30. Ava

"You remember,"he whispers. I don't see him as the man he is now, but as the innocent boy he once was, with ice cream smeared liberally across his mouth and chin.

The glow from a streetlamp outside bathes his features in a soft light, and for a moment, it's as if I'm watching a time-lapse video of him aging from the mischievous boy to the complex man before me. His features shift and morph, the stains of childhood fade, and his cheeks hollow out, his cheekbones becoming pronounced under my gaze. The innocence of his baby face retreats, replaced by the ruggedness of a five-o'clock shadow. When he offers me a smile, though, it's like a glimpse of that little boy is peeking through, mischief and innocence intertwined just beneath the surface.

My treat, now a forgotten casualty of the moment, sits untouched as I lean back in the booth, absorbing the weight of his words. "I remember."

He swallows, a visible bob in his throat betraying his nervousness. "Are you angry?"

I frown at his question. "Why would I be?"

He licks his lips, a gesture of unease, as he leans in, closing the distance between us across the table. "I nicked your finger," he confesses in a hushed tone. "This… Your transformation… It's all my doing."

My gut screams that this isn't his fault, but I'm not positive, knowing what I know now about my mama. "I don't think this is your fault."

"One bite, Ava—that's all it took. My saliva mingled with your blood, and then…you changed," he continues, his gaze flicking to the door, wary of unseen listeners.

"Do you regret it?" My question is soft, laced with curiosity rather than accusation.

He pauses and bites his lip, his thoughts swirling behind his eyes. Watching him wrestle with the question is captivating, a furrow forming between his brows as his gaze deepens, lost in contemplation.

"What is regret?" he muses, leaning back with a philosophical tilt of his head, his expression smoothing into one of reflective calm. "Regret is the echo of past decisions—a reminder that every choice we make sculpts not just our future, but the heart of who we are. It's the toll we pay for growth."

"Is there a beatnik poet lurking beneath that tough exterior, Ethan Hughes?" I tease, a smirk playing on my lips.

"Maybe," he concedes with a playful dip of his head, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. "No, I don't regret nicking your finger, Ava," he declares, his eyes brimming with unspoken promises. "I'll never regret anything that brought you into my life."

"Well, shit. How do I respond to that?" I say, feigning exasperation as I finally turn my attention to my melting ice cream, the spoon slicing through the soft dessert like a boat through calm waters.

How do I really feel?

A strange sense of acceptance washes over me. All this time, I've been at odds with the notion of fate, and the idea that the spiritkin world, with all its mystique and preordained paths, felt like an elaborate ruse. Ethan's revelation somehow diffuses the weight of destiny, making it feel like less of a cosmic script we were forced to follow and more like a road we chose, unknowingly, as children.

"I'm glad I dared you to bite me," I whisper in the quiet ice-cream shop. It feels like a confession, a secret shared between the two of us amidst the ghosts of our pasts and the echoes of our laughter.

"Do you think, all those years ago, we altered the course of our fate?" Ethan asks, his actions mirroring mine as he scoops up a portion of his ice cream, the spoon momentarily pausing at his lips.

"Does it matter if we did?" I shrug, the question hanging in the air between us like a delicate bubble, ready to burst with possibilities.

"Maybe," he replies, a glint of mischief returning to his gaze as he looks up at me, those thick lashes framing his eyes. "Maybe not."

"I don't believe we did," I reply, newfound confidence bolstering my words. "Typically, Mama would bring me here right after Sunday service, but that day…" My voice trails off, the memory of that fateful afternoon surfacing with a clarity that feels both comforting and unnerving. It's as though the more we delve into our shared past, the more my long buried emotions and memories find their way to the surface, begging to be acknowledged and understood.

"You arrived late that afternoon," Ethan interjects, his trademark crooked smirk sending a familiar flutter through my stomach. "My appointment ran over by an hour. If it had been on time, I would have missed you."

In that moment, amidst the remnants of our ice cream and the whispers of our younger selves, I realize that perhaps fate isn't about predestined paths or inescapable destinies. Maybe it's about the choices we make, the chances we take, and the people who walk into our lives, whether by accident or design, shaping our story in ways we could never imagine.

Fate.

"Daddy," I begin, my voice breaking through the silence as the memory unfurls in vibrant flashes behind my mind's eye, "was adamant about me joining Sunday school that day. And boy, did I loathe it. Mama too. She always said they were more about spinning yarn than imparting wisdom, barely touching on morals or ethics. Instead, that day turned into a deep dive on spiritkin, and Jess…" A smirk dances on my lips, the memory of the conversation with Mama on our way to the ice-cream shop bubbling up. "Her brother was bitten by a werewolf."

"If both of us had been punctual, we'd have completely missed each other," he points out, brandishing his spoon like a tiny, melty flag of truce.

"It seems fate had its own script for us that day," I muse, a shadow of annoyance flickering at the thought of our strings being pulled by unseen hands.

"Maybe, but it wasn't fate's hand that coaxed you into daring me to bite you."

"You didn't technically bite me," I counter, unable to suppress a grin.

"I nicked you with my canine," he counters, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam I see seldomly. "I could have gone all in."

I pause, curiosity piqued. "And what then?"

It strikes me that after all these years, I never really got the full story from him or Mama, especially knowing she was spiritkin all along.

"I don't know," Ethan confesses, his usual confidence dimming into uncertainty. "A mere nick shouldn't have had any effect, but it did, didn't it?"

"Ethan?" I venture, a spoonful of ice cream doing little to calm the fluttering in my stomach. "Would you walk me to where it happened?"

His gaze momentarily flares with that ethereal magic. "Come on," he says, sliding out of the booth. "We can take these to go. You don't mind a bit of melted ice cream, do you?"

"Makes the perfect milkshake," I quip, feeling his hand envelope mine in a comforting warmth around my chilled fingers.

My heart hammers against my rib cage as we step outside, the chill of the night wrapping around us. He places our treats in the backseat, each movement tender, then returns to my side, our fingers intertwining once more.

"Do you remember where she—" He hesitates, the words catching in his throat.

"Yeah." The sting of tears blurs my vision as I peer beyond Second Street to that fateful bend.

"Ava, you don't have to do this," he murmurs, pulling me under the shelter of his arm. The simple act of leaning into him feels like coming home.

"But I need to," I insist, the urge to confront the past overwhelming. "I hired a private investigator a few years back. Did I ever tell you?" I snuggle closer, his presence a soothing balm against the chill and the churn of memories.

"Did they uncover anything new?" he inquires as we navigate past a patchwork of homes, a stark juxtaposition of renewal and neglect painting our path. From one step to the next, the scenery shifts dramatically—from meticulously renovated homes to those marred by neglect and shattered windows.

"Nothing beyond what I already knew," I admit as we pause, now only a block away from where they found my mama. "The cops showed up at our door that night, needing someone to make an ID. Dad pulled up right after them. He tried to shield me from it, but I wouldn't have it. I had to go."

"Did you ever get closure?" Ethan asks, his voice a soft echo in the cool night.

"No." The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "We got to the morgue, and he wouldn't let me in. Then, he confirmed her identity, and she was cremated before I could blink—no closure, just this gaping, endless wound." My sneakers, a quick choice by Tyler, squeak against the pavement. "Looking back, I can see all the holes in his stories, every detail that felt off or just plain wrong."

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Why?" I tilt my head up to Ethan, my brows knitting together in confusion. "None of this mess is your fault."

"It doesn't mean I can't feel empathy for your situation," he counters gently, his gaze softening. "So the PI didn't find anything new?"

"Nothing beyond what I already knew." My stomach knots as we cross another street, arriving at a fork in the road that feels like a metaphor for my life. Merger Ave stretches one way, lined with row homes, while the next street reveals the backside of those homes—an alleyway cluttered with the secrets of garages and silent cars.

I pause as we near the garage where she was found, my eyes catching on the grimy window of the garage door, once white. To the left, a narrow walkway leads to a dilapidated chain-link fence, and beyond that, a yard where the grass has given up and a back porch that seems to be holding its breath, ready to collapse at any moment.

"Here?" Ethan's voice pulls me back to the present.

"Yeah, I think so." I point to the faded numbers on the side of the garage. "Nine Merger Ave. That's the address from the file the PI gave me. It was the only piece of the puzzle I was missing."

The backdoor of the adjacent house is tightly shut, its pink curtains a flimsy barrier against the prying eyes of the world. Every light is off, shrouding the place in mystery, and a broken window above the porch speaks of untold stories.

"I often wondered who lived here," I whisper, my voice barely a breath in the night.

"I can try to find out if you want," Ethan offers, determination coloring his voice.

"You'd do that for me?" I meet his eyes, a flicker of hope igniting within me. "My PI hit a wall while trying to figure that out."

He grunts, a sound laden with skepticism, and honestly, I can't blame him. I'm skeptical too.

Curiosity drags me toward the garage window. Peering through, I see a car, an unremarkable relic at first glance, but something about it tugs at me, a strange knowing that unsettles my stomach.

As the scent of oil and dust fills my nostrils, I do the unthinkable—I slide the garage door open.

"Ava." Ethan's voice carries a note of warning, but I'm beyond hearing, stepping inside as the door grinds to a halt. Dust motes dance in the stale air, celebrating their release after years of imprisonment.

My eyes are drawn to the car, and a cold realization washes over me.

"Ethan." I gasp, my breath catching as I pull the car door open.

"What is it?" He closes the garage door behind us, the dim light casting shadows across his concerned face. "Ava?"

"It's my mom's car." The words tumble out, heavy with emotion, as I slide into the driver's seat. There, in the cupholder, lies the candy Mama and I shared the Sunday before she vanished. "We picked this up the Sunday before she died."

I lift the candy, my fingers trembling as I brush off the layer of dust.

"Ava." Ethan's voice is a mix of caution and concern. "Why is your mom's car here, and how did it slip through the police investigation?"

"Why is it still here?" I counter, because that's the question burning in my soul. After all these years, why does it linger like a ghost? "Let's go home, Ethan. That's enough for today."

"Of course." He reaches for my hand, his gaze scanning the garage, missing nothing.

He doesn't have to say it out loud, but I know Ethan Hughes isn't one to let mysteries lie dormant, and in that realization, I find peace.

I'm not alone, and for now, that's the lifeline I cling to.