Chapter 145

~ Franklin ~

(Seventeen years ago)

I still remember the crispness of that morning air, how the sunlight slanted through the kitchen window just above the sink, turning everything golden and warm. I was sixteen, a kid who still believed his parents were invincible, untouchable. That morning, they had kissed me goodbye like any other day, grabbing their coats by the door with the casual ease of people who thought they had endless tomorrows.

"Stay with Grandpa today, okay?" my mom had said, her voice light but carrying a strange tension I was too young to fully notice. Dad was already pulling on his favorite jacket—the one with the worn leather cuffs he wore on every important business trip. "We’ll only be gone for the afternoon. We’ll be back before dinner."

I nodded, trying to sound casual even though a dull knot had already formed in my stomach. Maybe it was intuition, some sixth sense whispering that something wasn’t right, but I brushed it off. I didn’t know what it meant at the time.

Grandpa had already set out a bowl of cereal for me. He watched them leave from the front window, his face unreadable, jaw tight in that way he got when he was holding something back. After the door clicked shut, I sat at the table, spoon halfway to my mouth, feeling a strange hollowness settle in my chest, like a part of me already knew the world was about to shift forever.

The house became eerily quiet once they left. Grandpa settled into his armchair with a worn paperback novel, but I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my skateboard and took off down the block, kicking hard at the pavement with every push, trying to outrun the unease that clung to me like smoke.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

When I returned home later, I tossed my skateboard onto the porch and walked inside. The house was still quiet, still waiting. I didn’t know it then, but by the time the evening news came on, I would never see them walk back through that door again.

I was sitting on the kitchen counter when Grandpa called me over. His voice was strange—low, distant, heavy with something I couldn’t name. He handed me the remote without a word. The flickering screen showed a breaking news alert. My breath caught in my throat as the anchor’s calm, measured tone delivered words I would never forget.

A car crash, they said. On the FDR Drive, just as the sun was setting. My parents had been on their way to a charity gala in Midtown. Gone. Just like that.

I stared at the screen, unblinking, as the world shattered around me in slow motion.

The next hours blurred into chaos. Police officers arrived, then distant relatives I barely knew, then a sea of unfamiliar faces offering condolences I couldn’t process. Grandpa sat me down later that night, his hand heavy on my shoulder, but the words blurred together. I wasn’t even sure what he said. I only remember the cold weight in my chest and the way the walls of the house suddenly felt closer, suffocating.

I didn’t cry that night. Not then. I just sat in the silence, trying to remember what it felt like when the door opened, when they walked in laughing, when they said, "We’ll be back by dinner." But that promise had been a lie. And no one told me how final a goodbye could feel, how empty the house would become, or how every step I took afterward would echo with a silence I could never fill.

Now, seventeen years later, every time I look at Octavia, every time I try to hold on to what we have, that memory returns—sharp, unrelenting, like a siren in the night. It reminds me of all the things I once took for granted. And it reminds me of all the things I can never get back.

(Present day)

"Grandpa? Grandpa!" I shouted, pressing both hands hard against the gunshot wound in his stomach, trying desperately to stop the blood from oozing between my fingers. My grandfather groaned weakly, his face ashen. Tears burned down my cheeks as I leaned closer.

"Fr... Fran... Franklin—" he struggled to speak, his voice barely a whisper.

"It’s alright, Grandpa. Save your strength. Just stay with me, please," I begged, my voice cracking with fear.

I glanced up and saw Clinton holding an unconscious Octavia in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder.

"Take us to the hospital," I ordered, my voice raw. "Right now!"

Clinton nodded sharply and carefully placed Octavia in the passenger seat of the SUV before helping me carry my grandfather into the back. We sped off at full throttle, tires screeching against the pavement.

"Grandpa, hey—stay with me, please," I pleaded, keeping firm pressure on the wound as he began to slip toward unconsciousness. I tried to apply even more pressure, my hands slick with blood.

"Is he okay, Flemington? Talk to me!" Clinton called from the driver’s seat, glancing frantically in the rearview mirror.

"Fucking drive and let me handle what’s going on back here!" I yelled, frustration and terror mixing into a volatile storm inside me. I didn’t want to lose my grandfather. He was the only family I had left by blood, and the memory of the day my parents died began haunting me with every passing second—the police at the door, Grandpa’s speechless face when he heard his son and daughter-in-law were gone, the way I hadn’t cried that night, the last words they had said to me: "We’ll be back by dinner."

Everything was a blur then, just as it was now.

Clinton accelerated harder, running a stop sign as the traffic light turned red. I continued pressing down on the gunshot wound, staring at my grandfather in horror, my heart hammering so fast it felt like it might burst. With every beat, with every wave of fear crashing over me, I prayed silently to God not to take him too.

Not today.

Not like this.