Starting again.
Copyright © 2025 by T.K. Wright
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Present Day
“Start from the beginning, Reva. The very beginning.”
Dr. Edward’s voice stays perfectly calm and professional, but every syllable feels like a blade pressed against my skin. The name Reva used to feel like protection, a shield we built to survive. Now, it sounds like the echo of every lie I have been forced to live.
I sit stiffly in the armchair, my hands clenched in my lap. My nails dig deep crescents into my palms. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall in front of him. I want to scream until my throat is raw. I want to shatter the tasteful, serene art in this carefully arranged room. Instead, I remain frozen in place while my entire world continues to unravel.
“How could I not have known?” The words scrape out of me, hoarse and broken.
Sunlight streams through the tall windows, warming the cream-colored walls. It is an atmosphere meant to feel safe, but to me, it feels like a sterile stage where my life is about to be dissected piece by piece.
I draw in a shaky breath and anchor myself to the past.
“We had been driving for hours. My ribs still ached from the fall, and I felt strangely detached from my own body. That was only the beginning.”
One Year Earlier
The highway stretches ahead in long ribbons of green and gold, sunlight flickering through the windshield like a warning. An upbeat indie pop song plays through the speakers, completely at odds with the heavy knot twisting tighter in my stomach. On paper, this road trip looks like a fresh start. In reality, nothing about my life has ever been simple.
Ozzy hangs his head out of the open window beside me. His tongue lolls happily, and his ears flap wildly in the wind. He is the one bright spot in all of this. I rescued him from a ditch outside Tacoma a year ago, but most days it feels like he rescued me right back.
“Pass me a water, Reva,” Marta asks. Her eyes remain fixed on the road, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I lean forward and reach behind her seat for the cooler. As my fingers brush the cool plastic, a small, folded receipt slips from her jacket pocket and lands on the seat between us. I unfold it carefully. It is a pharmacy receipt for Temazepam.
My chest instantly tightens. I know what that is. It is a heavy-duty, prescription-grade sleeping pill.
I look at Marta’s sharp profile, a familiar ache of worry settling in. Marta spent the first year as my legal guardian drowning in vodka and downing pills just to function. She swore she was sober now. She promised me she was doing better. I love my aunt fiercely; she is the only family I have left in the world, the woman who dropped everything to protect me, but the signs of her slipping back into her old habits terrify me. I fold the receipt and quietly slip it back into her pocket before she notices. I don’t want to start a fight while she’s driving, but I silently vow to keep a closer eye on her.
A massive, sun-bleached sign appears on the horizon. Welcome to Garden City.
Another town. Another name. Another carefully constructed life.
“This is it,” Marta murmurs. Her phone glows faintly in the cup holder. “We are three minutes away.”
Three minutes until we start over. Again.
My mind drifts back to that night last summer, the way it always did when the road grew too quiet.
I could not sleep. Marta’s special tea sat heavy in my stomach, but the nightmares refused to leave me alone. I crept downstairs for water. I wore my hoodie pulled tight and socks that slid silently across the floor. I clutched a guitar pick in my fist like a lucky charm.
Marta’s door stood slightly ajar. Low voices drifted out. Spanish and furious.
“Lucien, I told you the girl does not have the ledger.”
I froze on the landing. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“I just want what is mine,” a man snarled.
My sock caught on the edge of the rug. I pitched forward.
Hands grabbed me. They were not trying to catch me. They pushed me.
The world flipped end over end.
My shoulder slammed into the third step. My ribs cracked against the bannister. My temple smashed into the newel post. Then everything went black.
I woke on a moving train. My head throbbed violently, and my ribs were wrapped so tightly that I could barely breathe. Marta sat beside me. Her blouse was stained with my blood. She pressed an ice pack gently to my temple.
“Shh. Do not move,” she whispered. Her voice shook. “Lucien’s men broke in. He pushed you. I fought them off. We are heading toward the border by dawn.”
The story never felt right. I remembered the push. It had been deliberate and violent. Why had we not called the police? Why another midnight train instead of safety?
We pull onto a quiet, tree-lined street. The house is two stories of red brick, half-hidden behind curling ivy. A tall fence wraps the yard like a secret kept close. Marta unlocks the front door and pushes it open.
Inside, the air smells of fresh paint and wildflowers. Ozzy shoots past us, his claws clicking against the hardwood as he claims the backyard immediately.
“This is yours,” Marta announces. She gestures toward the largest bedroom at the end of the hall. It has a walk-in closet, a private bathroom, and a huge window that spills late afternoon light across the floor.
“It is beautiful,” I say, forcing a grateful smile. “Thank you, Marta. Really.”
This is our sixth move in three years. I have almost nothing to unpack. Just clothes, some journals, my keyboard, and the custom guitar my father gave me on my thirteenth birthday. I set the guitar case on the bed and ran my fingers over the polished leather. It is my most prized possession, the only tangible piece of my dad I have left to hold onto. I miss him and Mom so much my chest physically aches.
Starting Monday, I will walk into North Shore High as a senior. My only plan is to stay invisible, keep Marta sane, and survive the year.
Miles away, beneath the sickly glow of a broken streetlight, a man in a tailored black coat pulls a photograph from his pocket. It shows a girl with striking blue eyes and dark hair. He tucks the photo away, slides a revolver into his jacket, and waits.
