The Golden Hour Page 5

I’ll be the villain.

  I’ll be a better one.

  10

  Sometimes the world clears up. All the way up to blinding clarity. And you realize you’ve been looking at life through a foggy lens. What you thought was important isn’t. Actions you believed justified weren’t.

  I’m no hero, and neither are you.

  After Finn left me at the cove, I retreated to the only other place I knew would give me the peace and quiet I needed to think.

  Mud squelches beneath my sneakers, the worn trail crowded on either side by trees: pine and spruce, hemlock and fir. Ancient and tempered by the sea, they offer me a portal to a timeless world. A world in which I am right-sized. No better or worse, weaker or stronger. Here, in the pause between breaths, I’m forcibly separated from all my preconceptions and biases toward life and more profoundly, myself.

  The air is still, heavier and warmer than at the coast. It seeps through my pores, into my blood and mind. Calming. Stabilizing.

  And then it happens.

  The hazy world clears up, allowing space for Finn’s words—his rage and pain—to hit me like a flash fire and vaporize the shell of my delusion. Into the void rises doubt. Once, I believed it was better to save myself and leave my little sisters behind, than to stay and suffer. Or, God forbid, fight the family and fail, like my cousin who just wanted the freedom to love who he chose.

  My uncle loved me, wanted to protect me, but he also crippled me. He convinced me I was weak. That the tide of the family was impossible to turn, their influence so vast no one person could stand against it. That my options were to either surrender or escape. But Finn is absolutely right. I’m no hero—I’m a coward.

  Confusion battles clarity in a spin cycle of thoughts.

  Maybe he is the only one willing to do the right thing.

  He’s going to get himself killed.

  What’s the moral price of looking the other way as Vivian widens the net of her power?

  There’s no stopping her.

  She’s not going to be satisfied until she’s forming policy in Washington, DC.

  How many deaths has she orchestrated? How many bribes, under-the-table transaction, and illegal dealings?

  Too many.

  With my blinders torn off, childhood memories lift from my subconscious, gaining substance and detail as they feed on my newfound focus. Memories I’ve spent years burying, that bring with them equal parts shame and shock.

  And they chill me to my bones.

  One evening after my father was arrested, I heard voices in his office and snuck close to listen. My uncle Franco was in the middle of telling my stepmother that the judge in my father’s trial couldn’t be bought. He was angry. Desperate. But what struck me most was Vivian’s response. I expected her to demand he find a way, to express her own frustration… but she didn’t. She didn’t say anything at all, and I crept away from the open office door before any of the staff could spot me and haul me inside for punishment.

  Another time, a filing cabinet in the basement had been left unlocked and ajar. Inside were hundreds of manila files with names printed neatly on them in my father’s handwriting. I wasn’t so lucky that time. Vivian found me as I was lifting the first file, and she slapped me so hard I had a bruise on my cheek for a week.

  After the conviction and sentencing, there were more changes. Or maybe I was merely old enough to start noticing things that had been happening for years. There were midnight meetings with mean-looking men in the soundproofed basement. Ritzy cocktail parties with a slew of famous faces that my sisters and I weren’t allowed to attend. Weekend pool parties with pretty young girls on my uncles’ arms. Those same girls, weeping and bereft, whisked away in private cars the next morning.

  I can still see my stepmother’s smile, small and victorious, whenever she caught me where I wasn’t supposed to be. And I remember well the resulting isolation and depravation. Long days spent locked in my bedroom—a prison of fancy dolls, ruffled curtains, and loneliness.

  I was older, maybe twelve, when our longtime nanny, Adele, was fired. She begged and wept on the front stoop as her belongings were tossed into the driveway. I hid in a nearby drawing room, listening to her ramble, her voice high and thick with tears. I won’t tell a soul. I swear it, Mrs. Avellino. Please, don’t take me from the children.

  For the first time since my youth, I wonder what happened to her. Whether she’s alive.

  My jaded inner voice answers easily enough: You know she isn’t.

  I walk for another hour, a spectator to my emotional evolution, my thoughts falling like the raindrops on the canopy above. Drip, drip… they hit me and are absorbed.

  Feeding a new version of myself.

  Changing me.

  “You okay, Grace?” asks my current patron, a regular whose craggy face is pinched in a frown. “You’re lookin’ more pale than usual.”

  “She’s fine,” Molly says, her voice so close and unexpected that my fingers spasm on the glass I’m refilling from a tap.

  Molly deftly takes over the pour and murmurs, “Why don’t you head home a little early. It’s a slow night.” She hands the pint to the customer, who nods and heads back to his friends.

  “I’m sorry,” I say reflexively.

  Her brows lift. “For what?”

  My smile wobbles but holds. “Be honest—I’m a horrible bartender.”

  She laughs. “You really are. I’ve never dealt with so much broken glass and wasted alcohol in my life. But no one here cares.” She gestures behind her to the sparsely populated bar. “We love our misfits in Solstice Bay. Hell, the town was founded by outcasts who wanted a place to call their own. Besides, we’ve had quite a day, haven’t we?”

  I nod, emotion clogging my throat. “You never answered me this morning—if you knew who I was, why did you take me in? My family has caused yours so much pain. I just… I don’t understand.”

  She squeezes my shoulder gently. “In my experience, the past is never as important as we think it is. It’s what we do now that matters. Everyone needs a little help sometimes, and I’m just glad fate brought you here. And don’t forget—I happen to be an excellent judge of character, and you, my dear, have a good heart. One of the best.” She winks. “Plus, my customers love a pretty face.”

  I laugh, grateful for the humor. I was close to embarrassing myself with tears.

  A quick glance around the bar tells me Molly’s right—I’m really not needed. “I think I will head home,” I say after a moment. “I need some time to get my head around… everything.”

  To find the courage I need to leave you.

  “Good.” She grabs a rag, then asks without looking at me, “You’ll be there when I wake up tomorrow, won’t you?”

  My heart jolts. “Yes, of course,” I lie, glad I can’t see her eyes.

  “See you in the morning, then. Oh, and, Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  She glances over her shoulder. “You’re not alone anymore. You have a home, and, if you want it, a family.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” I whisper, then flee to the back before the first tear falls.

  By the time I arrive home, my eyes are dry and my limbs buzz. The conviction I found on my walk today has blossomed, enveloping me with frenetic purpose.

  The Avellinos are a tribe of moral thieves, leeching goodness from the world. I’ll never be like Vivian and my uncles, or even my father. Cruel and ruthless. Ambitious to the point of tyranny.

  But maybe I don’t have to be.

  Maybe I can be better.

  11

  I’m jolted from sleep by someone pounding on my motel door. Blinking groggily, I take in the light behind the curtains, which is brighter than it should be. A glance at the clock has me doing a double take.

  It’s seven thirty in the morning. I slept close to eighteen hours.

  “Finnegan McCowen, I know you’re in there!”

  My aunt’s voice is shrill, with an edge of panic. Throwing off the covers,
I stumble to my feet.

  “Coming!” I bark, wincing at the pins and needles in my feet as I lumber to the door. The chain is barely free when the door flies inward. I lurch backward to avoid being hit. “Whoa! What the hell?”

  Molly storms into the dim room, then spins toward me in a flurry of righteous rage. “What the hell did you say to her?”

  I blink. My eyes hurt. My brain feels like Swiss cheese.

  “What?”

  “She’s gone! Gone! Left her cell phone and most of her things. So tell me what you said to her to make her run!”

  Callisto.

  A heady surge of adrenaline wakes me right the fuck up.

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?” I demand, snatching my discarded jeans off the floor and yanking them on over my boxers. “And why do you think it’s my fault? I didn’t threaten her or anything.”

  Only, I kind of did. I was a major dick and probably spooked her into leaving town.

  “She told me she’d be here in the morning,” says my aunt, and alarmingly, she looks like she’s about to cry. She sits heavily on the foot of the bed. “She has no one, Finn. I’ve never met anyone so alone in the world as that poor girl.”

  The gravity of the situation, and my aunt’s distress, sinks in. Dropping onto the bed beside her, I lower my head into my hands.

  “You’re right. This is totally my fault. I basically told her to fuck off and that I was going after her family.” Turning my head, I meet Molly’s red-rimmed eyes. “She won’t warn them, will she?”

  Her eyes widen with shock, then narrow to slits of anger. “I love you, Finn, because you’re blood and I remember changing your shitty diapers and how sweet you were as a kid, but right now I don’t much like the man you’ve become.”

  Neither do I.

  I swallow my pride and say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Damn right, you shouldn’t have. Callisto has suffered just as much, if not more, than you have at the hands of her family. And for some miraculous reason, she’s managed to raise herself into a kind, compassionate young woman. Don’t you forget that. She may be a gentle soul, but she has a warrior’s heart.”

  Thinking of Callisto’s dark eyes, I hesitate over my next words. “She’s really scared of them, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  It suddenly hits me that my chances of seeing Callisto again are slim to none. She successfully staged her own death and has been presumed dead for the last six years. Clearly, she knows how to disappear.

  The thought of never seeing her enigmatic eyes again is more disturbing than I care to admit.

  “Where do you think she’ll go?” I finally ask.

  Molly sighs. “Somewhere far away from here.”

  From you.

  The unspoken words send a flush of shame through me. I bow my head. “I fucked up, Mol.”

  After a long pause, she grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. “I know. And I also know Calli’s her own woman and makes her own decisions. A part of me always knew we wouldn’t be lucky enough to keep her in Solstice Bay. I’m going to miss her something fierce.”

  With every word, I deflate further. Thoughts of Callisto, alone on the road, nowhere to go, no friends to speak of… Fuck, it hurts. I feel responsible. Helpless. Were he alive, my dad would have some strong words for me about how I treated her.

  Releasing me, Molly swipes the tears from her face and stands. “Put a damn shirt on. If we’re going after the Avellinos, we need a plan.”

  My jaw unhinges. “What?”

  Defiance sparks in her eyes. “Calli is the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have, and the only way she’ll be free in this world is if the Avellinos are brought to heel. So we’re going to do just that.”

  I keep gaping.

  Molly smiles, but not in humor. “Family is everything, isn’t it? You need to read this.”

  She lifts her hand, a thick square of folded white paper between her fingers. I reach for it, gripped by sudden foreboding. I’m not sure I want to know what’s inside it. From the look on Molly’s face, it’s something that will change me.

  Change everything.

  My fingers tingle, like they’re waking from sleep, as I unfold the page filled with graceful, slanted handwriting.

  Molly,

  For years, I drifted across the country looking for something I couldn’t define. That is, I couldn’t define it until I found you and Solstice Bay. I was looking for a home. Thank you for giving me what money could never buy—acceptance, understanding, and love. I’m sorry I never told you how much your kindness meant to me.

  You healed a part of my heart I didn’t know was broken. You also gave me the courage to finally fix the rest.

  When I ran, I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was young and selfish, and I sacrificed my innocent sisters to save myself. I can’t do it anymore—live this half-life caught between denial and regret. I’ve realized that as long as I linger in the past, I’ll never have a future.

  I guess I have your nephew to thank for the final push. Please don’t blame him. He’s not at fault, just another victim of my family. And honestly, I’m grateful to him. He made me realize that sometimes, all it takes to change everything is one person.

  If something happens to me, please let it go. This is my choice, and I know exactly what I’m facing.

  I’m not afraid anymore. You gave me a home. That’s all I ever wanted, and nothing—no one—can take that away from me.

  Love,

  Calli

  12

  I almost don’t make it. At least a hundred times, I nearly turn the car around on the sixteen-plus-hour drive to Los Angeles.

  When I wrote the letter for Molly, I told the truth at the time—I wasn’t afraid. Too bad bravery isn’t a switch you can flip and lock in place. Instead, it’s rolling waves. Courage lives at the foamy peaks; fear in every trough.

  I now understand what people talk about when they describe walking toward clear and present danger. The battle of the mind over growing pulses of fear. The urgency in the body to run the other way, toward safety, and the effects of sustained adrenaline.

  But I make it. A menial victory to anyone else is a monumental one for me.

  I’m not running anymore.

  It’s late, after nine, by the time I arrive at Police Headquarters in downtown L.A.

  I find a spot in the parking lot and turn off the car. This is it. My ass and legs are numb, and my mouth tastes like metal and stale coffee. A quick glance in the visor mirror shows my bloodshot eyes framed by half-moon shadows, and pale—too pale—skin. Even my lips are white. I look weak. Anemic.

  Flipping up the visor, I stare at the dauntingly modern building ahead, and everything slams into me and it’s all suddenly real. Every survival instinct I have screams at me to stop what I’m doing. Turn on the car and get the hell out of here.

  My heart pounds a staccato rhythm in my ears as I open the car door and get out. Another small victory of mind over matter.

  I can do this.

  I am brave.

  I will prove them all wrong.

  The asphalt beneath my sneakers radiates heat as I walk toward the building. Winter has a different definition in Southern California, and longing for the misty cold of Solstice Bay momentarily grips me.

  I wonder if I’ll ever see the town—the only place that ever felt like home—again. Or have morning coffee with Molly again. Or sit on the bench overlooking the cove and doodle in my sketchbook or read a book.

  Life was simpler two days ago.

  I approach the wall of glass, angling for the doors. A woman is leaving, talking rapidly into her cell phone. Business attire and a briefcase. Lawyer. Head down, I slip past her into the lobby.

  As I approach the main counter, the seated officer looks up. “Can I help you?”

  His sharp gaze scans my face, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead. He’s older—mid-fifties—which means he remembers well th
e media storm after my suspected death. He knows my face, and he’s struggling to comprehend why I look like a dead girl.

  “Yes.” My voice comes out as a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes. I need to speak with someone about a missing person.”

  His gaze veers to a computer screen. “What’s the name?”

  The hilarity of the moment hits me, and I almost laugh. “It’s me, actually. I’m the missing person. Callisto Avellino.”

  The name in my mouth feels displaced, like it belongs to someone else. And it does. It belongs to the person I used to be. The person I killed so she could be free of the life that was smothering her.

  I haven’t been her—Callisto—for years. Until yesterday.

  Until right now.

  Oddly, it feels good. Powerful. Like I’m reclaiming a part of myself I sacrificed against my will.

  Recognition slowly dawns on the officer’s face, draining the color from his ruddy complexion. Shooting to his feet, he lifts a beseeching hand. “Please, stay right there.”

  He fumbles for the phone.

  Showtime.

  “And you don’t remember anything else about your abduction or the following weeks in which you were held captive?”

  The shrewd eyes of Detective Francis Wilson narrow on my face as she looks up from her notepad.

  She’s skeptical of my story. Any decent detective would be. But I spent most of the drive crafting it, repeating it, and embracing it, that when it comes out, it feels true.

  Another life lesson courtesy of my family—if your lie is close to the truth, all it takes for people to believe it is for you to believe it.

  “No, I don’t,” I tell her. “All I remember is waking up in a field one day with blood all over me and no idea how I got there. Or who I was.”

  “Tell me again why didn’t you go to the police? Or a hospital?”

  “I was terrified, Detective. In shock. All I knew was that someone was looking for me and I needed to run. I swear to you, I didn’t remember anything until a few months ago. It started with dreams, then flashes of memories and faces. Yesterday I woke up and remembered who I was. I came straight here.”