2026-01-03 22:06:37
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BURY THEM ALIVE
Ava didn't believe it at first.She was sitting in that condemned apartment when Grayson walked in with Marcus Jr., and her face went through about six different expressions in two seconds. Shock. Confusion. Disbelief. Hope. Fear that she was hallucinating."Marcus?"The kid ran to her. Ten years old and still small enough to throw himself into his mom's lap, wheelchair and all. They both started crying. Just holding each other. Making sounds that weren't quite words.Grayson stood back. Watching. Feeling something crack open in his chest that had been locked tight for months."You remembered me?" Ava kept asking. "You remembered?""I never forgot." Marcus Jr.'s voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Just pretended. Had to pretend or Miranda would've known.""How did you—""She's smart but not perfect." The kid pulled back. Wiped his eyes. Trying to be tough even though he was still shaking. "I studied her. Learned what she wanted to see. Acted like I was brainwashed. Said her name
PLANNING TO KILL
The hardest part about planning to kill someone wasn't the mechanics. It was living with yourself after.Grayson had killed before. Combat. Self-defense. War. But this was different. This was premeditated murder. Walking into a prison with the specific intention of ending a life.Rebecca had access. She visited her father monthly. Some court-ordered family connection thing they made her do even though Carter was serving life. She'd been bringing him books. Magazines. Little treats that made prison slightly less horrible.This month she'd bring poisoned medicine."He has a heart condition," she explained. Clinical. Detached. Like discussing someone else's father. "Takes medication daily. Brings it with him from medical. I can swap it. Slow-acting poison. Untraceable after seventy-two hours. He dies of heart attack and nobody questions it."Fourteen years old explaining how to murder her dad.Grayson had bought credentials. Fake ones. Prison staff ID. Guard uniform. Background that woul
TELL ME EVERYTHING!
Grayson stumbled through the door at three in the morning looking like he'd been through a war. Which, technically, he had.Ava was still awake. She'd been awake since he left, sitting in that damn wheelchair by the window, watching the street below like somehow she'd see him coming back. When the door opened she spun around so fast the wheels squeaked."He didn't know me." Grayson's voice came out flat. Dead. "Marcus Jr. looked right at me and didn't know who I was.""Maybe he was—""He turned me in, Ava. Pulled the alarm. Called the guards. My own son sold me out without hesitating."Ava's face did something complicated. Like she was trying to process information her brain refused to accept. "But he's ten. He has to remember—""He doesn't. Or he does and just doesn't care anymore. Either way, our son's gone. Miranda won."They sat there in silence for a while. What else was there to say? They'd tried everything. Lost everything. Ava was paralyzed. Marcus Jr. was brainwashed. The whol
I DON'T KNOW YOU
Six months changed everything.Marcus Jr.—he called himself Marcus Reed now—sat in the language lab practicing Arabic. His tutor said he had an ear for it. Natural talent. Already conversational after six months of intensive study.The compound had become home. He knew every hallway. Every room. Every guard by name. This wasn't prison anymore. Just where he lived.Miranda had been true to her word. No torture. No threats. Just opportunity. Training. Education. Everything a kid could want if the kid was being raised to be a weapon.Combat skills had improved drastically. He could disassemble and reassemble six different firearms blindfolded. Could execute hand-to-hand techniques that would injure adults. Could run tactical scenarios that most soldiers would struggle with."What's your name?" Miranda asked during one of their daily sessions."Marcus Reed.""And before?""I don't remember." That was a lie. He remembered. Remembered being Marcus Kane Jr. Remembered his parents. Remembered
DESPERATE
Six weeks later, Marcus Jr. still couldn't quite believe the food.Real meals. Three times a day. Hot. Prepared by an actual chef. Steak. Pasta. Vegetables that didn't come from cans. Dessert. The first week he'd eaten until he was sick because his body wasn't used to having enough.Miranda watched him eat breakfast—eggs, bacon, fresh fruit—and smiled. "Better than what your parents gave you?"Marcus Jr. didn't answer. But yeah. It was better. The past year he'd been eating whatever they could scrounge. Dumpster food sometimes. Donated meals from shelters. Nothing like this."You've gained seven pounds," Miranda said. "Healthy weight. Growing boy needs nutrition."The apartment—he refused to call it a room—had everything. Big TV with every streaming service. Video games. Books. A computer with internet access (monitored, obviously, but still). A bathroom that was bigger than most places they'd stayed.His parents had made him live in abandoned buildings. Sleep in cars. Wear secondhand
I WANT MY PARENTS
Ava wasn't moving.She lay on the cold warehouse floor with blood pooling around her torso, and she wasn't moving. Her chest rose and fell—barely—but that was it. Just shallow breaths. The kind that said dying.Grayson fought against the guards holding him. Didn't care about broken bones or torn muscles. His wife was bleeding out ten feet away and he couldn't reach her."Ava! AVA!"She didn't respond. Might not have even heard him.Marcus Jr. had gone completely still. Not crying anymore. Just staring at his mother with eyes too old for a nine-year-old. He'd seen people die before. Knew what it looked like.Emma was still crying. Sobbing. Traumatized by violence she'd never imagined existed. She'd thought getting kidnapped was the worst thing that could happen. Then she'd watched a woman get shot. Now she was breaking apart in a way that would take years of therapy to maybe fix.Miranda holstered her gun. "Hospital's about ten minutes from here. Fast ambulance could get her there in t
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