Chapter Two
Knight
Jackson Knight made one call to set everything into motion.
“Dodge, it’s Jackson Knight. Sorry to disturb you on Thanksgiving, but I have some bad news …”
AJ’s head rested against the PT Cruiser window. It felt as cold as the voice outlining the events of his death … only he wasn’t dead—yet.
He died in his sleep. Jillian found him. The body was taken from his house to prepare for transport back to Portland.
The car slowed as the hum of pavement turned to crunching gravel beneath the tires. Jackson cut the engine.
Silence.
AJ blinked open his eyes.
Nothing.
“W-w-where a-are we?” The option of dying with dignity no longer existed.
“The end of the road.”
AJ nodded.
“S-she’ll h-a-a-te you.”
The lack of Jackson’s response confirmed it. Jillian would hate them both.
“You can’t keep anything down, so I can’t really offer you a last meal. Do you have any other last requests?”
When Cage flew to Portland for the weekend, AJ said his final goodbye. Neither of them acknowledged it was the last goodbye, but when his college quarterback son clung to him with the desperation of a five-year-old boy, the tears said all that needed to be said.
Life is not fair.
I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
I love you.
His father would understand. His mother would not, and neither would Brooke. Women were built to nurture and carry hope beyond all reason. Even Jillian, with her ironclad heart, succumbed to her own vulnerability when she begged him to go back to Portland with her. In that moment she was no longer his real. If he were honest with himself, he lost that Jillian on a private jet from Houston to Omaha. She died in his arms that day, but he didn’t know why.
“Ji-Jillian. I w-want … to k-know.”
“Know what?”
“Ever-ev-er-ything.”
“Everything?” Jackson grunted a laugh. “If I tell you everything, there’s no going back. Right now, you could ask me to take you back to her and I would. Once I start this story, the only way it will end is with you dying. Understood?”
AJ married the first woman he truly loved. Minutes after Brooke gave birth to their son, he watched Cage’s tiny fingers wrap around his pinky finger, claiming his heart. He took a bullet for a comrade on the battlefield, serving his country with pride. Fuck the PTSD. AJ lived a good life. A life that ended with the love of a woman who took him in a show-me-your-worst-and-I’ll-love-you-even-more way.
“Un-der-stood.” He closed his eyes and never opened them again.
“Her name was Jessica Mauve Day, born and raised in San Francisco—daughter to Grant and Sunny, sister to Jude. She has elite tactical and self-defense skills. At seventeen, she and her best friend were kidnapped by a serial killer. Her friend died from forty-four slashes to her flesh, the final one to her femoral artery. Jessica survived because that’s what she is … the ultimate survivor. One of the kidnappers died from forty-four slashes to his flesh, the final one to his femoral artery. The other kidnapper died at a rest stop in Wyoming several months ago from a broken neck, but the official report called it heart failure. Can you guess who killed them?”
AJ had no more to say.
“She fell in love with her psychiatrist and they lived together with their dog until our parents were killed last year. Our father was an undercover DEA agent until someone blew his cover. As a result, Jessica and Jude had to die too, so that Jillian and Jackson could live. She’s fucked-up in ways I don’t think anyone will completely understand. But if I’m honest, all she’s ever really wanted is a sense of normalcy and someone to love.”
Silence.
Pain.
Regret.
Then … nothing.
*
One.
Jude Day took the lives of twenty-three people. Jackson Knight killed one man—a mercy killing. After Jillian killed Trigger, Jackson swore he’d never let his sister take another life. AJ would have asked her to take his. Pain makes a person desperate, and Jackson had never seen so much pain bleed from one man.
She would hate him. He would accept it. They would survive. It’s who they were.
A single candle flickered on AJ’s dining room table. Jackson stepped over the shards of glass and scattered roses in a pool of water on the floor, the wall still wet from impact.
“If you touch me … I. Will. Kill. You.” Jillian’s hoarse voice ripped through the silence.
He stood over her. She hugged the cloth napkin to her chest, body curled into fetal position on the floor.
“Then you’re just going to have to kill me.” He bent down to pick her up.
A stabbing pain stopped his motion. Wrath-filled eyes narrowed at him. Jackson grabbed her wrist—her bloodied hand still gripping the long dagger of glass lodged into his shoulder.
“When did cutting become your thing again?” Jackson seethed, squeezing her arm until she winced, releasing the glass. He wadded the front of his shirt to grab it, then pulled it from his shoulder with a grunt.