Page 215 of Victorious

Syd drove the spade down into the soil and started digging.

They worked together, one of her and four of him, making their way down to the empty wooden box. Each scoop of earth she moved dislodged a memory.

Victor, standing on the side of the road in the rain.

Victor, vowing to hurt anyone before they could hurt her.

Victor, waiting up for her to get home safe.

Victor, who also slit Serena’s throat.

Victor, who lied, and left, and broke Syd’s heart.

Victor, who came back, even though it killed him.

Victor, who wasn’t—had never been, would never be—a hero.

And had still managed to be hers.

Too soon, the spade hit wood.

One Mitch pried the lid off the empty coffin, while another lowered Victor down, settling his limbs inside the narrow box.

Syd stayed where she was, knuckles white on the shovel, because she didn’t trust her hands. Because, even now, she wanted to climb down into the grave, place her palms on Victor’s chest, and drag him back.

She wanted to.

But she didn’t.

Because she understood, it was time to let him go.

XVINOW. THEN.

THREE YEARS LATER

MITCHELL Turner had always had bad luck.

He used to think it would follow him to his grave. Maybe it had.

But so far, it hadn’t followed him back.

He stood, wiping the counter at the Turn Around, so-called more because the diner had been falling into disrepair when he first purchased it, and less as a nod to his own name, despite Sydney’s accusations.

The locals were impressed by how fast he’d whipped the building into shape, not knowing he had help. It turned out, four hands were better than two, and eight were better than four, and so on. It was still weird, being able to divide and conquer.

Or maybe it was weird that it didn’t feel weirder.

The weirdest thing, after so long on the run, was learning that he could stand still.

That it was okay if people noticed Mitch.

He’d always stood out.

But for the first time, it wasn’t a bad thing.

People seemed to like the big guy behind the counter, with a towel slung over one shoulder, and tattoos peeking out, the size and shape of him at odds with the cheerful air, the smell of fresh-baked pie. Dol helped, his long rear legs stuck out from a corner booth, where he was sleeping beneath the table.

Everyone liked the dog.