46. Hayley

46

HAYLEY

M om is always saying “be careful what you wish for,” and it turns out she’s right. After surviving the train derailment by the skin of our teeth, we ended up here in this goddamn mountain house. It was pure hell—metal twisted into sick shapes, flames everywhere, and screams that still echo in my sleep. I remember clinging to Sophie as Malik dragged us out, the heat scorching our skin and the acrid smell of burning fuel making me gag.

The world spun out of control in minutes, and somehow, against all odds, we made it out alive. But the trauma? It lingers like a bad hangover, haunting us as we fled to this remote house. Now, we’re stuck here, trying to make sense of the nightmare we escaped and grappling with the situation that dragged us here in the first place.

I hate the mountains. They’re too quiet, too cold, and way too far from anything resembling normal. It’s like being in a giant snow globe, where there’s no escape, and every day is the same. The house is huge, but it feels empty—more like a showpiece than an actual home. Everything’s too polished, too perfect, and I can’t stand it. Nothing about this trip feels like fun. Hell, nothing about this trip feels like a family vacation. It’s more like forced detention.

It’s almost Christmas, or at least it’s supposed to be. I can’t really tell anymore. The whole idea of holidays feels like a foreign concept when you’re stuck here with them . No carolers, no twinkling lights, no pine-scented candles to make you forget that your family is a fucking mess.

The only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the occasional thud from someone moving around upstairs. I can’t decide if it’s better when they’re all in the same room or if it’s worse. At least when we’re in separate rooms, I can pretend like I’m not being suffocated by all their secrets.

Dad’s pacing in front of the fireplace, the same tired look on his face that he’s had since we got here. I swear he’s been saying “We need to regroup” for the past three days, like it’s a fucking mantra. Like that’s going to make everything magically okay. But whatever.

I can’t get a read on him anymore. He’s always been a little bit of a mystery to me, but now? It’s like there’s some kind of wall between us, and I’m not even sure what’s behind it.

He brought in a “trauma counselor” to speak with Sophie and me about everything. This woman—I don’t know who she was, but I doubt she was really a therapist— sat us down and tried to explain everything away. Dad’s faked death. Mom being kidnapped three years ago. A bunch of random stuff— traumatic events — that are somehow supposed to explain how we ended up here. Like it isn’t as clear as day to anyone who has been halfway paying attention.

We’re here because my parents make a living killing people. They say it’s all on the up and up— for good reason —but if that were the case, then why are we hiding out?

I asked this and all of a sudden I’m the one who's ungrateful. They went on and on about how I don’ t appreciate anything they do for me, how I don’t appreciate this lifestyle they work so hard to afford for us.

Talk about gaslighting.

After that, I could see why Dad brought in the therapist, even if she was speaking to the wrong family members. Dad must think I’m an idiot, as if I haven’t heard him say a thousand times, "It starts at the top. It starts with leadership."

“Sophie,” Dad says, pulling her aside in that low, calm voice of his that never really fits with how the rest of us are freaking out. “We need to talk about next steps.”