Chapter 7
DEACON
Kayla’s birthdayEleven years old
I was late. And she was going to be home any second.
Sweat dribbled down my neck in rivets, little rivers that pooled at the nape of my t-shirt. The picture of Ironman on my shirtfront was soaked through because of the hot August sun, and though the salty drops at my brows stung my eyes as they dripped, though my lungs ached from the long mile I was running down the paved street, I still didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
Because if I did, I wouldn’t make it back in time before my Grandmama walked in that front door.
I counted the slaps of my footfalls against the pavement, my heart racing the entire time, my ankles stinging from the hardened impact.
I could barely breathe.
Twenty minutes before, I’d begged Grandmama to lend me her set of keys
