I can’t see the table as I fall to the ground. But based on the way Vest Guy spins around, we fucked up his shot. Just as I’d hoped.
Vest Guy slams his giant fist into the face of the asshole I shoved into him.
And just like that, everyone is fighting.
Already on the ground, I roll under the pool table and crawl out the other side.
This is my best chance to leave. Sneak out without getting hurt. But I need a lead. I need something, someone, to chase next.
I climb to my feet and dodge bodies until I spot one of the other three guys who came over to intimidate me.
I cut the distance and slam into his back, circling my arm around his throat. “How do I find Marcoux?” I shout into his ear over the roar of the crowd.
He tries to headbutt me, but I’ve seen enough movies to tuck my head in by his neck, so he doesn’t have the range to hit me hard enough to dislodge me.
I tighten my hold on his neck. “Tell me.”
We crash into other bodies, tables, stumbling together.
“You can talk, or I can strangle you.” I squeeze harder, even as I grunt when one of his elbows gets me.
One of his hands taps against my forearm. Not trying to claw me off like before, but like he’s ready to speak.
I loosen my arm enough for him to suck in a breath but not enough to let him go.
“Where is he?”
“He—” The man coughs. “He’s the money. Ground guys would’ve grabbed her.”
I don’t know how much of what he says I can trust, but it makes sense.
“Where do I find them?” Acid rolls in my stomach. “Where do they keep the girls?”
He’s not denying that they’re human trafficking.
“Fuck you!” His outburst comes a heartbeat before a sharp pain in my side.
I jump back, releasing my arms from his neck, and see the knife held in his hand.
He turns toward me, his face still red from lack of oxygen. “You’re gonna pay for this.” He holds his knife up, the tip of it already red with my blood. “And you’ll never find your fucking sister.” He takes another step, and I bump into a table behind me. “If she’s not dead yet, she’ll wish she was.”
He pulls his arm back.
And I spring forward.
The switchblade in my hand sinks into the soft flesh of his stomach.
He was so focused on my face, waiting for pain to fill my features, that he forgot to watch my hands.
He drops his knife, his hands grabbing at the hilt over my own. But I keep walking forward, keep walking him back, until he hits the bar.
“My name is Hans. And I’m coming for Freya.”
Releasing my grip, I take a quick step back, then melt into the frenzy and find my way to the door.
I’ll find her.
I have to find her.
Another week.
Another dead end.
Another fight that ends with me needing stitches.
A third week.
I can see Mom wasting away as each hour passes.
Dad is trying to hold it together. He’s on the phone every day.
But no one has news.
I have a cracked rib from last night. And a black eye that my parents are too distant to notice.
My feet scuff along the sidewalk as I near the line for Comet.
I’ve been here every night when I haven’t been starting fights that I keep losing.
I know she isn’t going to be here, but what’s left of my soul just wants to be close to her. Close to her last known location.
The line moves forward, and I think about that night.
I think about what we said to each other.
She didn’t straight out ask me to go with her, but the invitation was there. And I didn’t go.
I could’ve gone.
If only I’d have gone.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t go with Freya, and the last words I ever said to her were good luck.
The bouncer sighs when he sees me, but we’ve done this routine. I hand him a couple hundred dollars, and he lets me in.
It’s not like I’ll be trying to get a drink at the bar. I’m going to do what I always do—stand against the wall, staring into the crowd, willing the darkness inside me to hold off just a little longer. Just long enough for me to find her.
My mother’s screams wake me up.
They’re unending.
They’re agony.
And I know.
I know they found my sister.
And I know she’s dead.
I scramble out of bed, but my legs don’t hold me.
I crash to the floor.
I can’t breathe.
My lungs won’t fill.
I can’t…
Pain and sorrow and the heaviest sense of failure collapse on top of me.
I didn’t get to her.
I didn’t save her.
Mom’s wails continue to curl through the house.
My face feels contorted.
My mouth is open but no sound comes out.
Freya.
My baby sister.
She’s gone.
She’s never coming home.
Today was my sister’s funeral. And it killed my parents.
It killed a part of me too.
Standing here, alone under the glow of the moon, next to Freya’s freshly filled grave, I know I’ll never be the same.
I’ll never be the man I planned to be.
I’m going to end up as someone else.
Someone darker.
Two months later, I stand in the same spot and stare down at my mother’s grave, buried next to her daughter.
Dad stands at my side, coughing between silent sobs.
After Freya’s body was found in Vegas, abused and discarded, her cause of death labeled as a drug overdose, Mom gave up.
The doctors said it was pneumonia, and maybe it was, but she’d lost her will to live.
The reality of what happened to Freya, how she suffered her last weeks, days, hours… it was too much.
My dad is sick too. I can hear him struggling to breathe at night when I’m walking through the empty halls of our house.
He’s not going to get treated. I don’t have to ask him to know that he won’t.
And standing here, again, looking down at the women who meant the world to both of us, I don’t blame him.
I don’t take it personally that I’m not enough to keep him here.
A rare raindrop lands on the dirt.
I’m not sure I want to stay in this world either.
“Hans.” Dad’s voice is brittle, but I hear it as I pass his room.
Pausing my steps, I press my hand to his door, and it swings open.
Dad is in his bed, face pale, cheeks sunken in as he fights his way through a coughing fit.
It’s been exactly one week since Mom’s last breath, and he looks ready for his.
He lifts his hand, a small movement gesturing me in.
We haven’t talked. Not to each other. There’s nothing to say.
The first few times someone came to our door, offering condolences, bringing food, I answered. I kept a passive look on my face. But then I couldn’t anymore.
I couldn’t hide the rage that filled me.
I couldn’t say thank you.
And then the people stopped knocking.
My feet are quiet on the thick rug covering the floor. It’s shades of red. Embroidered flowers of every shape and size. Mom picked it out. It was so her.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
If this is going to be our goodbye…
I swallow.
I’m not sure how much more I can handle.
I don’t know how much my heart can endure.
But as I look at my father, I realize he’s already gone.