The truck, a black monstrosity that smelled of unfamiliar leather and someone else’s air freshener, was a moving prison. I was in the back, headphones jammed into my ears, the volume cranked so high the bass throbbed against my skull. It was the only way to drown them out. To drown everything out.
My mother sat in the passenger seat, her shoulders shaking with what I assumed were performative sobs. Beside me, Barron sat rigid as a statue, his gaze fixed on the blur of California highway outside the window. He’d tried to talk to me once, just after we’d pulled away from the courthouse.
“Tala…” he’d started, his voice thick.
I’d just turned the music up, the opening chords of a screaming rock anthem serving as my reply. He didn’t try again.
Silence became my weapon. My shield. Every mile we covered was another mile away from Dad, from Nadie, from the scent of sea salt and lemon trees in our backyard. My throat ached with the effort of holding back a scream. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images were burned onto the inside of my eyelids: Dad’s face, that look of utter devastation as they pulled me away; Nadie’s confused tail-wag as the truck door slammed shut.
I thought of last summer, of Dad teaching me how to perfectly catch a wave, his laughter echoing over the crash of the surf. I thought of two months ago, on my birthday, when he’d surprised me with a vintage telescope because I’d mentioned off-hand that I wanted to see the stars better. He always listened. He always saw me.
My mother had sent a text. ‘Happy Birthday, sweetie. Love you.’
Love. The word was a joke coming from her. A sick, twisted punchline. How could she type that word after what she’d done? After choosing him—Richard, the man whose name tasted like ash in my mouth—over her family?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A new text. I didn’t need to look to know who it was from. My fingers trembled as I pulled it out.
Dad: I love you more than all the stars, kiddo. Be strong. I’m already working on it.
A single tear, hot and defiant, escaped and traced a path down my cold cheek. I wiped it away angrily. He was fighting. Of course, he was. But I couldn’t just wait to be rescued. They had declared war on me, on my life. They didn’t get to win.
The cold resolve that had flickered to life in the courtroom now solidified into something hard and heavy in my chest. This wasn’t just about getting back to Dad anymore. This was about retribution. They wanted me in their perfect new life? Fine. I would be the serpent in their Eden. I would be the ghost at their feast. I would be the living, breathing reminder of everything they had destroyed.
My playlist shifted to a darker, more aggressive track. I leaned my head against the window, the vibration of the road a dull hum against my skull. The sun began to set, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple. It was beautiful, and I hated it for being beautiful when my world had ended.
Hours later, the truck finally slowed, turning off the highway and into a neighborhood of sprawling houses and manicured lawns. Each one looked like a perfect dollhouse, a perfect lie.
“We’re here,” Barron whispered, his voice barely audible over my music.
I didn’t acknowledge him. I just stared out the window as we pulled into the driveway of a two-story modern house that looked more like a corporate office than a home. It was all clean lines, glass, and cold, gray stone.
Welcome to hell, I thought, a bitter smile touching my lips for the first time all day. Let the games begin.