"Mom, where are we going?"

My mother's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. Her trembling lips purse into a smile, and she looks back to the road. It is one in the morning, and the headlights of our car wash the empty road in front of us with sickly light.

I am thirteen. My birthday is next week.

"Go back to sleep," she says, and she turns on the radio. Static music begins to play. Just a small town girl . . . living in a lonely world . . .

I miss Louisiana. I miss our neighbourhood. I miss my dad, and my brother, and my friends, and her—

I miss her most of all. The blue-eyed girl.

My best friend.

Why can't I remember her name? Why can't I remember her?

She took the midnight train . . . going anywhere . . .

The car speeds forward, and my stomach clenches. Only twenty minutes ago, I was sleeping, the covers up tight to my chin. My mom yanked the blankets away—frantic. Wild-eyed.

"Jude," she urged. "Come on. We have to go."

"Go where?" I asked sleepily, but I followed her into the car anyway.

I don't know where we're headed. I don't know why she is driving so fast, but I'm scared. I hate our new apartment. I hate school. I hate California.

I want things to go back to the way they were. Back when we lived in Lafayette, with the gunshots outside and Jeremy whining and my dad telling my mom, Don't say the a-word! Ass is a bad word!

And I can't remember her name, but we were friends. Me and the blue-eyed girl. We did everything together—our first time on a bicycle. Our first time learning to swim. Our first sleepover.

"Mom?" I ask again. I can't let myself lean against the window and watch the city blur through the glass. "Where are we going?"

My mom's eyes are dark green. Like mine. And I will always remember this moment—the moment before we crashed.

She smiled, a faint twist of her lips, and whispered so low I could barely hear, "Go back to sleep, Jude."

With a deliberate jerk of her hands on the steering wheel, the car pitched to the side.

And I could finally see where we were. The Sunshine Bridge.

I don't know who screamed. It was probably me.

My mom was still looking ahead, sad, as though she was driving us straight towards our own funerals.

This is for the best.

I don't know if she said that, or if later, I would only imagine it when I replayed the scene in my head. But I hope she said it. I hope she had a reason. I hope she thought she was doing a good thing, because anything else is unbearable.

The car swerved dangerously sideways—the metal clanged against the side door—I saw myself unbuckling my seat belt, lunging for my mom, thinking of the blue waters below, thinking of her—

When the world went black, it was mercy.

I don't know how I survived the crash. I don't know how my mom survived. They say it was a miracle—an angel, maybe.

All I remember is waking up on the side of a rocky shore, spitting water out of my mouth, tasting the bitterness of salt. My hair was damp. My clothes were soaked, caked in mud and sand and blood.

Someone was walking away. Or maybe two people. My vision was blurry.

"Hey," I croaked out. My mom was laying next to me, and there was so much blood on her I thought she was dead. "Wait! Who are you?"

One of them looked back. A woman with summer-and-storm eyes, the same as the little girl's. She only smiled at me, faintly, and when I blinked, they were gone. Making me think that maybe I had imagined it.

Or maybe I had known deep down, even then, who they were.

I would never understand why my mom did it.

When we woke up in the hospital later, it was as though it had never happened. And maybe I had dreamed it—if it weren't for the scars that lace over my ribcage and spine like white strokes of paint.

From that day on, my mom pretended like that night wasn't real.

California wasn't so bad. Except for those damn vicious little dogs.

But I would always wonder why I could never remember much from when we lived in Lafayette, Louisiana. Only the accident. Only my brother and father. Only my mom teaching me karate—things I would need later, to keep myself alive.

And that girl. I knew her.

What was your name? I want to scream. Who are you? Why are you in all my dreams?

But she doesn't answer. She never does.

"The Wolves may be ruthless, heartless criminals, but we do have honor." Hunter steps off onto the 50th floor, showing me the way into a labyrinth of pure-black marble corridors. "And this is where we remember all the former leaders."

Along the walls, there is a deep-built space where small objects are laid reverently a few feet away from each other. I count ten in total.

One is an small, metallic earth globe. A tiny dancing figure. A glass butterfly. A silver ring. In front of each object, there are words engraved.

My fingertips grave reverently over the cut marble. James Angelo. Vito Magusara. Lorenzo Adler. Jones Sun-Tsu. Ryder Easton. Mary Chopin. Anise Easton.

My eyes catch on the last names: Ryder Easton, Mary Chopin, and Anise Easton.

Ryder must be Hunter's father. And Easton━that must be their last name. It occurs to me I never knew Hunter's surname.

In front of Ryder sits a small rock veined with gold. I wonder what that means.

But the space behind Anise's names is empty.

"She hasn't chosen something yet," Hunter explains. "When she steps down, she will."

And finally, I gather up the courage to look at my mother's name.

Mary Chopin. My fingers sketch out the precise lettering, and I think of my mom's dark green eyes, flashing as she whispered, "Go back to sleep, Jude."

Who was she? Did I ever really know her?

The object behind her name is something small. Simple. I pick it up, and Hunter's jaw twitches, as though she is holding herself back from telling me I shouldn't. But I can't help myself: I curl my fingers around it━a flashlight━and wonder, What the hell is this?

Out of everything she could have picked . . . something cool, like a knife or a glass butterfly or a damn ring . . . she picked a flashlight.

I don't get it. Maybe I never really knew her at all.

The flashlight is black, small. I click it on, and a burst of violet light dances over the marble countertops. And, to top it off, it's not even white. It seems like . . . a toy, almost.

Maybe this is disrespectful to her memory. I don't care.

The anger starts inside of me, a slow burn. Why didn't she tell me anything? Why did she take me halfway across the country after the accident? Why has she been lying to me for my entire life?

Did she think I couldn't handle it? I'm her daughter. I'm eighteen━my entire life, I've listened to her. I went to the stupid Toulouse University because of her. I am here, right now, in this mess, because of her.

And maybe it's irrational. Maybe it's fucking crazy. But I can't help blaming her for getting herself killed. She could have told me. I don't know if I could have protected her, but I could have tried.

I didn't have to go into this blind. And now I'm here, in the Underground, with this girl and this knowledge and I asked for not a single fucking part of it.

My grip on the flashlight becomes tighter.

"Jude," Hunter warns.

I shouldn't be mad at my mom. I should be mad at the Saints. I should be mad at the feud between the gangs.

But I feel so blindsided.

"She didn't tell me anything," I say.

Gently, Hunter says, "Maybe she was trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" I scoff. "Fine fucking job she's done. I walked myself right into the Underground. I practically knocked on the Wolves' door. You know what, I was basically begging you. Oh, look, I'm a stranger! Come kidnap me! Maybe I'm a spy! Be suspicious of me!"

"She gave you the skills to protect yourself. You're a fighter, Jude."

Even as the words make my blood run electric, all I can feel is rage. "Yeah," I say bitterly. "I'm a fighter. That's why I had to run away from━"

From Derek and Emilie and Reid.

I manage to cut myself off in time. But judging from the look on Hunter's face, it's too late.

Slowly, and very, very coldly, she says, "Who did you have to run away from?"

As though she will set the world on fire. As though she will burn bridges and crumble mountains.

But as much as I am hurting, as much as I am furious, I can't let myself tell her. I can't bring myself to let her handle this. I can fight my own fights and yet━

And yet, I don't want to tell her because I want her to destroy them. (Although I do want that. Deeply.) But I want to tell her for the sake of telling her━because she is the only person here I know. Who I can trust.

And it's crazy. I know that. Because she betrayed me once━she led me into that interrogation room. She could do it again.

But I don't think she will. And that terrifies me.

How can I trust her? How can I have faith in her?

Because, Jude, you like the way she laughs, almost grudgingly, like she doesn't want to admit she's happy. You like the tattoos on her skin, and you want to ask her what they mean. Because if you don't create art, you can appreciate it. And she━she━is art. You like the way she looks when she's concentrating, and when she plays chess, you're captivated. And you're not even the only one━the audience is watching her, not the old Russian grandmaster, even if she doesn't know it. Because there is something about her that's intoxicating. A combination of wicked and fierce and arrogant, something that calls to you.

She has secrets, but so do you.

Yes, Jude, you trust her.

I slam the flashlight into the marble. Hating this. Hating what my mom never told me. Hating myself. Because how could I have let this happen? How could I have let myself trust a Mafia member? The Alpha's second-in-command?

"Give me a moment," I say. "Please."

She searches my face, and whatever she sees in me, she nods. Her sharp jaw tenses, and she opens her mouth. My eyes drift to her lips━soft and lush, and I remember the taste of them from last night.

But she only nods. "I'll be back in the room." She pauses. "I'll wait for you."

"Thank you," I whisper, and I mean it. I need the time to process this alone.

I need to think.

Because my mom . . . my mom was the Alpha. At one point in her life, back when we lived in New Orleans, my mom was the Alpha.

I handled it, Darrell.

She didn't only handle it. She was behind all of it. She was in charge of the whole goddamn Mafia━she was the leader of the Wolves.

At one point, my mother was the queen of the Underground.

And Anise knew it. That bitch━she knew it, and she didn't tell me. She knew why the Saints would want my mom dead.

But what she said is still bothering me. Your past is so heavily tied with the Saints.

Why would she say that if my mom had been the Alpha? If my mom was a part of the Wolves herself, the Saints were her enemies. What reason could Anise possibly have to be suspicious of me? Why wouldn't she welcome me━or at least leave me alone?

Something still isn't adding up. In the empty corridor of the labyrinthine floor, I lean against the marble. It is cold beneath my palms, and a chill creeps through me.

Someone is watching you.

I tell the voice to shut up. Hunter is gone. She trusted me enough to leave me here on my own. There is no one else here. It's just me and my thoughts, my fury.

But the sense of wrongness stays.

And when I turn around, I figure out why.

Émilie is standing behind me, silhouetted in dim light, and there is a malicious━triumphant━smile on her face.

I only have to look down to understand why. At the knife in her hand.

We are alone here. And I don't know the way out.

"Little lamb, little lamb," she purrs. "Did you think you could escape so easily?"

>>>

I'm currently praying for Jude.

From the moon and back,
Sarai