Dawn of Forever (Jack & Jill 3)

“Did you kill him?”

He was wrong. The pain that bled from her eyes held as much desperation as AJ’s had possessed. The blood oozing from her hand that stabbed the glass into his shoulder signified her lack of readiness to hear the truth.

“I took away the pain.”

“You murdered him. You’re a fucking murderer!” The napkin from her non-bloodied hand fell on the floor, absorbing the water from the vase. The black words disappeared into blotchy stains. “No! No! No!” Jillian snatched it up, holding her breath as the ink-stained water dripped from the edge.

Jackson watched her fade … watched her die right along with AJ’s last words to her. She’d risen from the grave so many times, but even she had her limits. Would she ever come back from this?

“I hate who I’ve become.” Jackson applied more pressure to his stab wound.

Jillian hugged the napkin to her chest. Silent sobs racked her body.

“I hate our past. I hate not feeling human. And the list of regrets in my life grows more every day. But I will never regret taking AJ’s life.”

“Oh God …” Jillian cried.

He picked her up, wincing as more blood seeped from his shoulder.

“You killed him … why … why … why?”

“To save you,” he whispered in her ear, carrying her to the door. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his sister. If it meant taking all her anger, all her tears, and all her pain, that’s what he would do. Death was AJ’s fate—a painful, undignified, miserable death. His sister couldn’t see past her blinding love. Jackson couldn’t save AJ, no one could, but he could save his sister.

“I hate this world. I hate it so fucking much.” Her voice broke, shattering with each word.

“I know, Jess.”

Jillian looked up at him through puffy eyes. He kissed her forehead. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll always be Jessica to me.”

“Fin de journée,” she whispered.

End of Day.

He didn’t respond. Day—maybe it wasn’t the end.

*

Love and loss became the unbreakable pattern of Jessica and Jillian’s life. She hated her brother for taking something that wasn’t his to take. Maybe she hated herself too. Did her pain overshadow AJ’s? If he would have asked her to take his life, would she have been able to do it? The questions haunted her, but so did the answers.

“Eventually you’re going to have to talk to me again.”

Jillian shoved clothes into a bag.

Jackson sighed, plopping down on her bed. “I should be going with you.”

She stopped, leveling him a death glare for a few seconds before resuming her packing.

“How’s your hand?” His hand pressed to his own shoulder still bandaged from the stitches.

Jillian received fifteen stitches of her own from grasping the glass dagger to stab Jackson two nights earlier.

“Mrs. Baker left me a message that she no longer will be taking lessons from me. Maybe I did overreact.”

Jillian paused again to give him the ya-think? look. Hating Jackson wasn’t easy, but it’s all she had. The anger served as motivation to keep moving, and she needed every ounce of life-propelling effort she could muster to make it to Portland for AJ’s funeral.

What would she tell his family? They believed she’d been with him when he died. The self-imposed silent treatment prevented her from asking Jackson about AJ’s last words. The last words AJ gave her were nothing more than blotchy ink on a blood-stained napkin. How fitting that her entire past be tainted with blood.

She just wanted one decision to be her own. When G.A.I.L. chose to have their fake deaths be suicides, she didn’t have any say in the matter. Leaving Luke behind meant leaving him with the belief that she didn’t love him enough to live for him. He spent almost a year believing she gave up on herself … gave up on them. If only he could have known that he was everything.

Jillian zipped her suitcase and hauled it toward the front door. Feeling a rush of anger, she turned.

“I’m not coming back after the funeral. I need some time alone to figure out if I can forgive you, because right now what you did feels unforgivable. Don’t call me because I won’t answer.” She tossed her phone on the table.

Jackson stared at it, overwhelmed with defeat. They’d been through the unimaginable and survived the un-survivable, but what he did broke a bond that should have been unbreakable.

“The texts?”

She shook her head. “They can come for me and we’ll see who meets their maker first.”

*

The plane headed to Portland, but Africa was her first choice—Africa, the middle of China, Antarctica, or anywhere that qualified as the farthest possible distance from AJ’s dead body, Jackson’s messed-up intentions, and the painful memories of Luke.

Exiting the secured area of the airport, she homed in on a large sign with her name on it held by a middle-aged woman wearing a black pantsuit and dark red hair pulled tightly into a bun. Jillian paused a few seconds as the anxious people behind her brushed past with a few shoulder bumps and bags jolting the one slung over her shoulder. The woman’s eyes surveyed the oncoming storm of people, not stopping on Jillian with any sort of recognition.