The Alpha’s Shadow

The rain didn’t feel like a metaphor; it just felt cold. It flowed through the shoulders of Maya’s trench coat, pinning the fabric to her skin until she was shacking in a way that felt strong and permanent. She stood at the edge of the iron gates of St. Jude’s Cemetery, her breath hitching in rhythmic and shallow puffs. ​She shouldn’t have been there. It was a lapse in judgment, a glitch in her survival instinct. But when she had opened the Gazette that morning in the back of a dingy diner three towns over, the black-and-white ink had practically screamed her name. ​MAYA REED, 24. A LIFE CUT SHORT. ​The paper was still crumpled in her pocket, a damp, pulpy weight against her thigh. According to the print, she had died four days ago in a tragic house fire. Faulty wiring. A "silent, peaceful" exit. ​"Peaceful," Maya whispered, the word tasting like copper. ​She pushed her sunglasses to her nose. They were oversized and cheap, bought from a gas station to hide the dark circles under her eyes, but they were useless in the grey, suffocating gloom of the afternoon. She looked like a mourner, and that was the point. ​There there were. A small gathering of maybe twenty people under a bunch of black umbrellas. They looked like a cluster of beetles from this distance. She recognized the silhouette of her mother, leaning heavily on her brother, Sam. She could see that Sam’s shoulders were shaking from across the grass. Maya’s stomach turned over. ​She wanted to run to them. She wanted to scream that the smoke she’d inhaled that night hadn’t killed her and that she had escaped through the basement just before the window gave way. She wanted to tell them why she hadn’t called, why she had spent the last ninety-six hours sleeping in her car and jumping every time a car door slammed. ​But then, she saw her, standing slightly apart from the family, near the back of the crowd, was a woman Maya didn't recognize. She was wearing a big hat, hiding her face, but she stood too still in familiar grace. She wasn’t crying. She was watching Maya’s mother with the clinical intensity of a scientist observing a specimen. ​Maya moved closer, trying to figure out who she was but sticking to the line of ancient oaks that bordered the path. Every move of her legs of her boots sounded like a gunshot. Her heart hammered against her ribs, like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. ​Who buried me? the thought looped in her mind. If I’m here, who is in that box? ​The priest’s voice rose and fell in a rhythmic drone, the words lost to the wind. Maya watched as the casket began its slow descent. It was mahogany and expensive. Her mother couldn't possibly afford mahogany. ​As the first shovel of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thud, the woman in the hat turned her head. ​Maya froze. Her lungs stopped working. The woman didn’t look toward the grave. She looked directly toward the oak tree where Maya was hiding. ​For a split second, the wind caught the woman’s veil. Maya caught a glimpse of a jawline, the curve of a nose, and a small, crescent-shaped scar just below the ear. ​Maya’s hand flew to her own neck, her fingers grazing the exact same scar she’d carried since a childhood accident. ​The woman smiled. It wasn't a smile of comfort; it was a smile of ownership. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a phone, and it was Maya’s phone. The one Maya thought had melted in the fire, and she tapped the screen. ​In Maya’s pocket, a vibration hummed against her leg. ​She reached down with trembling fingers and pulled out the burner phone she’d bought yesterday. There was one new text message from an unknown number. ​"You’re late for the service, Maya. Don't worry. I’m playing the part better than you ever did." ​Maya looked back up, but the space between the mourners was empty. The woman was gone. The only thing left was the sound of dirt hitting a coffin that shouldn't have been hers. ​Maya backed away, her heels catching in the mud. She turned to run, but her foot hit something hard—a small, granite headstone buried in the tall grass. She looked down, expecting to see a name from a century ago. ​Instead, the fresh engraving read: MAYA REED - THE SECOND CHANCE SHE DIDN'T DESERVE. ​Beneath the text, etched into the stone, was today's date. And the time was 4:30 PM. ​Maya checked her watch. It was 4:29 PM. ​A heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder.