Beside me, Judd let himself look at the police sketch—made himself look at it.
“You do what you can,” he said, after seconds of silence had stretched to a minute, “to make sure your kids are safe. From the second they’re born…” He stared at the lines of Nightshade’s face, the ordinariness of it. “You want to protect them. From every skinned knee, from hurt feelings and punk kids who push smaller ones into the dirt, from the worst parts of yourself and the worst parts of this world.”
This man killed your daughter. She died in pain, her fingernails torn, her body contorting—
“Briggs saved my life.” Judd forcibly shifted his eyes away from the man in the picture and turned to look at me. “He saved me, the day he brought me Dean.”
Judd’s right hand slowly worked its way out of a fist. He closed his eyes for a moment, then reached for the picture of his daughter’s killer and turned it facedown.
You do what you can to make sure your kids are safe.
This was Judd, trying to protect me. This was Judd, telling me to let it go. I thought about the little red-haired girl, about Beau Donovan, about seven and nine, the symbol carved into my mother’s coffin, the pattern of murders stretching back over years and generations.
I didn’t want anyone’s protection. I want Nightshade. I want answers.
Judd responded like I’d said the words out loud. “You have to want something else more.”
“Home isn’t a place, Cassie. Home is the people who love you most.” Standing on the back porch, looking out at the safe house backyard, I let the memory wash over me. I lost myself to it. I needed to remember. I needed my mom to be my mom—not a body, not bones, not a victim—my mom.
We’re dancing, right there on the side of the road. Her red hair escapes the scarf. It frames her face as she moves—wild and free and absolutely unabashed. I spin in circles, my hands held out to the side. The world is a blur of colors and darkness and snow. She tilts her head back, and I do the same, sticking out my tongue.
We can shed the past. We can dance it off. We can laugh and sing and spin—forever and ever.
No matter what.
No matter what.
No matter what.
I didn’t want to forget—the smile on her face, the way she’d moved, the way she’d danced like no one was watching, no matter where we were.
I sucked in a breath and wished—fiercely, vehemently—that I didn’t understand how a stranger could have looked at her and thought, She’s the one.
They were watching you, I thought. They chose you.
I’d never asked myself what my mother’s killer had chosen her for. I thought of the woman I’d seen with Nightshade—the little girl’s mother. Do you know what he is? I asked the woman, holding the image of her in my mind. Are you a part of this group? Are you a killer?
Seven Masters. The Pythia. And Nine. I thought of the hundreds of people who’d passed through my mother’s shows. Seven Masters. Had one of them been there? Had they seen her?
Did you expect my mom to go willingly? I asked them silently. Did you try to break her? Did she fight you?
I looked down at my wrists, remembering the feel of zip ties digging into them. I remembered being stalked, hunted, trapped. I remembered Locke’s knife. I remembered fighting—lying, manipulating, struggling, running, hiding, fighting.
I was my mother’s daughter.
They didn’t know what they were getting into with you, I thought, my mother still dancing in my memory, fearless and free. My mom and Locke had grown up with an abusive father. When my mom got pregnant with me, she got out. She left her father’s house in the dead of night and never looked back.
“Dance it off.”
My mother was a survivor.
The back door opened. After a moment’s pause, Dean came to stand behind me. I leaned back into him, my hands held palms up in front of me, my eyes on my wrists. Webber had bound them behind my back. Did they bind your arms, Mom? Did they give you a chance to win your freedom? Did they tell you that yours was a higher purpose?
Did they kill you for fighting?
By the time they killed you, did you want to die?
“I’ve been trying to imagine,” Dean said, “what this is like for you. And instead…” His voice caught in his throat. “I keep imagining seeing her, choosing her, taking her—” Dean cut off abruptly.
You hate yourself for imagining it. You hate how easy it is to put yourself in the mind-set of my mother’s killer—or killers.
You hate that it makes any kind of sense at all.
“I imagine taking her,” I told him. “I imagine being taken.” I swallowed. “Whatever this group is, they operate by certain rules. There’s a ritual, an uncompromising tradition….”
Seven Masters. The Pythia. And Nine.
Wordlessly, Dean reached around my body. He took my right hand in his. His thumb grazed my wrist, exactly where Webber’s zip ties had dug into my flesh.