Chapter 2

LYRA

Present day

They say that loss gets easier as the years pass, but they're lying. Easier isn't the word I would use to describe it, not when the loss left you in a position that tore your soul to pieces, exposed to a life you've only seen in true crime documentaries. Loss eats your happiness away piece by piece until you crack, leaving you longing for the life you had before. Before they left you. Before you were truly alone.

A sudden pounce pulls me from my thoughts as my cat, Void, jumps onto my lap and drags her fluffy black tail under my chin. She often catches me when I'm starting to drift off into dark places, purring and nudging at me until I pay her the attention she deserves. She mewls, tipping her head to the side and rubbing her face along my arm while I attempt to wipe the tears from my cheeks. "What did I do to deserve you, Void? Now scoot. I need to go see Dad."

The fluff ball meows before jumping down and sashaying down the hall, her tail flicking dramatically in annoyance. That little thing is as sassy as they come, but she's a welcome distraction from the loneliness that plagues me. As pathetic as it sounds, Void is all I have. The little black cat had been in the shelter for far too long, with electric green eyes that pierced through the dark corner of the cat enclosure. She's the only being I've allowed to get close to me since him .

Ryker destroyed the phone number he texted from that night, gone without a trace. No social media presence; nothing has popped up in eight whole years. For a while, I checked religiously, wanting to know he was okay, praying for a slither of information, just enough to put me at ease. But that never came, and in time, I gave up. Still, the thought alone has me itching to look.

I quickly fire up my laptop, my fingers thrumming on the counter while I wait for the screen to load. It needs to be replaced, with its worn-out keys and internal fan that sounds like it's going to spontaneously combust, but I'm a little attached to it. When I moved into my apartment, it was my first big purchase; I needed something to apply for jobs. Over time, it grew into more, with my need to type his name into the browser becoming something of an addiction. Firing up the browser, I open all the social media platforms I can think of and hunt for him, using different spellings of his name even just in case. As usual, there's nothing. No articles, no social media, just these same people I have grown to loathe, seeing their smiling faces every single time, new families featuring beside them.

My heart starts to race at the thought of him, feeling like it's about to tear through my chest and explode right in front of me. Sobs threaten to escape with each breath I suck in, my resolve breaking piece by piece. I knew it wasn't the greatest idea to look him up, but just like every other time, I acted on impulse, feeding into a need that has burrowed so deeply inside me, I doubt it will ever be satisfied.

I work on my breathing, doing exactly as my therapist all those years ago had shown me: in through the nose, out through the mouth, until some form of composure returns. After a few minutes, things start to slow down enough for me to move and get ready. I can't miss tonight, the one day I allow myself to break. Fuck, I need it.

Thankfully, my boss is one of the good ones. After the first time I ended up in the hospital, we had a lengthy conversation. Time off over the anniversary is one of the things that keeps me on track, from suffering a mental breakdown. Not something that most workplaces allow for, I'm sure, grinding their staff to within an inch of their life and then some most of the time.

Lacing up my black boots tightly, I shrug into the raggedy grey hooded jumper, slipping a puffer vest over the top. This last week, it has been colder than usual for the time of year, the chill leaving frost on the windows overnight and a dusting of fog in the air. Grabbing the brown paper bag from the counter, I drop it into my backpack and flick off the lights in the kitchen, leaving only the one above the stovetop on so I can see when I get back.

People are scattered all through the hall of the apartment building tonight, laughing, whispering, readying themselves for a night out on the town. The shrieks and giggles echo through the foyer, rushing me out the door. Sometimes, I wish that was me, but the moment is always fleeting. It sounds amazing up to the point where I have to open up, before the black hole opens and reveals the barely beating heart in my chest. The cracks have fused together over the years, but only just, only enough to exist.

Unlike them, I'm headed for a more somber night of sitting at my father's grave. It's somewhat of a tradition for me these last few years. He passed away fifteen years ago under "suspicious circumstances". By suspicious, they mean he was murdered. There is no doubt in my mind that Stanton had something to do with it, but I could never prove anything. Who was I to go up against someone like him, a person I was terrified of when the rest of the town worshipped the ground he walked on.

It's still light outside when I step through the glass front doors of the building, the breeze instantly sending a chill through my entire body despite my layers. The sun is starting to set, with the sky slowly changing from blue to deep orange over by the woods.

My Uber rolls up, the silver Honda Civic easing as close to the curb as possible. I had selected a quiet drive, so hopefully, they don't attempt to strike up any conversation. Today is not the day for plastering on a smile and pretending life is okay. It's the one day a year I allow the pain through the mask, letting myself feel the loss—not only the loss of my father, but the loss of my life as I knew it. That day fifteen years ago kickstarted a series of unfortunate events I never managed to pull back from. Darkness seeped into my pores the day he passed, clinging to every fiber of my being like an incurable plague. Infecting me down to the bones until there was nothing left but a husk, one that walks among people like one of them but is barely there.

Placing my headphones into my ears, I put on my playlist and turn the volume up to the maximum, drowning out the world. The buildings of the city blur into one, a mass of grey with the occasional bright light or sign in a window. I hadn't wanted to live in the city, preferring solitude and silence over the constant noise, but this was the only place available close enough to Dad.

The sky has darkened considerably on the drive, with the faint glow of the sun only just visible over the tree line. Thanking the driver with a nod, I exit the car, watching him speed down the winding gravel road and through the large, iron gates. Dust and rocks flick up into the air, taking a moment to settle in the silence. The cemetery is completely empty, as expected. Every year, I am here alone, exactly how I need it to be. It's one of the smaller resting places in town, separated by woodland on the outskirts. It would be too much trouble for people to come out here when others have cool stories attached.

There's one graveyard in particular that's said to be haunted, with pictures released almost every single Halloween of sightings. You know, things out of the usual, people being hurt while trying to run from something that shouldn't exist. Those are the ones that are occupied on a night like tonight, but I chose here for Dad because it's quiet, serene during the daytime, so close to nature that you can hear the rustling of animals, the wind flowing through the leaves. Last year, there was even a howl in the distance, perfectly peaceful for a man like my dad. He deserves this, a quiet life in death. If I were to pass I would want to be somewhere like this.

Walking down the path, my heavy boots crunch on the tiny stones with each step to his headstone. My fingers trace his name, flecks of moss slowly filling the space under my nails and falling to the ground. Each thud of my heart is more painful than the one before, aching deep within my chest. I should get down here more often, clean the stone up a bit, but it hurts. Each visit chips away at the small amount of resolve I have left, the tether to life wearing thin on a good day.

Setting my bag to the side, I slide down onto the damp ground with my back against the stone and pull out my drink of choice for the night. My fingers wrap around the neck of the curved whiskey bottle, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. He would often sit in his favorite armchair of a night when I was younger, a glass in one hand as he watched the fireplace. There would always be a small glass of apple juice poured for me as well, complete with the fancy ice cubes he always used. His gold lighter would flip around in his hand as he smoked cigars, the smell becoming something comforting for me. We would sit for hours talking about anything and everything, laughing so hard, we would have stitches. He was my very best friend in every way.

I tip my head back against his tombstone, my eyes flitting shut as I embrace the burn of the amber liquid sliding down my throat. It's his favorite, a strong whiskey with a heavy kick of cinnamon. It's not something I would choose to drink on any other day; I'm much more of a wine-in-the-bath kind of person. A glass of prosecco while talking to my cat about the day. The scent of the whiskey alone takes me back to the former Lyra even for just a moment. The person I was before them .

Pulling my knees toward my chest, I wrap one of my arms around my legs in an attempt to keep warm. It's colder out here in the open than it was at home, with only the trees along the edges of the cemetery to shield me from the wind. It howls around me, whipping stray strands of hair in front of my eyes, but I make no attempts to contain them. A shiver rips through my body, flowing from my neck down to my toes and forcing my backside to shift on the already-damp ground.

"I really fucking miss you," I breathe, watching a small shooting star flit in and out of the clouds. A stray tear slips from the corner of my eye, trailing down my cheek and dripping onto my puffer vest, unable to hold it in any longer. "I'm starting to think it might be better there, back with you."

A lump forms in my throat as I speak, my words coming out in a pained whisper. These thoughts aren't new to me. Some days are harder than others to come to terms with the fact that he's gone, to live with the memories seared into my very core of the woman who birthed me and the devil incarnate she chose to prey on after my father.

She left when I was born, leaving me in my father's care without a parting word, gone without a trace. Not once did she reach out through my childhood, no happy birthdays or Christmas cards. Nothing. If I said it didn't sting, I would be lying, watching all my friends with outstanding, present mothers while mine couldn't care less about my existence. He made up for her absence the best he could, involving me in everything, making sure he never made me feel unwanted or unworthy, but there was always something.

There was always this idea I had concocted in my mind that she just wasn't ready. She was a young mom who was unprepared to have a kid. One day, when she was in the right headspace, she may reach out and get to know me. We could be friends, bond over movies, go out for lunch. Doing those nice things that people do with their mothers. But that isn't my story, or hers.

Tears run down my overheated cheeks, running along my jaw and dripping from my chin. I don't bother wiping them away, letting the pain bleed out of me without leaving a visible scar. Bringing the bottle to my lips, I swallow another mouthful, relishing in the burn and embracing the warm flush starting to spread through my limbs. This is what I needed today, to feel the numbness that comes with alcohol, to feel as close to him as I can get. It's not exactly a healthy coping mechanism, but when you're holding onto life by the fingertips, anything that sparks a small amount of joy is worth it.

"He still hasn't come back for me, Dad. I…I need to speak to him. I need to know he made it," I whisper, tipping my head back against the cool stone and closing my eyes. If he had reached out just once, my mind could rest even a little. I'm tired, mentally and physically tired. It has been years, and I still need him just as much now as I did then. He had been my safety, the only living person who had been on my side. Since him, I have closed myself off from getting close to anyone. My heart can't take that sort of loss again. I'm already hanging by a thin thread, waiting for the day it snaps and sends me down into the depths.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

I freeze, scanning the tree line, my eyes straining with a mix of whiskey and darkness. The trees are too dense to see anything other than the first row around the edges, with everything beyond that pitch black. Nothingness behind the thick trunks.

"Oh, little lamb, can't you see us?" comes another voice, this one different from the one before it. Jumping to my feet, I use the stone to hold me steady as I try to find where the voice is coming from. It sounded as though it came from my left, but the wind is strong and could be carrying it from anywhere. Fuck .

My chest heaves as it tries to suck in as much air as possible with each inhale, but I don't think breathing techniques are going to help with this. Panic licks at my skin like a forked tongue, sending a shiver down to my very core. It's isolated out here, barren, with no houses for miles. No one ever comes here that I've seen, other than a groundskeeper. But he's old and usually gone by the time dusk settles, not hanging around in the middle of the night. Part of the reason I picked this place was the isolation, a choice that's now biting me in the ass tenfold.

I turn slowly, keeping my hands firmly gripping the damp stone when I spot them from the corners of my blurred eyes, the two hooded figures stalking toward me, their gaits calculated and sure. Both men are tall, much taller than my five-foot frame, with each step swirling the low-lying fog around them.

My heart rate climbs uncomfortably, the pain ripping through my chest with each rapid thud. Hurried beats echo through my inner ears, burning them from the inside out. Even if I was to scramble for my phone, no one would get here in time. The cops are on the other side of town, at least a thirty-minute drive even under lights and sirens. Both men let out deep laughs as they close in on me, my feet cemented to the grass below. I want to move, to run, but my body refuses to listen to any of my cues.

"It's a shame; I like it when they run a little," one of the men taunts, leaving his friend in front of me while he circles to my back, his bruising touch gripping my hip on the way past. Heat warms my back as he closes in, wrapping his large hand around my throat from behind.

His fingers squeeze, the cool air becoming nearly impossible to filter into my lungs. My mind starts to haze, a heady mix of alcohol and lack of oxygen making it difficult to stay upright. Snaking my hands up, I grip the man's arms tightly, clawing at the material of his shirt and pleading for a small shred of relief.

The second man steps closer, his hot breath cutting through the chill in the air, fanning across my face. His strong cologne stings my sinuses, clinging to his body as though his clothes had been dipped in it.

He inches closer, biting just above where his friend's hand still grips my neck, and I give a small, strained squeal. My limbs tremble, working themselves up to move through the fear rooting me to the spot. Staring into his ice-blue eyes, I throw my knee up in an attempt to get him between the legs, but he catches it, throwing my leg back down with force.

"Try it again, I fuckin' dare you," he snarls, his thumb and forefinger holding my jaw in place. "No one out here for miles, and there is no way you could outrun both of us. The man behind you is set to make it in the big leagues. You have no hope in hell."

"Wha…what will it take you to leave me alone? I…I can pretend I never saw you," I whisper, the words feeling like shards of glass slicing my throat. "I have money."

He flashes me his megawatt smile, the man behind me chucking as well. Bright white teeth, perfectly aligned, stand out too much in the darkness to be natural. That, paired with the undeniable scent of expensive cologne tells me all I need to know. Any amount of money I throw at them won't be enough; they desire something much more taxing.

"What do you want?" I ask, knowing the answer. This isn't for the money; it's for the thrill. No amount of bargaining is going to save me. His firm grip and loaded threats paint a picture that's already seared into my mind, the same one that plagues my nightmares and forces my memory to close parts of myself out for years at a time, only to flash them back in my face.

"We want you scared, just like this. Trembling. Fighting. Squirming," the one behind me whispers into my ear, his heated breath searing my skin. "To take our demons out on your cunt, forcing it to clench around us even though you don't fucking want to. We want you ruined, pretty girl."

Orange light catches my eye over the man's shoulder, like glowing embers in the darkness of the trees. The blurred dots grow bigger, pulling my focus from the vile creatures caging me in, from the firm hands tearing at my puffer vest, the bruising touch holding my wrists to my side.

It's not the first time the darkness has visited, smoke and embers in the shape of a giant wolf. Usually seen as a sign of impending death. Something I would welcome in this very moment. At least I'll die close to Dad, my soul able to rest in the knowledge.