A SWERVE IN THE THUTH

2: MandyThe Crash

The scent of the tattoo shop—green soap and antiseptic—clung to my leather jacket. My heart felt full. The sting behind my left ear was a rhythmic throb, a permanent tribute to my grandfather our family’s North Star. My four brothers would probably suffocate me with overprotective hugs when they saw it, but in the Ross family, we were a fortress, and she was the stone we were built on.

I brushed the cross at my throat—his last gift to me. “Wear this, and you’ll never be alone, he whispered.

I reached for my seatbelt, but as the strap grazed the fresh ink behind my ear, a bolt of white-hot pain shot through my neck. I winced and let the buckle clatter against the door. I’ll grab it in a second, I thought.

I pulled out, the wind catching my black hair. I was smiling, thinking of my brothers, when the world turned into a roar of shadow. A massive black SUV. Wrong side of the road. No time to swerve.

CRUNCH.

The sound was the end of everything. Glass exploded like diamonds. Without the belt, I was thrown. I hit the ground with a force that stole the breath from my lungs. I felt the delicate chain snag on the asphalt, then a sickening, hollow snap as it slid away.

Then, a shadow fell over me. I forced my eyes open. Honey-brown eyes. They were the most honest thing I’d ever seen. No "Ross" legacy, no expectations—just a boy holding my soul in his hands. I wanted to tell him my name. I wanted to tell him about the necklace. But the world faded to black.

The lights in the private wing are a blinding, surgical white.

“Mandy? Princess, can you hear me?”

It’s Jason, my oldest brother. His voice is jagged with fear. I try to move, and my world turns into a scream of raw fire.

“Don’t move, baby girl,” my father says. “Road rash all down your back. It’s a miracle—no broken bones. Just a concussion.”

My hand instinctively twitches toward my throat. Bare skin.

“The necklace,” I rasp. “Granddad’s cross... it’s gone.”

The room goes silent. My four brothers stand like a wall of granite around my bed.

“We’ll find it,” one says, avoiding my gaze. “Right now, we need to keep you safe. The world doesn't need to know about this. As far as Northwood is concerned, you’re still away at school.”

I want to yell. I’m tired of being covered up. I want to tell them about the boy with the honey-brown eyes who saw me, not a "Ross" to be managed. But the dark tide of the concussion pulls me under. The last thing I feel is the sting behind my ear. I hope they haven't seen the rose yet. My honor for grandfather the cross matching the one he gave me and the roses wrapped around it were my favorite.