She struggled after as well, but not in the same way.
I didn’t see what she had to think him for. Cedric was part of why she’d been in such a bad place when she met my father. I kept wondering if mother ever would’ve married father if she’d had some money and prospects of her own, which her father’s fortune definitely could’ve provided. Maybe I never would’ve been born, but even still—if Mother had that money, she’d have something of her own to fall back on.
Instead, she was locked into the family, just as much as me.
It was late, and I was exhausted. I looked at my phone, wondering if Nervosa would call. We read the letter in the back seat of the car together, and he said he’d reach out, but everything was quiet. Palmira seemed annoyed, but she started pacing around the dorm like she normally did, patrolling the area and making sure everything was safe.
Quiet, normal night on Stanford’s campus. My mother’s letter flitted through my mind. I had to understand why she’d thank my uncle and for what. There was a clue in those lines, but I didn’t know what the clue amounted to.
Screams broke the silence.
I sat up. More shouts. Angry and raw. I ran to the window and pushed open the blinds—
There, in the courtyard. Four bodies scuffling and a flash of blonde hair.
Palmira.
I sprinted to the door and threw myself into the hall. People were looking around, some of them confused. Everyone could hear the fight. I had to get down there. My heart was racing wildly and I practically dove down the stairs, stumbling and slamming into the walls in my haste. I reached the bottom and bashed out the emergency exit, ignoring the angry buzz that followed, as I sprinted around the corner and came to a stumbling halt.
Palmira jammed an elbow into the throat of a man wearing a dark track suit. He was bigger than her, twice her size, covered in muscles and tattoos, with a shaved head and dark eyes, and he dropped like his wires had been cut. He gagged, rolling on the ground, as another man, this one wider and flabby, tried to grab Palmira in a bear hug. She moved like a snake, slithering out of his grip, kicking him in the knee and jabbing him in the side with three quick punches.
A third man came at her, swinging a knife. She slid sideways, out of the line of the attack, and turned as the last attacker came at her with fists flying. She took a punch, ducked another, and jammed her knee into his crotch before twirling away.
It was incredible. I stared, mouth agape. The knife man came at her, slicing away, and she moved like a dancer going over rehearsed steps. The knife attacker overextended in a vicious thrust, thinking he’d gotten her, but she twisted, taking only a shallow cut on her arm, and used her momentum to smash the palm of her hand into the guy’s nose. He grunted as she grabbed his wrist, twisting it into a complicated lock. He screamed, the knife dropping from his hand, and Palmira twisted again, cracking bone.
The man dropped. She slammed her knee into his face, cracking his skull backwards. It bounced off the pavement.
The big man ran. He turned and sprinted. Three bodies lay at her feet, each clutching at something. The one looked dead, his face bloated and purple—she must’ve collapsed his windpipe.
“Palm,” I said, breathless with shock.
She turned to me—and smiled.
What a frightening woman.
“Come on,” she said. “Better go. Too many eyes.” She strode over, stretching her neck. “They almost had me for a second. Four against one. What a bunch of chumps.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“I know.” She steered me away from the dorm. “But we’ve got to hurry before the cops come. And the big man might be getting backup. I can handle fists and knives, but guns are a different story.”
We hustled down the sidewalk and toward the street. My brain was racing in circles, trying to understand.
“Who were those guys? What did they want?”
“I don’t know, but are you convinced yet? You’re in too far. Time to pack it up and go home.”
“No,” I said, pulling away from her. “I can’t stop now. You heard the letter.”
She glared at me. “I heard it, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
“Something happened between my mother and my uncle. I want to know what.”
“Who cares?” Palmira shook her head. “It’s thirty years old. None of it matters now. You’re alive, you’re breathing. You’re not ancient history, but you might be if you keep going along with this stupid idea of yours.”
I glared at her, seething. “Don’t you ever wonder about your family? Your history? Where you come from?”
“No,” she said, glaring back, and her look had extra weight considering a man’s blood stained her shirt. “Your father took my past and threw it away, and I don’t care about chasing it down. All I care about is keeping you safe. The here and now. So enough is enough. We’re going.”