1. Frankie

2 YearsLater

"You can't stay here,"the voice yells in my ear. The abrasive timbre grates on my nerves like sandpaper against raw skin. "Did you hear me, Frankie?" This time, the voice comes with a poke to my kidney, sharp and intrusive. "Get the fuck up and get out."

"Fucking hell, Marcus." I swat his hand away before he can touch me again, my hand trembling with a mix of anger and a haunting familiarity that I refuse to acknowledge. I've dreamed of breaking his fingers, not just for my peace but for every silent plea I've witnessed in this place. I hold back, reminding myself that I'm working on self-control and not becoming the monster he embodies. The air between us crackles with my restrained fury. "I'm up. I'm up."

"From here, it looks like you aren't up." His voice is part sneer, part nails on a chalkboard, but equal parts vindictive. He's only waking me up and forcing me out because summer is ending, and he's sick of me.

That makes the two of us, Marcus.

Ever so slowly, I sit up, the room spinning slightly—a reminder of last night's attempts to forget. Each movement feels heavy from the weight of countless nights spent under this roof, returning each summer as a silent guardian against the darkness Marcus represents. The shelter's couch, my temporary bed, groans under my weight, its threadbare fabric telling the stories of those who sought refuge here before me. The sour scent of old sweat and faded fears lingers in its fibers.

"Are you hungover?" he asks, his tone laced with faux concern that couldn't sound more insincere if he tried. I can almost visualize his eyebrows raised in mock sympathy.

"No." Yes. I rub my eyes, feeling the sharp pinch in my gut telling me I need to find some food soon. The grit of sleep crusts the corners of my eyes, adding to the uncomfortable dryness.

"You smell like whiskey and bad decisions," he remarks, his voice dripping with disdain.

I feel like it too.

I finally look up at the asshole who runs this run-down women's shelter—a place that smells of despair and disinfectant, where hope seems to die before it can even begin to sprout. One would think that a woman would run the women's shelter, but no, some person made the conscious decision to put this bottom-feeder in charge. The only reason I sleep on this stupid couch every summer is because I know what kind of person he is—the worst kind, and kids stay here.

Three summers ago, when I spent my first night here, I overheard him in the hallway, his voice slick with malice as he cornered someone vulnerable. No one believed her. They said it was her word against his, but I believed because I saw the fear that doesn't lie. Since then, I return every summer, not for shelter, but as a watchdog in the shadows. Maybe I can't expose him, but I can be a deterrent, a silent protector. It's a role I embrace—a purpose found in the darkness.

If I could, I'd kill him. I'd feel no remorse or regret. In fact, as I stare at his pudgy face and his cold, dark eyes, I imagine him lying on a cold slab in the morgue, the life gone from his gaze.

He doesn't deserve to live, and yet, I can't kill him.

"Go away, Marcus." I glance away, only to pull my backpack from between the couch cushions where I tucked it. All my belongings are in this little backpack. Usually, while staying here, I'll leave it in a locker at the local rec center. Last night, I couldn't because I got out of work too late.

"No, I'm here to see you out." He crosses his arms, the fabric of his cheap suit stretching over his bulky frame. I'm sure he thinks it makes him look intimidating, but it doesn't. All it succeeds in doing is making him look like a hairy bobblehead. "Orders are coming from the state."

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that bullshit.

"What time is it?" I run a hand down my face, feeling grimy and in need of a shower. The sticky residue of last night's forgetfulness clings to my skin, urging me to wash away the memories along with the dirt.

"Seven," he says smugly.

Four hours of sleep. Well, it's longer than what I'm used to. I'll just nap in my car later. "Go away, Marcus." I rub the kinks from my neck. This couch is shit, but I sleep here because it's the first room in the women's shelter.

The one closest to the front door.

The one that divides the women's quarters from Marcus's.

Like I said, I know his kind. I don't have proof, but I don't need proof. It's a feeling, a vibe that makes my gut scream. It's an instinct I listen to. It's kept me alive more often than not.

"No, you see that door?" He points a pudgy finger at the front door. "I'm here to escort you out, and next summer, you can't stay here."

It's far too early for this bullshit.

Feeling my body slowly wake up, I tug my hair back into a low ponytail. It needs to be washed, brushed, and cut, but I can only control two of those things right now. None of it will be accomplished before I find a cup of coffee. The relentless ache behind my eyes pleads for caffeine, an unspoken ritual to kick-start another day on the run.

"Yeah, well, Marcus…" I snap the band a little too tightly and stand up to face him. We stand eye to eye—not because I'm tall, and not because he's short, but because we are both exceptionally average. We are just a pair of everyday people, one haunted by shadows, the other casting them. "Go fuck yourself."

I grab my bag and head for the door, a yawn cracking my jaw loud enough to threaten the silence of the morning.

"Don't come back here, Frankie," he calls to my back like the coward he is. His words ricochet off the walls, hollow and brittle.

I give him the finger as I walk out. Marcus's parting shot, meant to unsettle, only solidifies my resolve. I've been evicted from places far more welcoming than this. Unfortunately, Marcus isn't the type to let things go. His threats might carry more weight this time, especially with the eclipse drawing near—a time he superstitiously believes is a harbinger of change.

Bright sunlight burns my retinas as I step into the sweltering heat of Morrow Bay. Even though the town is located in New England, it has humidity due to the ocean. As soon as I step outside, I feel sweat bead between my shoulder blades, a clammy embrace that coats my skin.

Shrugging off my favorite worn leather jacket, I tie it around my waist as my Doc Martens hit the sidewalk. My black shorts cling to my thighs, and my simple black tank top exposes the swirling ink on my arms. The sun beats down on me as though its sole purpose in life is to torture me with its heat.

The women's shelter is located in the center of town, right by the courthouse, and if I were a conspiracy kind of gal, I'd bet that was done on purpose. And Marcus? His cousin is, of course, the commissioner of Morrow Bay. I can only push my luck so far.

Slinking down the dark alley between the buildings, I make my way to the back parking lot, hoping that in those four hours, my car wasn't towed or broken into. At least Marcus woke me before the meter maids go on rotation.

Relief spills through me as I spot my baby. He is my first love and the only man I will ever love—Jeep.

Listen, when I'm fighting for survival, creativity is nonexistent, so my vintage Jeep Wrangler is named Jeep for practical purposes, and I gendered the beast a man, because he's the only stick shift that hasn't let me down, even if I need to milk him a little to get him going. Besides, I love making the red Wrangler my bitch.

Peeling off the cover, I toss my backpack in the back and climb in. I need to shower. I smell like death. I also need to make my way to Shadow Locke Island and see if I can get on campus a little early.

The semester starts in less than two weeks, and if they won't allow me on campus now, then I'll have to spend two weeks sleeping in my Jeep. It isn't the first time, but with Marcus kicking me out, I guarantee he already called the commissioner, who will have the police keeping an eye out for me.

I have lived in this quaint, seaside town for two long years. Well, it's more like a small city. I never would have known about its existence if I hadn't received an acceptance letter to a university I never applied to.

I was completely content to live out my days as a shadow, but that stupid letter changed the course of my entire life—a letter I still keep in my glove box.

Feeling nostalgic, I pull out the piece of paper, now brittle from living in my glove box all these years. I shake it out, running my fingers over the emblem of the university—a simple crescent moon.

I left, of course. The next day, I packed up everything I owned, which, living in foster care, was the entirety of my backpack, and drove from Arizona to Connecticut.

If it weren't for the scholarship for foster kids, then I wouldn't be here.

"Frankie," a voice, warm and literally coming from the only ally I've made in two years, calls out to me. Blinking against the sun, I see Officer Hart, her short, spiky hair almost white in the blazing sunlight. Her smile is all kindness and comfort. Sometimes, I find myself wanting to hug her just because I'm curious about what it feels like to be hugged by someone who gives a shit about me.

I don't, of course. I don't touch, ever, unless it's to release my inner demons or to satiate the need to get off.

"Officer Abigail Hart." I squint at her because she is standing in front of the rising sun. "Heading in or out this early?"

"Out." She leans her elbows against the door, dipping her head until her blue eyes glare at me over the rim. "Commissioner Evans has it out for you."

What else is new?

"And what did I do to him this time?" I begin to massage my temples. The relentless throb there seems to have found a companion in my stomach, which grumbles loudly, reminding me it hasn't been fed since before the final rush at work last night, and that was on a Thursday.

Officer Abigail Hart just gives me a look like I already know, which I do, but he doesn't have to be a dick about it. Really, he could just let me live my life. I only have two years left here, that's it, and then I'll be on my way with a degree in my hand.

"Just stay out of trouble," she warns.

Rolling my eyes at the line, I glare at her. "You damn well know it isn't my fault."

"And I damn well know that where there is trouble, you usually aren't too far behind. Whether that's on purpose or not, I don't know," she says. "I'm just letting you know. Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?"

She knows I don't. "I'll figure it out." I always do. A hot day in August won't change that.

I can tell she isn't buying it, not with the way she slowly inhales, her nostrils flaring just so. "You know?—"

"Don't." I swallow, knowing where she's going with this. She's going to show me compassion. I can't. "I'll be fine. I swear." For twenty-one years, I've been fine. I pushed through any obstacle thrown my way, and I will continue to do so.

"What are your plans for the eclipse?" Officer Hart's tone carries an unusual seriousness that piques my curiosity despite my best efforts.

"The eclipse?" I echo, my frown deepening. Her sudden shift in demeanor and the intensity in her gaze makes me wonder if I'm missing something. "You mean the lunar eclipse? It's just a celestial event, right?"

Officer Hart pauses, her gaze drifting toward the clear sky then back to me with a significance that sends a shiver down my spine. "Not just any eclipse, Frankie. This one's different. There are old legends in Morrow Bay, stories of rare, celestial alignments opening doors to other realms and other possibilities. I thought someone like you might find it interesting."

Dropping her head, she looks through me. It's an eerie feeling, being seen. I can always tell when Officer Hart sees more than I want her to. There's a charge in the air, like something zaps between us, and I'm always the first to look away.

I hate when another person perceives me.

"What about it?" I ask, licking my dry lips. Damn, I'm thirsty. I shouldn't have stayed at the bar, drinking with Andy last night.

"Just asking," she replies. "Listen, why don't you swing by the house tonight? Tori and I would love to have you."

I try so damn hard not to wince, but I can't help it, it slips through, and Officer Hart laughs, the sound warm and somehow understanding.

"I work." I wipe sweat from my brow, trying not to show how much I want to strangle her daughter. We aren't just polar opposites, but she also makes me want to commit literal homicide when she opens her mouth. Luckily, I didn't have to deal with her too much on campus the first year.

The second? We were placed in the same dorm, on the same floor, and she made sure everyone knew she was in charge as the resident advisor. She's equal parts preppy snob and compassionate. It's an odd mix, one I steer clear of as much as I can.

This year, if I get stuck with her again, I'll be sleeping in the student parking lot in Jeep, where I hope no one will try to rob me.

Tori is my own personal Cordelia. I'm no Buffy. Nope, just a foster kid from Arizona with more demons than reason, but Victoria Hart is a local, born and raised in Morrow Bay, and somehow, she's the daughter of this angel before me.

I refuse to believe she came from Abigail's womb. There is just no way they share genetics. Abigail is warm and comforting, and Tori is cold and calculating. Maybe she is really Andy's, Abbi's twin sister.

"Alright." She holds her hands up, laughing. "The offer stands, Frankie. If you ever get hungry, you know where to find me." She taps the side of my Jeep and takes a step away. From here, I can see how utterly exhausted she is. Dark circles rim her eyes, and red striations creep toward her irises.

"I know where to find you," I whisper, because I do know where to find her. She always keeps the invitation open, and I never use it.

Stubbornness keeps me from showing up, and stubbornness will make sure I die alone. It's a path I've accepted with open arms, and I'm fine with that.

"Oh!" She snaps her fingers. "Tori is moving in this weekend. Maybe head to the island to see if you can get in early." With a wink, she spins around and walks away, pulling a baseball cap over her head.

At least I know where I'll be sleeping tonight.