CHAPTER ONE
Emma
There's a very good chance that, standing here in the knee-high grass surrounding Randall Ford's rusted trailer, I'm going to be sick. It looks the same as it did the night I ran from Grayson’s bed, the same as when I showed up after beach week three years ago, worried sick and looking for him. Both of those times, Randall made my life hell. I keep waiting for that demented, drunk bastard to die, but he just keeps living.
Ragtag curtains are pulled over the windows. Burnt-orange rust stains streak down from the roof line. I steel myself. According to Summerland County gossip, Grayson died. But that doesn’t mean much. The county grapevine also said he left town because he knocked me up. I almost wish that was true—how awful had that morning been, waking up without him. Gray was gone—but not because he knew I was pregnant.
The front door snaps open. Randall steps out, only to stop and lean against the door frame. He looks ancient compared to the last time I saw him, when I nerved up and asked where Grayson was. His cackling response and door slam is still burned into my memory.
“You again?” Randall coughs.
I nod. This jerk holds the answer. He’s sadistic. It’s written all over his haggard face. His glassy eyes narrow, his mouth purses into some kind of smile, and he looks as if he stinks of a bar.
I straighten my back and square my shoulders. I have one question—might as well get to it. “Is Grayson dead?”
Inwardly, I cringe. Saying the words makes them seem all the more real. Tears spring into my eyes. I need to know, need to mourn. I’m drowning without the truth. All I know is what people have whispered and that there’s been no word of a funeral.
Randall pulls a smoke from behind his ear and lights it. He takes a few long drags and steps down the rickety porch. “You come all the way o’er here jussfer that? Shit.” He spits then draws on the cigarette again. “Gotta be better ways than to bother me wit that sonobitch’s problems.”
I might want to puke with nerves, but I’ve toughened up in the last few years since he’s seen me. “That sonobitch is your son, Randall. I know exactly how you treated him.”
“My son. Ha.” He tilts his head. “Little Emma Kingsley grew a set, did she?”
“What do you know about Grayson?”
“What do you know?” He snarls as he coughs. “Come here to see if that bastard of his can get whatever’s left of his benefits?”
My stomach drops, and I stagger back, recoiling at the mention of my daughter and the all-but-certain confirmation of Gray’s passing. “Something’s wrong with you.”
“Blame the boy. I do.” He flicks his cigarette at me and turns for the door but looks back. “Stop coming by. There’s nothing here for you.”
The wind blows, and even though it’s a warm June day, I’m shivering. So much hatred. So much disgust. Part of me can’t blame Grayson for leaving. The trailer door snaps shut, and I’m left standing in weeds, wondering how I’ll move past the death of a man I haven’t seen in years but think about every day.
Grayson
Trapped in the dark. I’m exhausted and struggling, reaching for escape. I keep surfacing, almost waking. I know it. Can feel it. My body hurts. My mind’s tortured.
Screams echo. Shots blast. I feel the heat, the burn, the terror. The ground shakes. Walls and rocks crumble down. Dirt in my eyes, grit in my mouth. Sulfur burns in my nose. I can’t see anyone, and they can’t see me.
But I feel it. Feel them. Everyone I’ve let down. My unit. Their blood hangs in the air. Death coats my senses. Their faces flash, one after the other. I can’t close my eyes, can’t break away.
There’s a break in the noise. A woman… in the middle of my hell, I hear a voice. Hope flourishes only to freeze and tear away. She’s not my savior. Not my Emma.
Just… my mother?
Just another one, Gray-baby. Find me another one.
One more time, sweetie. Such a good boy.
Emma
There's a very good chance that, standing here in the knee-high grass surrounding Randall Ford's rusted trailer, I'm going to be sick. It looks the same as it did the night I ran from Grayson’s bed, the same as when I showed up after beach week three years ago, worried sick and looking for him. Both of those times, Randall made my life hell. I keep waiting for that demented, drunk bastard to die, but he just keeps living.
Ragtag curtains are pulled over the windows. Burnt-orange rust stains streak down from the roof line. I steel myself. According to Summerland County gossip, Grayson died. But that doesn’t mean much. The county grapevine also said he left town because he knocked me up. I almost wish that was true—how awful had that morning been, waking up without him. Gray was gone—but not because he knew I was pregnant.
The front door snaps open. Randall steps out, only to stop and lean against the door frame. He looks ancient compared to the last time I saw him, when I nerved up and asked where Grayson was. His cackling response and door slam is still burned into my memory.
“You again?” Randall coughs.
I nod. This jerk holds the answer. He’s sadistic. It’s written all over his haggard face. His glassy eyes narrow, his mouth purses into some kind of smile, and he looks as if he stinks of a bar.
I straighten my back and square my shoulders. I have one question—might as well get to it. “Is Grayson dead?”
Inwardly, I cringe. Saying the words makes them seem all the more real. Tears spring into my eyes. I need to know, need to mourn. I’m drowning without the truth. All I know is what people have whispered and that there’s been no word of a funeral.
Randall pulls a smoke from behind his ear and lights it. He takes a few long drags and steps down the rickety porch. “You come all the way o’er here jussfer that? Shit.” He spits then draws on the cigarette again. “Gotta be better ways than to bother me wit that sonobitch’s problems.”
I might want to puke with nerves, but I’ve toughened up in the last few years since he’s seen me. “That sonobitch is your son, Randall. I know exactly how you treated him.”
“My son. Ha.” He tilts his head. “Little Emma Kingsley grew a set, did she?”
“What do you know about Grayson?”
“What do you know?” He snarls as he coughs. “Come here to see if that bastard of his can get whatever’s left of his benefits?”
My stomach drops, and I stagger back, recoiling at the mention of my daughter and the all-but-certain confirmation of Gray’s passing. “Something’s wrong with you.”
“Blame the boy. I do.” He flicks his cigarette at me and turns for the door but looks back. “Stop coming by. There’s nothing here for you.”
The wind blows, and even though it’s a warm June day, I’m shivering. So much hatred. So much disgust. Part of me can’t blame Grayson for leaving. The trailer door snaps shut, and I’m left standing in weeds, wondering how I’ll move past the death of a man I haven’t seen in years but think about every day.
Grayson
Trapped in the dark. I’m exhausted and struggling, reaching for escape. I keep surfacing, almost waking. I know it. Can feel it. My body hurts. My mind’s tortured.
Screams echo. Shots blast. I feel the heat, the burn, the terror. The ground shakes. Walls and rocks crumble down. Dirt in my eyes, grit in my mouth. Sulfur burns in my nose. I can’t see anyone, and they can’t see me.
But I feel it. Feel them. Everyone I’ve let down. My unit. Their blood hangs in the air. Death coats my senses. Their faces flash, one after the other. I can’t close my eyes, can’t break away.
There’s a break in the noise. A woman… in the middle of my hell, I hear a voice. Hope flourishes only to freeze and tear away. She’s not my savior. Not my Emma.
Just… my mother?
Just another one, Gray-baby. Find me another one.
One more time, sweetie. Such a good boy.
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