After he killed my daughter, he knelt down and begged me for forgiveness

I was inflating a tire at the auto repair shop when my phone buzzed.

A friend request popped up: "Have you made enough of a scene? If you have, come home."

The profile picture was a candid of me performing in Vienna years ago.

Looking at it, I wasn't angry. I laughed.

Five years. To him, these five years were nothing but "making a scene."

He probably thought I was still the Alex Henson who'd come running the moment he crooked his finger.

Even through the screen, I could picture his expression.

I wiped the greasy fingerprint off and tapped Accept.

He replied instantly: "Where are you? I'll come pick you up."

I felt nothing. It was almost funny.

I typed two words: "No need."

The moment it sent, I blocked him and tossed the phone back into the toolbox.

1.

Frank Chavez's voice exploded across the shop floor, mixing with the clang of a wrench hitting sheet metal.

"Alex! Where the hell did you disappear to? This Passat's leaking oil everywhere. If you don't want to work, get out!"

I didn't look up. Just slid under the car.

Oil dripped down the chassis onto my face—warm, sticky.

I wiped it with my sleeve. Grime mixed with sweat, blurring my vision.

This was the "making a scene" Marcus Abbott talked about. This was my five years.

I'd just crawled out when my phone vibrated again.

Chloe Gilbert.

Her voice hit me the second I picked up.

"Alex! Run! That lunatic Marcus has turned Rongcheng upside down—he found out you're at Southside Auto Repair!"

"Those Maybachs are headed your way right now!"

I held the phone away and looked at the black dirt under my nails that wouldn't wash clean.

"Let him look."

"Are you insane?"

Her voice was shaking.

"Back then—wasn't that enough? You want to fall into his hands again?"

"Chloe."

I cut her off, my gaze dropping to my right hand.

A scar ran from the base of my thumb across the back of my hand. My index and middle fingers were stiff, the knuckles swollen and deformed, the fingertips blunt.

Who would believe this hand once played in Vienna's Golden Hall?

"I'm just a mechanic now. Someone with nothing has nothing to fear."

"I'm hanging up. I have work."

I ended the call. The phone buzzed again.

A text from an unknown number.

"Had enough fun? There's a charity banquet tonight. Sophia Pruitt needs a page-turner. You're coming."

Then another.

"Don't be ungrateful. This is your chance to come back. Address sent."

Sophia Pruitt.

That name sent a phantom ache through my dead hand.

Five years ago, she was the one Marcus would brave a blizzard to reach.

I was the one left behind.

I deleted the texts, pocketed my phone, and walked over to Frank.

"Frank, I need the day off."

His eyes bulged, spit flying.

"Day off? How many times this month? If you don't finish this car—"

"Today is my daughter's death anniversary."

He shut up. His gaze swept over my filthy uniform, and he waved his hand.

"Go. Don't be late tomorrow. I'm docking fifty from your attendance bonus."

I went to the locker room, stripped off the oil-stained coveralls, and changed into a denim jacket washed so many times it had faded white.

I rode my scooter west.

The wind cut across my face.

An hour later, I stopped in a stretch of wasteland.