Page 105 of The Bratva Sinner

No. They wouldn’t waste the money. She didn’t know anyone. I was the only person in this whole world who loved her.

"Thank you." It's inadequate, but I don't have a better word.

“You’re welcome. I have to go. I’ll try to be home early.” And then he kisses me goodbye.

He's never done that before. Just a quick press of his mouth to my temple before he walks out. It's the most ordinary thing in the world.

I sit there holding my mother's photograph long after I hear the front door close.

I go to the stables because I don't know what else to do with my feelings. My skin is too tight, and my legs are too heavy.

Outlaw watches me come in with her ears forward. She will be my salvation. She’ll help me run from the pain that’s moving in like a big, black cloud.

I get her saddled without a fight. I tell Gus I'm going out along the property line. Even though I’ll be on Maksim’s property, I can’t go alone. I’m not mad about it. I’ve accepted that I need the protection.

It’s humid, and I’d welcome the rain. Outlaw settles into a steady walk along the fence line. I wouldn’t call her an easy rider just yet, but we’re making progress. I let her pick the pace. My hands are loose on the reins. I think she appreciates that. We've been figuring each other out. She doesn't like to be pushed, and neither do I.

The picture is in my back pocket. I’ve already committed it to memory, but that image is not enough to push out the images of her final moments.

I don’t know if I will ever be able to erase those memories.

And knowing what I do now, the guilt is overwhelming.

I used to be angry about moving around. Mr. Hadley’s ranch was the longest I'd ever stayed anywhere. It was a horrible home. The trailer was awful. We kept it clean, but I knew that one day, a tornado would whip through there and take us with it.

I think about the room we rented in a house full of men. Mom would lock me in the room and make me promise not to leave unless she was with me.

We had a studio apartment that was infested with cockroaches. We shared a single mattress on the floor there. I was young enough that it didn’t matter too much, but I knew we weren’t normal. I knew we were supposed to eat hot meals and have running water.

I didn't understand then, but I do now.

She was keeping me alive. It was survival. When I went to bed without dinner and she apologized, I always told her I wasn’t hungry.

Outlaw flicks her ear, and I realize I've tightened my hands on the reins without meaning to. I loosen them again, and she blows a long breath through her nose like she's being patient with me.

There’s a clearing I’ve visited before. I dismount and loop Outlaw’s reins over a low branch. The ground is damp, but I don’t care.

I flop down under a tree, praying a snake doesn’t drop on my head. Something drops onto my thigh. I look down to see a wet spot. I look up to see if it’s raining.

Another drop.

That’s when I realize I’m crying.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears. They keep coming, faster now, hot and relentless.

“Mama,” I whisper to the empty clearing.

And then, it all comes crashing down.

The sob that tears out of me is raw and ugly, and I can’t stop it. My chest heaves, and my body shakes with the force of it. I curl forward, wrap my arms around my knees, and let myself break.

My chest feels like it’s been cleaved in half. The physical pain of my grief would have taken me to my knees if I hadn’t already been down.

I see her face. Not the happy woman in the photograph, but the woman tied to the chair. The woman who tried to tell me to run. The woman who died because she loved me enough to take me away from the monster my father sold me to.

She ran for years. Shitty apartments and empty stomachs and moving in the middle of the night. Years of never letting me get too comfortable anywhere because we might have to leave tomorrow.

God, I hated her for it.