the road ahead, on the future I’m fighting for.
22
Chapter 22
Kayla
The house feels like a shell, hollowed out and empty of all the life we once breathed into it. I trail my fingers along the bare wall of what used to be our living room, the faint rectangle of lighter paint the only evidence that my grandmother’s antique mirror once hung here. Everything that made this space ours is gone now; packed away in storage or donated, leaving nothing but echoing rooms and memories I’m trying desperately to ignore.
“The hardwood floors are a major selling point,” my realtor, Diane, says as she makes notes on her tablet. Her voice bounces off the bare walls, too loud in the empty space. “And the open-concept kitchen and living area is what buyers are looking for these days.”
I nod, not really listening. She’s been rattling off selling points since we walked through the front door, pointing out features that made Roman and me fall in love with this house.
“The master bedroom has that wonderful en-suite bathroom with the soaking tub,” she continues as we move down the hallway. “And the walk-in closet is generous for a house this age.”
The bedroom is the worst. Without our bed, without the photographs that used to line the dresser, without our clothes in the closet, it’s just a box with walls.
“I know how wonderful it all is,” I say, cutting Diane off mid-sentence about my pottery studio. “I’m sorry. This is just really hard. I think I’m going to go look at the backyard one last time.”
She looks surprised but nods. “Of course. The backyard is another great selling feature. The lot size is considerably larger than average for this neighborhood.”
I lead the way through the kitchen; empty now of the mismatched mugs that Roman always teased me about collecting and the potted herbs that stood on the counter, and out the back door. The winter air is crisp and cold, but the weak sunshine feels good on my face after the stifling emptiness inside.
And then I see them. The raised garden beds that Roman helped me build last year. Those perfect rectangles of cedar, arranged in a tidy row along the back fence. For just a moment, I’m back in that summer day. Roman’s bare chest gleaming with sweat as he worked. Sitting together on the back steps afterwards, dreaming of what I’d plant come spring.
My throat tightens. Someone else will benefit from the beds Roman built with his own hands.
My eyes drift to the flower beds along the side of the yard where I’d carefully planted tulip and daffodil bulbs last fall. In a few months, they’ll be pushing up through the soil, reaching forthe sun. By spring, they’ll be a riot of color and fragrance. And I won’t be here to see it.
“Are you all right, Kayla?” Diane asks, concern creasing her forehead.
I blink rapidly, forcing back the sting of tears. “Fine. Just… saying goodbye, I guess.”
She nods sympathetically. “It’s always hard to leave a home you’ve loved. But think of the exciting new chapter ahead! That job opportunity in Billings sounds wonderful.”
The job. Yes. At least I have that to look forward to. Three weeks ago, I’d received a call from a woman named Cassie, who owns a landscaping company in Billings. She’d seen my work at her cousin’s property here in Redbird and wanted to offer me a position. Senior landscape designer with a salary that made my eyes widen when she named the figure.
“It was an incredible stroke of luck,” I say, trying to focus on the positive. “The timing couldn’t have been better.”
“Sometimes the universe has a way of opening doors when others close,” Diane says as she goes back to whatever she’s doing on her tablet.
I’m about to respond when the rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the quiet afternoon. My heart leaps before I can stop it. I turn toward the street, telling myself it could be anyone, but I already know.
Roman pulls up to the curb, cuts the engine, and dismounts in one fluid motion. Even from this distance, I can see the difference in him. His shoulders are still broad, his stride still confident as he walks up the driveway, but something has changed. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
His cut is gone. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve rarely seen Roman without his leather vest emblazoned with the Devil’s Rejects insignia. It was like a second skin to him. But now he’s wearing only a plain leather jacket over a black t-shirt.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Diane murmurs, already retreating toward the house. “Just come find me when you’re ready to finish up.”
Roman stops a few feet away from me, his eyes taking in the empty yard, the garden beds, then finally settling on my face. The anger that used to sear through me at the sight of him has faded to a dull ache, leaving behind a bone-deep sadness that feels more permanent somehow.