Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 78

The house was quiet again, too quiet. After everything, the silence felt like a wound that refused to close.

My father spent the next few days trying to patch things up, hovering around me like a man afraid of ghosts.
My mother barely spoke to Lusi or my brother; she couldn't even look them in the eye.

When they were finally discharged from the hospital, they came home different,  pale, restless, whispering to themselves. The drugs were out of their system, but paranoia still clung to them like smoke.

I avoided them. I didn't need revenge anymore, I'd already seen what guilt and fear could do to a person.

Instead, I focused on my daughter.
We took long walks in the garden every morning. She'd talk about school, about her dolls, about how she wanted pancakes every day. And I'd listen, smiling like everything was normal.

But every night, after she slept, I'd stand by her door and wonder what kind of world they brought her into, one filled with betrayal, blood, and lies.

Zhan called once. He didn't say much, just, "Are you okay?" And that was enough.

The next morning, I packed a small bag. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I just left a note on the kitchen counter:

Taking some time to breathe. Don't look for me. Then I walked out of that house, the lies, the noise, the ghosts, and drove into the sunrise.

When I got to St. Tropez, Dre and Ezra seemed... lighter. Different. They laughed a little more, drank a little less, and for the first time in a long while, I saw peace in their eyes.

Zhan was on the balcony, the sea wind brushing his hair, a glass in his hand, his face calm but unreadable. I stood there for a while, unsure how to begin.

"Zhan," I finally said.

He didn't turn immediately. "You're back," he murmured, his tone flat, neutral, but it carried weight.

I took a deep breath and walked closer. "I owe you an apology," I said quietly. "For everything. For what I did. For what my family did. For what I allowed to happen."

He set the glass down, still not looking at me.

"I thought revenge would fix things," I continued, my voice cracking. "But it didn't. It just broke me more. My brother... he's not the man I thought he was. I paused, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat, "You were the one person I shouldn't have hurt."

Zhan turned then. His eyes were tired, but there was no anger left in them, just a quiet kind of pain.

"You didn't just hurt me, Wang," he said softly. "You hurt yourself too."

"I know," I whispered. "And I'm sorry. For every bruise. Every scar. Every silence."

For a long time, we stood there, the sound of the waves filling the space between us. Then Zhan sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Maybe one day," he said, "we'll both find a way to breathe again, without ghosts."

"I hope so," I replied. "Because for the first time in years, I just want peace. No more pain. No more running."

Zhan nodded, his expression softening. "Then start by forgiving yourself, Wang. The rest will follow."

And for the first time in a long time, I believed him.

A few days later, I heard the familiar sound of my mother's voice echoing down the marble hallway of the villa in St. Tropez. It was firm, elegant, and impossible to ignore.

"Wang!" she called. "You didn't think you could hide from me forever, did you?"

I froze. She was here, with my father trailing behind, tired but clearly unwilling to be left behind.