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Chapter 20 - Pockets
Last Updated:
2025-04-02 18:17:33
BryantJacob Ray, you have not made a good first impression on Pockets. We get, as Lilac’s dad, you were worried about her in the blizzard, and seeing her with Makayla was startling, but no need to be a dick.
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The instant Lilac vanished with her father, a shiver I couldn’t attribute to the storm crept into my marrow. I just stood there in the trampled snow in front of the cabin, Pockets alongside me, my arms tight around myself despite being bundled up in Lilac’s extra clothes. I couldn’t help but remember her parting look—worried but resolute—as she tied up her boots and said, “Since it’s what you want, I’ll take care of my dad.” It was as if she was trying to keep me from something and didn’t want me to know what he was. Or worse… who she had to be when he was around. I hadn’t interrupted her. I was the one who told her to handle her dad, so I said it was fine. I lied. The rescue crew eventually did get my battered rental out of the snow’s clutches. The front was worse crumpled than I imagined, the driver'sdoor had been left ajar from when Lilac rescued me so the interior wad fullof snow. When I dig enough of the snow out, I climbed in, disregarding the sleet that had frozen on the das
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I did not want to leave. The words weren’t on my lips, but they gathered at the back of my throat like a scream I was not allowed to let out. Not when Makayla stood in that cabin doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were hanging together by sheer willpower. Not when her smile faltered, but when she assured me it was okay. That she’d take care of Stacey. It wasn’t okay. It didn’t sit well. But I nodded anyway and stepped away from the cabin, the flickering fire, and the room that somehow became sacred—hers. I rode beside my father’s truck, my arms crossed over my chest, my jaw locked so hard my ears ached. The heater blew full blast on the windshield, battering the skim of ice already beginning to coat the glass, but the heat couldn’t chase away the cold lump growing in my chest. We had only driven for ten minutes, and I regretted leaving. Leaving her. Leaving Makayla. “You should’ve called,” my father grumbled, his voice low and gravelly as he navigated th
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After my shower and the haunting memories of Lilac, I collapsed onto the hotel bed, Pockets curled into a warm donut at my feet. The heater hummed softly, but I couldn’t shake the chill running through my spine. My burner phone was finally charged. I’d kept it on battery-saver all morning, waiting until I was out of the mountains to call. Group texting was easy, but hearing a voice required strength I hadn’t had until now. I hit the call button for Reese first. She answered on the second ring. “Makayla.” Her voice was sharp, worried, and so familiar that I nearly broke down. “I’m okay,” I said quietly. “I’m okay, Reese.” “You better be, you absolute chaos magnet. Clay was ready to come storming the Rockies in a plow truck. No clue where he would get one, but he'd find one. The triplets were drawing straws for who would dig you out. Where the hell have you been?” Reese caught me up on the cause of her brother and our cousins’ reactions to the news I’d been snowed in somewhere.
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I had been back in my father’s cabin for less than a day and felt suffocated. Everything looked the same—the creaky floorboards, the pine-paneled walls, the old plaid couch smelling of cedar and winter air. But I wasn’t the same. I boiled water for tea I didn’t want, changed into fresh leggings and an oversized sweater, and combed my hair in the narrow hallway mirror. Everything reminded me of Makayla, from the kettle to the quiet. I wanted to text her something stupid, but I didn’t have her number. I should've asked before I left, but Dad was looming nearby with the rescue crew. I felt too awkward and rushed to think of something so small but important as exchanging numbers. I stepped back from the stove, hugging myself. The room felt too quiet—no laughter or teasing, just the water whistle and heavy silence. Dad stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, lost in thought. After the conversation in the truck, he hadn’t said much, but now, as the kettle whined, he finally turned to me.
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The conference room's windows were nearly black, mirroring the snowy Aspen streets outside and my mood within. I tugged my dark turtleneck down, feeling the cold clinging to me despite the heat indoors. I set my laptop on the glossy table and connected to the secure video link. Reese’s face filled the main square, flanked by a journalist from The Intercept and Denver civil rights attorney Karla St. James, whose piercing gaze commanded attention even over Zoom. “Makayla,” Reese greeted with her usual calm professionalism, though I caught the tightness around her eyes. She was in her Boston office, a towering wall of books behind her, a mug steaming beside her elbow. “You look like hell.” “Thanks,” I muttered. “It’s my new aesthetic: blizzard-chic.” Karla chuckled faintly, but the journalist didn’t react. He was already reviewing the shared documents on the screen, flipping between pages of scanned contracts, metadata reports, and audio logs I’d decrypted weeks ago. “Before we begin,
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The Aurora Ridge shimmered like a mountain jewel, its grandeur built on arrogance and wealth. The snow sparkled on the archway as I parked the rental, the engine quieting with a sigh, bracing for what was to come. The morning sky was pale, but everything around gleamed like it had never faced a storm. I turned off the engine, my breath fogging in the still air. Pockets stirred in his seat. I checked my phone for the time and for any message from Reese. “Going in,” I had texted her an hour ago. No reply necessary. She understood. I lingered a moment longer, hands gripping the steering wheel. My reflection was calm and cold, the type that cuts deep—no makeup except dark eyeliner, hair up, dressed in black—a frostbite of resolve. “You ready?” I murmured, glancing at Pockets. He wagged his tail once. Just once. Enough to tell me he knew something serious was happening but that he was still with me. Still mine. I opened the door. The cold bit through my clothes, but I barely felt it a
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I knew something was wrong when we left that shiny, cold building. At least we left behind that horrid human. Stacey was never right for my human. I’m glad she finally did something about it. Makayla didn’t say a word. Not one. She just opened the car door like it weighed a hundred pounds and slid into the driver’s seat with that quiet sort of stiffness that only meant one thing: she was hurting. She smelled different now. Not like the warm cinnamon and snow she usually did. No. Now, she smelled like firewood that burned too long. Bitter. Sharp. Grief and something else I didn’t like. It clung to her skin even when she rolled down the windows and let the mountain air in. Like she was trying to breathe something that didn’t hurt. I jumped into the seat beside her, turned in a tight circle, and then sat with my back pressed against her thigh. She didn’t look at me or scratch behind my ears like she normally did when we got in the car. She just sat there with her hands on the wheel, kn
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By the time we pulled up in front of the building on East 83rd, the city had shaken off winter like it never happened. Sure, it was still cold, it’s fucking January, after all, but it’s not like winter in Colorado. It was bright, loud, alive—everything Aspen wasn’t. My doorman greeted us before we even made it through the revolving doors, and I felt Lilac’s hand tighten in mine. She didn’t say anything, but I could read it in how her gaze swept upward, eyes tracing the limestone façade with equal parts awe and apprehension. It was a world away from the cabin, Colorado, and Four Pines. It was also home. Inside the elevator, I leaned into her shoulder and whispered, “Don’t let the marble floors fool you. I still eat instant noodles barefoot in the kitchen.” Lilac laughed softly, nerves unraveling just a little as the elevator ascended. I felt the shift when the doors opened to the penthouse floor. The air up here was still but not sterile. “Okay,” I said, typing in my keycode and s
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The airplane’s hum enveloped me in a soft cocoon, quieter than I had anticipated. Down below, Colorado’s breathtaking landscape melted into an expanse of thick, downy clouds and snowy-ridged peaks whose white tops reflected what was left of light. My forehead was against the cold glass on the oval window, and I watched the familiar landscape drop away, with my breath tracing ephemeral clouds on frost-nipped glass. I didn’t cry. Nor did I feel the restless urge to flee or look back. This was not an escape; it was a bold beginning. Beside me, Makayla slumbered peacefully, arms crossed like a guard, a stray lock of hair spilling across her cheek in a soft curl. Pockets, our diminutive travel companion, was rolled tight between us in his cozy carrier, snoring with all the force of a small beast fighting off the silence of the plane. Across from us, Clay was already asleep, noise-canceling headphones askew and a half-full bag of pretzels clutched in his palm. I pulled my sketchbook out o
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I didn’t cry when I booked the ticket, I sure the FUCK wasn’t driving back. I thought maybe I would that it might come with some cinematic swell of relief or catharsis. I felt relief, felt like I could breathe easy again. To breathe in a way I hadn’t since before the blizzard. Before the betrayal. Outside the hotel window, Aspen was no longer blanketed in threat. The snow had softened to slush at the curb. The streets weren’t hostile anymore. The mountains didn’t loom. Everything felt like an exhale. We were going home. I rolled the word around in my head again: home. Not D.C., with its sterile buildings and buried truths. Not the political chessboard I’d grown up on, where every move was either weapon or weakness. No. I meant New York to my penthouse in Manhattan near Central Park. Not perfect. Never soft. But honest. It had been the first place I carved out for myself—where I built something not wrapped in the Hopkins name or the Frost legacy. It was my pulse, my grit, my skyli
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The humans smelled different this morning. Not scared. Not sharp with adrenaline like they’d been the last few days. There was still tension—always was, when Makayla paced or typed or made her voice extra serious—but now it hummed lower. Deeper. Like thunder far away. I stretched on the hotel bed, paws splayed, tail flicking once before curling tighter beside Lilac’s thigh. She was warm, still in Makayla’s hoodie, sipping coffee from the white mug. I don't understand why humans like that. It has such a bitter smell. Yet it makes them smile. Makayla stood by the television, remote in hand, eyes on the screen. I didn’t understand all the words, but I understood other things, like looks of anger and relief, words like justice, and I recognized handcuffs. I'm 3 months old. I probably shouldn't know what those are. It did confuse me to see them being used on the news. I had only seen them when I was little, okay I'm still little, and I still lived with my parents and their humans.
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I should’ve been sleeping. Lilac was already curled up beneath the hotel blanket, one arm draped over Pockets like she’d always belonged there, like she was woven into the quiet of this room. The folder her father had given her—the deed to their cabin, to the land that started everything—rested on the nightstand beside the laptop, where the screen glowed faintly in the dark. But I couldn’t close it yet. Not until I was sure there wasn’t one more trap waiting to be sprung. A paranoid instinct had kept me alive in systems most people never even realized they were walking into. And that instinct now told me something didn’t add up. The financial patterns in Stacey’s shell companies were too clean. Too rehearsed. And nothing about Stacey Sherbourn was ever that tidy—unless she wanted it to be seen. So, I went digging. Again. I tunneled back into the encrypted backups I’d mirrored weeks ago—deep code packets stored from a corrupted cloud system linked to a Sherbourn asset overseas. Be
