Way Back Home

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The following afternoon, I slipped into the back seat of an Uber and gave the driver the address. As we pulled away from the house, my fingers drummed anxiously against my leg. I could still feel the weight of my brothers' eyes on me, the unspoken questions hanging between us like a thick fog. They knew something was wrong. They just didn't know how bad.

My heart squeezed at the memory of lunch yesterday. The way Nicolas stared too long, Devin's half-smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes. They were trying to reach me, to pull me back into the safety of their arms, but how could I explain the danger I carried with me? The danger I was?

Doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve. What if Monica wouldn't listen? What if my return only brought more danger to her doorstep? I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to silence the voice that kept repeating the same mantra: You shouldn't have come back. You don't belong here anymore.

My brothers' concern wrapped around me like a noose, but I couldn't afford to let them in—not yet. Not when I didn't even know how to keep myself safe. I wasn't sure who I was anymore—just someone running from ghosts.

The hum of traffic filled the car, a dull backdrop to my spinning thoughts. It wasn't the cityscape of LA flashing by that held my attention. My mind was a thousand miles away, on the darkened highways I used to travel with Elliot. Those late-night drives where the silence between us felt safe. I had clung to him then like a lifeline—before everything shattered, before I became a stranger to everyone, including myself.

I swallowed hard, pushing the memories back. They weren't useful now. Elliot wasn't here. No one was here but me, and I had business to finish.

We merged onto the 405, and I rested my head against the window, watching the world blur past. LA sprawled out beneath me, so different from the simplicity of those nights when the city felt like a cocoon. My chest tightened at the thought of Elliot, the way we had once existed in a world where the only thing that mattered was each other.

But that was a lifetime ago. Now, the only thing that mattered was surviving the storm I'd brought with me.

The house stood before me, its paint faded, shutters cracked—a ghost of its former self. It looked tired, worn down by years of neglect, as if it too had been waiting for my return. My throat tightened at the sight of it. Monica's old car sat in the driveway, an unwelcome reminder of everything I had abandoned.

I hesitated at the door, fingers trembling as they hovered over the doorbell. I had ghosted her, left her behind without a word, and now, I was back with nothing but bad news. How do you apologize for that? How do you ask for forgiveness when you're about to drag someone into a nightmare all over again?

The door creaked open before I could pull my thoughts together. Monica stood there, looking like a reflection of the past. Her eyes widened, shock and something else—hurt, maybe—flashing across her face.

"No shit, Victoria," she muttered, before catching herself. The name stung, and I couldn't help but flinch. She hadn't called me that in years. Only when she was angry. Only when I deserved it.

I tried to smile, but it came out wrong—crooked, hollow. "It's been a while."

She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing. "Where the hell have you been?"

Where hadn't I been? I swallowed the truth, the bitter taste of lies ready to spill from my lips. Instead, I said what I came here to say. "The eagle has found its prey, Mon." My voice wavered, betraying the calm I was trying to fake. "My time's up."

Her face drained of color, the weight of my words sinking in. We had both known this day was coming, but neither of us wanted to face it.

"Are you serious?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.