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I nod as I brush my fingertips against my forehead to flick the blonde wisps of hair from my face.
“Everything came rushing back when you were out there that night?”
“The night Nunzio had me hunted like some fucking animal, yes.”
“And you haven’t told Nicoli that you remember?”
I shake my head lightly, and Leandra gets up from the sofa and walks over, her dark hair loosely bouncing over her shoulders, the strands beautifully stark against her white blouse. It’s easy to see how happy she is. Even while there’s sympathy painted all over her face, there’s this glow of contentment in her eyes.
“You have to tell him.”
“I know. It’s just that everyone is already treating me differently. And this…it will make it worse.”
She draws in a deep breath and hugs me. “I’m so sorry you have to go through all this,” she whispers.
My skin crawls with every word of pity and understanding. I hate this part of it all. Everyone’s sympathy. Their commiseration. The cautionary way everyone approaches me like I’m some broken porcelain doll who has been patched up and glued back together. Now, everyone fears that the slightest pressure will cause me to break apart again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to anyone?” she says softly as she leans back, studying me.
“I’m not going to see a therapist, Leandra. I’m fine.”
“It might help you process everything that’s happened.”
“I’m processing it just fine.” I shake my head, feeling a sudden surge of anger. “I don’t need some stranger asking me how I feel about killing someone. It’s done. It’s over.”
“But is it really?” Leandra presses. “What happens when you have nightmares? Or when the guilt overwhelms you?”
“Guilt?” I raise a brow. “You think I feel guilt for killing my brother after finding out he was responsible for our parents' murder? You think I feel guilt for killing men who tried to hurt me, killing to survive?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I feel many things, but I sure as hell don’t feel guilt.”
I inhale sharply as the events of that night out in the woods flash in my head, the vivid images cracked and slashed by visions of Marco’s bashed in head. Two different nights, ten years apart, but there’s one thing they have in common—my bloodied hands.
I glance down at my palms, and it’s like mirror fragments, my mind showing me the reflection of the aftermath—after I slit that hunter’s throat. My hands are coated with his blood, the crimson liquid seeping into the sides of my nails. I can still feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins, forcing my heart to beat impossibly fast.
“Mira?”
I sniff and look up at Leandra’s worried expression.
“Are you okay? I lost you there for a second.”
“I’m fine.” I blink away the memories and brush past her, catching my breath. “I just wish that everyone would stop treating me differently. I’m not broken.”
“No one said you were.”
“Yet everyone is treating me like I am. Maximo can’t even look at me for longer than five fucking seconds.”
“He’s killing himself for not being able to save you.”
“And so is Nicoli. Everyone is walking around like I’m dead. Nunzio might as well have killed me.”
Leandra’s expression flashes with warning. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Well, it’s true. Instead of being happy that I got out of that nightmare alive, they’re all fucking miserable around me, treating me like I’m a ghost of someone they’re mourning.”
Leandra looks at me, her eyes softening. “I get it. But you have to give them time. Especially Nicoli. That man dedicated most of his life to protecting you, and you got hurt, Mirabella. Really…really hurt.”
