Chicago, Illinois – 9:30 AM CST
JESSICA
In the middle of a high-end boutique, Jessica moved through the controlled chaos of business with practiced ease. The perfume of expensive products lingered in the air as she stood behind the counter, restocking shelves of premium makeup. The soft hum of conversation and the clink of credit cards in card readers filled the space around her. Customers came and went, their voices blending into the background as they browsed, checked prices, and requested consultations.
Jessica was used to the buzz. Working as a makeup clerk at one of Chicago's trendiest boutiques wasn't her dream job, but it was something. It gave her structure, something to focus on—something to keep her mind from wandering too much. She brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and scanned the room, her sharp blue eyes taking in the familiar scene. Expensive foundations, highlighters, and the like glistened under the warm lights, a reflection of the polished world she found herself navigating.
Being a makeup clerk was a blessing as it gave Jessica insights into what products worked best for different skin types, flaws, and more. But makeup had its limits. It could cover the scars and insecurities people yearned to hide, but what lay beneath always remained.
Jessica hated how much she relied on the mask she created each morning. The process of layering foundation over her skin wasn't just about beauty—it was about survival. She hated the way her natural beauty, once her pride, had been sacrificed to the trauma she endured. Every morning in front of the mirror, the scars on her face and neck stared back at her, mocking her attempts to hide them. They were a permanent reminder of the night she had almost died.
That night haunted her every waking moment. Falling forty feet into the mines should have killed her. The elevator shaft had been her undoing—a tumble through cold darkness that left her unconscious, battered, and barely breathing. Her body had been bruised and broken, covered in scrapes, deep gashes, and angry purple welts.
When the rescue team pulled her out of the helicopter to the police station- and the hospital afterward, Jessica had been hanging by a thread. The doctors said she had suffered a fractured wrist, broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. Her body was so battered that she had needed weeks of hospitalization just to stabilize.
When her family arrived at the hospital, the sight of Jessica was enough to shatter them. Her two older brothers, Marcus and Ryan, were visibly shaken. Marcus, the hothead, had stood frozen in the doorway, fists clenched at his sides. Ryan, ever the calm one, held him back, but even he couldn't hide the tears glistening in his eyes.
Claire, her older sister, was usually the composed one. The perfectionist. But seeing Jessica like that broke her. She had sat beside Jessica's bed, holding her hand like her life depended on it. Ethan, her youngest brother, could barely bring himself to look at her.
"Jessica..." Marcus had whispered, his voice cracking, "What the hell happened to you?"
Jessica couldn't answer. She was too weak, her voice too broken. The pain had stolen her words, and her memories were clouded by shock and fear.
As she healed, the questions began. Her family wanted to know everything, but how could she explain something so unexplainable? She tried—she really did. But the words never came out right.
"I was dragged from the guest cabin," she told them. "Something grabbed me... something not human."
Her mother had stared at her, her face a mixture of concern and confusion. "Not human? Jess, are you sure you weren't hallucinating? You said you hit your head..."
"No, Mom. I know what I saw," Jessica snapped, frustration bubbling beneath her surface.
But no one believed her. Not fully. Her family chalked it up to trauma-induced delusions. They dismissed her descriptions of the creature—the Wendigo—as nightmares brought on by stress.
"You were scared, Jess," Ryan had said gently. "Your mind played tricks on you. It's okay."
But it wasn't okay. Jessica felt trapped, her truth dismissed by the people who were supposed to love and believe her the most.
Her therapist was no better. The court-appointed sessions started as soon as she was stable enough to leave the hospital. Jessica sat in cold, sterile rooms with well-meaning doctors who nodded and took notes but never really understood.
She'd been diagnosed with PTSD, which was no surprise. The panic attacks, the nightmares, the constant fear—they were her constant companions. The therapy sessions were grueling. Each week, they peeled back the layers of her trauma, forcing her to relive that night in vivid detail.
She hated every second of it. She hated the pity in her therapist's eyes, the endless questions, the way they told her to "process her feelings." What did they know about surviving the impossible?
The medications were another battle. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills, sleep aids—Jessica had been prescribed them all. Some helped, others didn't. Some left her feeling numb, disconnected from herself and the world around her. But she took them anyway because the alternative was worse.
There were nights when she would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, the memory of the Wendigo's claws scraping her skin vivid in her mind. She would claw at her neck, convinced she could still feel its grip. Mike would rush to her side, holding her until she calmed down. But even his presence couldn't chase the shadows away completely.
Jessica hated how much she relied on Mike. She hated how attached she had become, how desperately she clung to him. It wasn't who she used to be.
Before the mountain, Jessica had been the confident, carefree girl everyone admired. She was the queen bee, the center of attention. But now? Now she was someone else entirely. The trauma had stripped her down to her most vulnerable self, and she despised it.
After the mountain, she'd clung to Mike like a lifeline. He'd saved her, chased her through that snowstorm with nothing but a shotgun and his sheer determination, wearing just a wife beater and jeans. He'd faced the Wendigo that had dragged her away, yanking her from their expected sexcapade and into a nightmare. Fucking cockblocker. She often thought about how ridiculous the scene would have seemed in any other situation. But nothing about that night was funny.
Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she wondered if Mike stayed because he loved her or because he pitied her. She couldn't tell anymore.
Even their intimacy had changed. The physical connection that once came so easily now felt strained. Their moments together were either too much or not enough, leaving Jessica feeling insecure and unsatisfied. It wasn't Mike's fault—he tried his best—but it was as if the shadow of the mountain lingered between them, a barrier they couldn't break through.
And the guilt. God, the guilt was the worst of it.
Jessica had been the mastermind behind the prank that led to Hannah's humiliation.
She'd been the one who started it all. If she could go back, she would change everything. She'd never have gone along with it. Never have pushed Hannah into that vulnerable, heartbreaking position.
Maybe then, her scars wouldn't haunt her every day. Maybe then, she wouldn't feel like her mind was breaking apart. Maybe then, she wouldn't need Mike so damn much.
But she did.
As she stood in the boutique, surrounded by the polished facade of beauty and luxury, Jessica couldn't help but feel like a fraud. No amount of makeup could hide the scars she carried—not the ones on her body, and certainly not the ones in her mind.
Her family still didn't understand. Her therapist couldn't fix her. Even Mike, the one person who had been through it all with her, couldn't fully pull her out of the darkness.
But Jessica kept going. She plastered on her best smile, blended her foundation to perfection, and faced the world head-on. Because that's what survivors did. Even when they felt like they were barely surviving at all.
Portland, Oregon – 11:35 AM
CHRIS
Chris lugged the bags of groceries up the narrow stairwell of his apartment complex, the plastic handles biting into his fingers. Each step felt heavier, not just from the weight of the bags but from the weight of the news that had shattered his plans for the day. The mundane task of putting away groceries now seemed absurdly trivial in the face of what he had just learned.
Josh had been released.
He replayed the conversation with Sam in his head for the hundredth time. Her voice had been steady, but he could hear the undercurrent of disbelief, maybe even fear, behind her words.
"Chris, he's out."
At first, Chris had laughed nervously, sure that Sam was messing with him. It wasn't her style, but even Sam had to have a breaking point, right? Maybe this was her way of lightening the mood, trying to bring some dark humor into their endless grief.
"Nice one, Sammy. Real original," he had said, gripping the wheel of his Ford Fusion as he navigated the rainy streets of Portland.
But the silence on the other end had stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Chris, I'm serious. Josh was released this morning. It's all over the news."
His laughter had died instantly. Sam wasn't a prankster—never had been. If anything, she was the moral compass of their group, the one who kept her head straight when everything else fell apart. And Sam was a terrible liar.
"You're not joking..." he had whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain hitting his windshield.
"No," she had replied.
The reality of her words hit him like a truck. Literally. He had swerved off the road without thinking, his tires screeching as he pulled onto the shoulder just in time to avoid colliding with an 18-wheeler. The truck's horn blared angrily, a sound that seemed to rattle his very soul.
Chris had barely registered the noise. He muttered an apology out loud as if the truck driver could hear him, but the vehicle was already a blur in the distance.
After composing himself, Chris leaned back in his car seat, his breath coming out in slow, shaky waves. The gravity of Sam's words lingered like a weight pressing down on his chest. Josh. Released. After everything.
Three years, Chris thought, staring out at the passing cars. That's all it took for them to let him go? After everything that happened?
The reality of it was overwhelming. It wasn't anger exactly, though that simmered under the surface. It was confusion. Concern. A gnawing sense of responsibility that he couldn't quite place. Chris rubbed a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as he tried to steady himself.
During his call with Sam, it had all spilled out—his attempt to make sense of it, to explain why the idea of Josh being released so soon felt so wrong.
"I just don't get it, Sam," he had said, his voice measured but heavy. "He didn't just lose it one day. What he did? That wasn't some spur-of-the-moment breakdown. It was planned. All of it was planned. The traps, the fake deaths, the torture... I mean, he chased you with a gas tank and captured you. And now he's... he's just better?"
Sam's silence on the other end of the line had been deafening, but Chris hadn't stopped. He couldn't.
"He abused us—physically, mentally, emotionally. He made us believe we were going to die, Sam. Hell, he made some of us turn on each other. And for what? To teach us a lesson? To grieve? It wasn't just grief, Sam. That was... something darker. And now we're supposed to believe it's just fixed?"
Sam had finally spoken then, her voice quieter but no less resolute. "It doesn't make sense to me either. It's too soon."
Chris had nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Too soon," he echoed. "Way too soon. And it's not just about us. What happens if he spirals again? What happens if he pulls this shit on someone else? I mean, sure, they'll keep tabs on him for a while, but what happens when they stop watching? When they think he's fine enough to be left alone?"
"Then it's on us to make sure that doesn't happen," Sam had said after a pause, though her voice carried a weight that told Chris she wasn't entirely convinced either.
Chris trudged up the stairs of his apartment complex, the weight of the news from Sam pressing heavily on his chest. Each step felt harder than the last, his mind spinning with a tangle of thoughts he couldn't untangle. Josh being released wasn't just a headline. It wasn't something he could shrug off or file away as someone else's problem. It was real. Immediate. And for Chris, it wasn't just the fact of Josh's release that had his heart pounding—it was the people who would have to face that reality alongside him.
At the forefront of his mind was one person in particular: the woman he'd wanted to be with since high school. Ashley.
She was the one who always lingered in his thoughts, the one who had been his anchor on the mountain, and the one he'd tried so hard to support when everything fell apart afterward. But that support had been tested. Ashley had her own struggles, her own traumas, and while she'd come a long way, there were parts of her past that neither of them could forget.
Reaching the apartment door, Chris paused for a moment, his fingers brushing over the key in his hand. His fear wasn't just about the news—it was about Ashley. Her reaction. How she might spiral. Josh's release was a ticking time bomb, and he wasn't sure if either of them was ready for the fallout.
Chris unlocked the door and stepped inside, the faint beige walls of the apartment greeting him like an old friend. His vintage-style furniture—a mix of thrifted finds and sentimental pieces—gave the space a lived-in charm, but today it felt hollow. The quiet was the first thing he noticed. Too quiet. Almost unsettling.
He set one of the grocery bags on the floor to prop the door open as he shuffled inside with the rest. "Ashley?" he called out, his voice echoing faintly in the stillness. No answer.
The lack of a response brought an unexpected wave of relief. He didn't have to sit her down and break the news just yet. That was what he feared most—her reaction. Ashley had a history of spiraling when things hit too hard or too fast. She was prone to hysteria, the kind of crying that left her breathless and inconsolable. And then there were the darker times, the ones Chris hated to remember. The drugs. The weed wasn't so bad—it was the heroin that had nearly torn them apart.
Chris shook off the thought, setting the bags down on the counter and glancing around the kitchen. It was a mess. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, sticky patches on the counter where spills had been half-heartedly wiped away, and a trash bag that was well past its prime. Chris sighed. He wasn't exactly the cleanest person, and he'd been thankful when Ashley had moved back in and taken charge of keeping things in order. But now? It looked like he was back to his old habits.
As he unloaded the groceries, he reached for the butterscotch ice cream—a flavor Ashley insisted on having in the freezer at all times. As he opened the fridge, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Chris bent to pick it up, his brow furrowing as he recognized the neat, looping cursive handwriting in navy blue ink. It was Ashley's.
"Dearest,
Off to the bank for some boring errands. Back shortly.
P.S. The kitchen is begging for your attention. ;)
• Lady Brown
Chris groaned audibly, crumpling the note slightly in his hand before smoothing it out and placing it on the counter. He could practically hear her teasing tone in the words. Of course, Ashley would find a way to guilt him into cleaning, even in her absence.
"Alright, alright," he muttered under his breath, pulling out the dish soap with a resigned sigh. "Guess I'm cleaning now."
As he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot on the counter, his mind wandered back to the conversation with Sam. He wondered how everyone else would take the news about Josh. Mike and Jessica were still a bit of a mystery to him these days, though he suspected they'd struggle with it just like the rest of them. Emily... well, she'd probably have a lot to say about it, but she'd also probably manage to keep her cool on the surface. And Matt and Kida? They were solid, but even they weren't immune to the past creeping back in.
But Ashley? She was different. He knew how much Josh's actions had haunted her. She was one of the few who had truly believed they were going to die that night, and it had taken everything in her to claw her way back to a semblance of normalcy. What would this news do to her? Would it unravel the progress she'd made? Would it send her back to the dark place they'd fought so hard to leave behind?
Chris wiped his hands on a dish towel, his gaze drifting toward the door as if expecting Ashley to walk in at any moment. He could see her in his mind's eye—her bright smile, her teasing remarks, the way she made their apartment feel a little less lonely. She had come so far since those dark days, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this news might be the thing to undo it all.
For now, though, all he could do was wait. Wait for her to come home. Wait for the moment he'd have to tell her. Wait for the inevitable storm he could already feel brewing on the horizon.
As he tossed the trash bag over his shoulder and headed for the door, Chris muttered to himself, "It's never easy, is it?"
Because if there was one thing he'd learned since Blackwood Mountain, it was that the past never truly stayed in the past. It had a way of coming back, of catching up to you when you least expected it. And for Chris, for all of them, the shadows of that night were closer than ever.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA – 1:17 PM
JOSH
Josh squinted against the blinding sunlight, stepping through the facility's double doors with the hesitant shuffle of someone who had been confined for too long. Flanked by a faculty staff member and a stone-faced guard holding a small box of his belongings, he tried to steady himself. The outside world felt unreal, too bright, too loud, and too alive for someone who had spent years surrounded by sterile walls and the ever-present hum of fluorescent lights.
But the moment his foot hit the concrete steps, the noise hit him like a physical blow. Voices shouting over one another, questions hurled like daggers:
"Josh, do you feel any remorse?"
"Can you explain your actions that night?"
"Do you think you deserved your release?"
The flashes of cameras punctuated every word, their rapid-fire bursts turning his already tense nerves into a live wire. Josh clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth so hard his temples ached. He hadn't expected this.
He hadn't expected them.
The reporters were swarming just beyond the gated barrier, their lenses zoomed in on his face like vultures eyeing their prey. The barrier was the only thing standing between him and the press. He hated them—hated the way they craned their necks, shouted his name, and spat out questions like they had any right to demand answers.
Josh ducked his head slightly, letting his dark hair fall forward to obscure his face as best he could. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, wishing he could turn around, retreat back into the safety of the facility's cold, controlled environment.
But he didn't.
The faculty staff member walking beside him leaned in slightly, speaking low enough for only Josh to hear. "Just keep moving, Mr. Washington. The car is waiting, and they'll be gone soon enough."
Josh didn't respond, but he nodded faintly, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the ill-fitting khakis they'd given him to wear. His personal belongings were in the guard's hands: a worn leather wallet, a journal, a few scattered photos of him and his sisters, and a couple of other small, meaningless trinkets. It wasn't much.
He kept his eyes on the asphalt as they approached the gate, avoiding the flashing cameras and pointed questions that followed him like a storm cloud. His chest felt tight, his heartbeat uneven, and he swore he could feel his pulse thundering in his ears.
For a moment, his mind wandered—flashing back to a different set of cameras. Not those of reporters, but his own. The ones he had used to film every moment of his carefully orchestrated nightmare. He had been in control then, pulling the strings, watching it all unfold through the lens. But now? Now, he felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, pinned down by their relentless scrutiny.
"How does it feel to be free, Josh?" one reporter shouted, her voice cutting through the cacophony.
Josh's jaw tightened further, the muscles in his neck straining. He wanted to snap back, to yell something sharp and scathing, but he forced himself to stay silent. His therapist's voice echoed faintly in the back of his mind. "Pick your battles, Josh. Not everything deserves a reaction."
Not everything, no. But this?
This was unbearable.
As they rounded the curb, Josh caught sight of a black BMW parked ahead, gleaming in the afternoon sun. The license plate was unmistakable, and recognition flickered across his face. A chuckle escaped his lips, followed by a rare, genuine smile. Relief washed over him.
Thank God.
He wouldn't have to sit in some generic SUV with a random driver, trapped in silence, pretending to be okay. Instead, he was greeted by something familiar—family. The sight of the car grounded him in a way he hadn't expected, and for a brief moment, he felt a hint of warmth amidst the whirlwind of emotions surrounding his release.
The driver and passenger doors swung open simultaneously, and two figures stepped out. Josh's eyes widened slightly as they came into view.
First was the man on the driver's side, standing at 6'0, his presence commanding without trying. His piercing green eyes, identical to Josh's own, carried an intensity that seemed to pierce through everything they landed on. His dark, slightly wavy hair fell effortlessly into place, giving him a natural, tousled charm. His features were sharp yet balanced—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full lips resting in a neutral expression. Everything about him screamed effortless cool. He wore a fitted black T-shirt under a jean jacket, paired with dark jeans and Jordans. A silver chain gleamed against his neck, complemented by understated rings on his fingers.
Josh smirked. Ricky had always looked like he belonged in a magazine, though his personality was far from flashy.
Then came the passenger. She stepped out with the same casual elegance, standing at 5'8. Her green eyes mirrored her brother's, sharp and full of life, framed by thick lashes that gave her an almost feline allure. Her sun-kissed complexion was smooth and radiant, her high cheekbones brushed with a natural flush. Her dark, silky hair flowed over her shoulders, framing her face with effortless grace. She wore a cropped cream top and high-waisted shorts that accentuated her athletic figure, paired with gold jewelry—delicate chains, hoop earrings, and rings that sparkled subtly in the sunlight. Her sandals completed the look, simple yet stylish.
"Ricky and Allie," Josh muttered to himself, his grin widening. Of course it was them.
"Well, well, well," Josh called out as they approached. "You two just had to show up looking like that, huh? What, did I miss the family memo about turning my release into a runway show?"
Ricky smirked, his gaze sweeping over Josh as he closed the car door behind him. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Josh." His voice was low and smooth, carrying a laid-back confidence.
Allie laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Josh," she said warmly, stepping closer. "You look... better than I thought you would."
Josh rolled his eyes, snorting. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Allie. Really appreciate that."
"You're welcome," she shot back playfully.
Ricky and Allie exchanged a quick glance, the kind of silent communication that only twins—or very close siblings—could master. Ricky stepped forward first, extending a hand toward Josh.
"Good to see you, man," he said simply, his voice steady.
Josh hesitated for only a moment before clasping his cousin's hand. The grip was firm, reassuring.
"Good to see you too, Rick."
Allie didn't wait for formality. She stepped in and pulled Josh into a quick hug, surprising him.
"Missed you," she said softly, her voice losing some of its playful edge.
Josh stiffened for a second before relaxing into the hug. "Missed you too," he murmured, his voice quieter now.
When she pulled back, there was a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes—concern, relief, maybe both.
"You ready to leave this place behind?" Ricky asked, jerking his thumb toward the facility looming behind them.
Josh glanced back at the building, the weight of the past three years pressing on him. The place had been his reality for so long that the idea of walking away felt surreal.
"As ready as I'll ever be," he said finally, his voice steady.
"Then let's get the hell out of here," Allie said, her lips curling into a small smile.
The twins guided him toward the car, their presence anchoring him as he took each step. It wasn't lost on Josh how lucky he was to have them here. Ricky and Allie were the only family members who had stuck by him after everything. Sure, their parents—Richard and Alice—had been supportive from a distance, but Ricky and Allie had shown up. Letters, phone calls, visits. They hadn't abandoned him, even when the rest of the world had written him off.
Josh slid into the backseat of the car, his fingers brushing over the smooth leather. The door shut with a solid thud, cutting off the noise of the outside world. For the first time in years, Josh felt like he was moving forward, leaving the facility—and the ghosts that haunted it—behind.
Ricky slid into the driver's seat, starting the engine with a smooth purr. Allie turned in her seat, glancing back at Josh with a teasing grin.
"Just so you know, we're not taking you to the Ritz," she said.
Josh chuckled, the sound feeling strange in his chest after so long. "Damn. Guess I'll cancel my room service order."
Ricky smirked as he pulled the car onto the road. "Don't push it, Washington. You're lucky we're not dropping you off at a Motel 6."
Josh leaned back, letting the familiarity of their banter wash over him. For the first time in a long time, he felt... almost normal. Almost.
The car ride continued with the easy, familiar rhythm of sibling-like banter, punctuated by sarcastic jabs and exaggerated storytelling. Ricky turned the music down, his curiosity getting the better of him, as Allie twisted in her seat to look at Josh.
"So," Allie started, her green eyes gleaming with mischievous curiosity, "what's it like in a nuthouse? Is it like the movies? Straightjackets and creepy nurses?"
Josh rolled his eyes, a dry laugh escaping him. "Wow, thanks for the sensitivity, Al. Really warms my heart."
"Oh, come on, you know I'm kidding!" she said, batting her lashes innocently. "But seriously, do they give you the whole Hannibal Lecter treatment? I need details."
Josh leaned his head back against the seat, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "No straightjackets, unfortunately. No dimly lit hallways with flickering lights either, in case you're wondering. It's more like... group therapy sessions and crappy food. Lots of both."
Ricky glanced at him through the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised. "Group therapy, huh? So, what, you sit in a circle, spill your guts, and hold hands while chanting kumbaya?"
Josh snorted. "Something like that, except replace the hand-holding with awkward silence and replace kumbaya with a lot of 'tell us how that makes you feel.' Spoiler alert: it doesn't make you feel any fucking better."
Allie laughed, clearly enjoying the mental image. "I bet you made it interesting, though. Probably messed with the doctors just for fun."
Josh shrugged, his grin widening. "A little. Gotta keep things entertaining when you're locked up with the same people for three years."
Ricky gave him a sly look. "Speaking of... you hook up with anyone in there? I mean, let's be real, three years is a long-ass time to go without action."
Josh let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure, Rick. Nothing says romance like meeting someone over a therapy session about our deepest, darkest traumas."
Allie chimed in, giggling. "You're lying. You totally had a fling, didn't you? Come on, Josh. We won't judge."
Josh gave her a mock-serious look. "Al, the closest I got to a hookup was a nurse giving me extra Jello. And even that felt like crossing a line."
The twins burst out laughing, the sound filling the car as they leaned into their shared humor. Ricky, ever the instigator, pushed further. "Man, I would've been climbing the walls. Three years with no—"
"Let's not finish that sentence, Rick," Josh interrupted, though his lips twitched with amusement. "It's bad enough I had to live through it."
Allie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still giggling. "Oh my God, I'm dying. You've been through so much."
Josh rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yeah, thanks for your undying support."
As the laughter died down, Ricky glanced at Josh again, this time with a more genuine curiosity. "So, real talk—what kept you sane in there? Or, you know, as close to sane as you can get?"
Josh's smirk faded slightly, his gaze drifting out the window. "Honestly? I don't know. I think it was a mix of stubbornness and sheer spite. Spite's a hell of a motivator."
"Spite?" Allie asked, raising an eyebrow. "Toward who?"
Josh hesitated for a beat, then shrugged. "The system. My therapists. Myself. Take your pick."
Ricky nodded, his expression unreadable. "Fair enough. Still, it's good to have you back, man. You were missed... kinda."
Josh chuckled softly, though his thoughts had already begun to drift. "Yeah? Then why'd you two come pick me up? Did Dad send you?"
The air in the car shifted, the easy banter taking a more serious turn. Allie bit her lip, her gaze darting to Ricky, who sighed and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"Not exactly," Ricky admitted. "We volunteered. Figured someone should show up for you, and it sure as hell wasn't gonna be him."
Josh nodded slowly, though the confirmation stung more than he cared to admit. "Typical," he muttered under his breath. "Dad's got better things to do, right? Like pretending we don't exist unless it's convenient for him."
Allie reached out, placing a hand on Josh's knee in a rare show of seriousness. "We get it, Josh. He's an ass. Always has been. But you've got us, okay? We're here."
Josh gave her a faint smile, appreciating the sentiment even if it didn't fully ease the bitterness in his chest. "Thanks, Al."
Ricky chimed in, his voice laced with dry humor. "Yeah, don't get all emotional on us now. We've got a reputation to uphold."
Josh laughed despite himself, shaking his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Still, as the car sped down the highway, Josh couldn't help but feel the weight of his father's absence settle over him. He thought back to the times he'd tried to reach out—to bridge the gap that had always existed between them. But Bob Washington had never been the kind of man to prioritize his children, not unless it benefited him somehow.
Josh had taken from him, sure. Stolen equipment, used his credit card. But those weren't just random acts of rebellion—they were part of a bigger plan, a desperate attempt to bring justice to his sisters. And yet, even after everything, his father hadn't come. Not once in three years.
Josh leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment as Ricky and Allie resumed their bickering up front. He appreciated their effort—coming to get him, keeping things light—but the knot in his chest refused to loosen.
Maybe, he thought bitterly, it was better this way. At least now, he knew where he stood.
The tension in the car lifted when Ricky, ever the one to steer the conversation toward easier waters, glanced at Josh through the rearview mirror and smirked. "So, your old friends... any of them reached out to you since, you know, everything?"
Josh shrugged, nonchalant on the surface, but the question struck deeper than he let on. "Just Sam," he said simply.
Ricky let out a low whistle, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Sam, huh? Goddamn, she's still hot as hell, isn't she? Always had a thing for her back in the day. Man, remember when we were kids? I'd lose my mind every time she came around."
Allie groaned, rolling her eyes. "Ricky, seriously? You're drooling over someone who probably doesn't even remember you exist."
Ricky grinned wider. "Hey, it's not my fault she's a ten. What's she up to these days? Still playing Mother Teresa or whatever?"
Josh leaned back in his seat, his eyes drifting toward the passing scenery as Ricky's words pulled his thoughts inward. Sam. She had been the only one who visited him during those three years. The only one who dared to sit across from him, day after day, even when he felt like a fucking alien in his own mind. She had been his anchor, in a way, in a world where everyone else saw him as nothing more than a dangerous lunatic.
"She's... good," Josh said finally, his voice quieter now. "Still Sam. Still doing her thing, you know? Helping people, being there for everyone but herself. That's her."
Ricky raised an eyebrow, catching the tone in Josh's voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Josh didn't answer right away, instead letting his mind drift back to the mountain, to the night everything shattered. He remembered her face, her voice, the way she'd said, 'Josh, we're here for you.' At the time, he hadn't believed her—how could he? But now, looking back, he realized that she had been there. Not just for him, but for everyone. Even after everything, she'd been the one to stay, to reach out, to try.
"She's just... Sam," he said finally. "She sacrifices her own needs to be there for everyone else. Always has."
Josh's mind flickered to the memory of her during the days following his sisters' deaths. She had been there, a constant presence in his life when everything else was chaos. While others had drifted away, consumed by their own grief or discomfort, Sam had stayed. She had sat with him, talked with him, helped him find some semblance of normalcy in a world that felt like it was crumbling.
And then there were the questions. Why did she care so much? Why had she been involved in his schemes on the mountain? He wasn't stupid—he knew they'd have to talk about it eventually. Sam wasn't someone who could leave loose ends. She'd want answers, just like he did.
Josh snapped back to the present when Ricky nudged him verbally. "What's with that look? Don't tell me you're catching feelings for her, man. 'Cause if she's single..." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, earning an immediate groan from Allie.
"Ricky, you're disgusting," she said, smacking his arm. "Josh, ignore him. He doesn't know how to keep his hormones in check."
Josh chuckled, shaking his head. "You really think you'd have a shot, Rick? Sam would chew you up and spit you out in a second."
Ricky grinned. "Worth it."
Josh couldn't help but laugh at his cousin's ridiculousness, but the moment was cut short when Ricky's grin turned into a sly smirk. "Alright, enough about her. How's 'Pissy Chrissy' doing these days?"
At that, Allie burst into laughter, practically cackling as she clutched her stomach. "Oh my God, I forgot about that name!" she wheezed. "What was it, fifth grade? He cried because he tripped during dodgeball or something?"
Josh snorted, the memory flooding back like it had just happened yesterday. "No, it was because someone—you two—put a worm in his sandwich. He flipped out, tripped over his own feet, and spilled his juice box all over himself."
Ricky slapped the steering wheel, howling with laughter. "Oh, right! And then he ran to the teacher, bawling like a baby. We were legends that day."
Josh grinned, shaking his head at the memory. "You were little assholes, that's what you were."
Allie shrugged, still giggling. "Yeah, but it stuck, didn't it? Pissy Chrissy lives on."
The car erupted into laughter, the tension from earlier easing as the twins traded more stories about their childhood antics. Despite everything, Josh found himself smiling, the warmth of their shared humor cutting through the heavier thoughts that had been weighing him down.
As the laughter in the car began to settle, Allie twisted in her seat to face Josh, her perfectly plucked brows raising in thought. "Hey, are you hungry?" she asked, her tone light but genuinely curious.
Josh, without missing a beat, deadpanned, "No, I'm actually on a strict diet of bitterness and institutional food. Keeps me lean."
Allie blinked at him for a moment, then nodded earnestly. "Oh, same! I've been on this keto-paleo hybrid thing—no sugar, no carbs, no fun."
Ricky nearly choked, letting out a loud snort. "Allie, you're 115 pounds soaking wet. What the hell do you need a diet for? You trying to become a ghost?"
Allie flipped her hair dramatically, shooting him a glare. "Oh, shut up, Ricky. Not everyone has a metabolism that lets them eat Hot Cheetos at 3 AM and wake up with abs. Besides, it's not about weight; it's about maintenance and, like, health or whatever."
"Health?" Ricky smirked, side-eyeing her. "Is that why you killed an entire box of donuts last weekend and blamed it on a 'cheat day'?"
"Excuse you!" Allie gasped, feigning indignation. "Those were matcha-glazed. Matcha is healthy!"
Josh laughed under his breath, shaking his head at their sibling bickering. It felt nostalgic, almost normal—something he hadn't had in a long time.
Allie, brushing off her brother's sass, clapped her hands together. "Okay, but seriously. I'm starving. Are you guys thinking what I'm thinking?"
Ricky raised an eyebrow at her. "Do I look like fucking Curious George to you? How the hell am I supposed to know what you're thinking?"
Allie rolled her eyes dramatically, throwing up her hands. "Ricky, we're twins. You're supposed to know these things. Isn't that, like, Twin Rule 101 or something?"
Ricky tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Hmm. If I really dig into our sacred telepathic bond, I'm getting... absolutely nothing, because your brain's like a snow globe—pretty but empty."
"Oh, please." Allie crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat. "Come on, use those two brain cells you have. It has to be something good. Something healthy, but also, like, satisfying, you know?"
Josh raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match. He leaned forward, smirking. "This better end with you two agreeing on a kale salad or some overpriced smoothie. Real edge-of-your-seat decision-making here."
Ricky sighed, slouching dramatically against the steering wheel. "Fine, fine. Let me think." He paused, staring at the road ahead like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Then, with an almost philosophical tone, he announced, "It needs to be good. And healthy."
As if this was a movie, the scene cut abruptly to the three of them sitting at a table in Chili's, a feast of appetizers, burgers, and molten chocolate cake spread out before them.
Josh stared at the pile of food in front of them, then gave Ricky a deadpan look. "Good and healthy, huh?"
Ricky shrugged, biting into a loaded fry. "Hey, it's all about balance. Besides, their menu said something about farm-fresh ingredients. That counts, right?"
Allie, sipping on a margarita, rolled her eyes. "Farm-fresh doesn't mean the farm is next door, Ricky. It could be frozen for six months and still technically count."
"Do you want me to enjoy my fries or not?" Ricky retorted, stuffing another one into his mouth.
Josh couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head as he reached for a mozzarella stick. "You two are ridiculous."
Allie pointed a fry at him. "You're just mad you didn't think of Chili's first."
Josh raised his hands in surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Alright, you got me there. Let's just call this my 'post-facility freedom feast.'"
"Now that I can drink to," Ricky said, lifting his Coke as if it were champagne.
Allie grinned, raising her margarita. "To freedom and... really questionable definitions of 'healthy eating.'"
Josh clinked his glass of water against theirs, laughing softly. For the first time in a long time, he felt like himself again—if only for a moment.
End Of Chapter Four
Alright, happy late holidays. I was supposed to finish this before Thanksgiving but working a mid-shift job where you only wake up and work and when the shift ends, the day is practically over, fucking sucks. Anyways, I actually enjoyed writing this chapter especially Josh's segment. I am still debating on how I'm going to navigate nine characters in each chapter. There will be chapters where some characters are a constant and some where they have little scenes. I am not sure about how many chapters I'm going to write, but this book is probably going to be very long.
How do you guys like Ricky and Allie? What are your thoughts? Let me know in the comments below! More OCs along the way.
Until Next Time
- NZURI