Morgan had no idea whose voice she heard as the black swallowed her whole. It wasn’t hers. Definitely not Clint’s. But it belonged to a man—or maybe men. Sometimes the words sang through her in Micah’s sweet tenor, others they hummed with Nick’s baritone, or guffawed and echoed in Andre’s bass.
Everything she’d been told about who and what she was and who and what she could ever be had come from one man: her father. But now as she floated, blind, deaf, and dumb, her world a blank slate, she heard stories about herself, about a girl who definitely was no saint but who maybe could learn how not to be a sinner. Tales of strength and bravery. Warm wishes from people who cherished her, who had hopes and dreams for her future even when she had none of her own.
Maybe even a hint of love. Not merely the heartache of romance but also the heartsong of family.
Even Jenna’s voice joined the chorus. Along with Lucy’s.
Yet, still she fell. Hard and fast, hurtling through a void where time and space did not exist. Until, just as she was certain she was about to hit bottom, shatter into a million anonymous pieces, falling faster and faster and faster…and...she remembered.
She remembered. Who she was. Why she had chosen to fling herself into the void in the first place. What was waiting for her, if only she would stop falling and start flying.
So she did.
A beeping pulse as regular as the flap of a bird’s wings guided her back. Someone or something was trying to tell her body when it should breathe, shoving air into her chest, but no one could tell Morgan what to do, that much she definitely remembered about herself. She coughed and sputtered and fought back, breathing when she damned well pleased, thank you very much.
She couldn’t see anything. Weird, viscous jelly filled her eyes, making them sticky and blurring her vision. Her throat scratched as an invisible force yanked a tube out, and suddenly she felt free, in control—at least of her breathing. She coughed and sputtered and inhaled crisp air that blew at her and tickled her nose.
She tried to sit up, but her arms were tied down, which made her panic and flail and hit and gnash until a man’s arms wrapped around her and a gentle voice whispered in her ear, “It’s all right. I’m here. It’s all right. You’re back. You’re safe. Everyone’s safe. Go to sleep now. Rest.”
She wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to—there were so many voices in her head, swirling like a flock of starlings—but somehow she knew he spoke the truth. She relaxed in his arms and for once in her life Morgan Ames did as she was told. She fell asleep.
In her dreams she flew, almost reaching the sun, but never so far that she couldn’t make it back to earth and the people who were now her family. She was no sheep or fish or Norm…she dreamed of being a bird…but even in her restless slumber she knew the truth.
She was Morgan Ames. A girl who was sometimes a predator, sometimes a protector, but never the prey.
Morgan Ames. A girl with a bloodstained past but a blank canvas for a future.
Morgan Ames. The girl who might have given up killing for a living but who wasn’t ready—not yet, at least—to give up on living.