Chapter 9 - A Star to Follow
The air in the tattoo parlor smelled of sterilized alcohol and old ink, a sharp, metallic scent that always made Jack’s stomach churn. He stood by the door, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned white, watching the door through the frosted glass. Evelyn paced behind him, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the linoleum floor.
*Just let her be alive,* Jack prayed. Just let her be real.
The buzzer sounded. The door pushed open, and Megan stepped out.
She was wearing a dark, oversized sweater that swallowed her frame, but the glow in her eyes was unmistakable. She pulled up her left sleeve, exposing the skin on her inner forearm.
Jack gasped. It was a star. But not the innocent, childish drawing from her notebook. This was a masterpiece—a sprawling, jagged constellation of ink, dark and heavy against her pale flesh. It was a star, yes, but it was a star that looked like it had been burned into the world.
"It's beautiful," Evelyn whispered, stepping forward, her hands hovering as if afraid to touch her daughter. "Megan... it's so bright."
"It's a map," Megan said, her voice steady. "To show me where I belong."
Jack felt a lump in his throat so thick it choked him. He nodded, swallowing the lump. "It's... it's perfect."
***
The dinner was held at a quiet bistro on the edge of town, a place where the walls were lined with dark wood and the lighting was dim, designed to make secrets feel safer.
The table was set with white tablecloths and crystal glasses. The food was excellent—roast chicken, asparagus, a rich red wine—but the atmosphere was heavy, a fragile balloon held together by hope.
Jack sat opposite Megan, his eyes glued to the tattoo on her arm. It was mesmerizing. He reached across the table, his fingers trembling as they grazed her skin.
"You did this for us," Jack said softly. "To remember where you came from."
Megan smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a polite, practiced smile. "I did it for me, Dad. To remember that I was still here."
Derek sat at the head of the table, picking at his potatoes. He hadn't spoken much since the dinner started. He kept glancing at Megan’s arm, then quickly away, a strange, tight expression tightening the corners of his mouth.
"You know," Derek said suddenly, his voice cutting through the ambient jazz music. "That tattoo... it looks a lot like a target."
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Evelyn stopped chewing. Jack stiffened.
Megan looked at Derek, her expression unreadable. "It's a star, Derek. A constellation."
"A target that looks like a star," Derek muttered, his fork clattering against his plate. "You really are a clone of her, aren't you? Everything about you is a copy of what she was."
"It's not a copy," Megan said, her voice dropping an octave. "It's a tribute."
"Or a trap," Derek snapped, finally looking up, his eyes wide and frantic. "You’re not Megan, Dad. You’re not Evelyn. You’re... you’re something else. You came back to finish the job."
Jack slammed his hand on the table. "Derek, shut your mouth! Can’t you see she’s trying to heal?"
"She’s not trying to heal!" Derek stood up, knocking his chair back. "Look at the tattoo! It’s not a constellation! It’s a scope reticle! She’s not a daughter; she’s a hunter!"
Megan stood up slowly. The movement was fluid, predatory. She didn't look at Derek; she looked at Jack, her gaze piercing through the dim lighting.
"Derek is right about one thing," Megan said. Her voice was calm, terrifyingly calm. "It is a target."
She reached into her purse. Jack’s heart hammered against his ribs. She’s going for a gun. She’s going to shoot Derek. She’s going to shoot us.
Jack stood up, raising his hands. "Megan, stop! Don't do this!"
Megan ignored him. She pulled a heavy, silver revolver from her purse and placed it gently on the table between the salt and pepper shakers. The metal gleamed in the candlelight.
Jack stared at the gun, then at Megan. "Why? Why did you come back?"
Megan looked at the tattoo on her arm, then back at her father. A cold, dark satisfaction crossed her face—a look Jack had never seen on his daughter before.
"I came back because I realized something," Megan said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You taught me how to hold a gun. You taught me how to aim. But you never taught me how to forgive."
She picked up the gun. Her hand was steady. She placed the barrel against the center of the star tattoo on her forearm.
"I forgave you," Megan said, her eyes locking onto Jack’s. "But I didn't forget the target."
She squeezed the trigger.
*BANG.*
The sound was deafening. The table shattered. The wine glasses exploded in a rain of glass and red liquid. The patrons screamed and ducked, scrambling for cover.
Jack fell to his knees, shielding his face, expecting the bullet to tear through his chest. He waited for the pain. He waited for the end.
He peeked through his fingers. The table was a ruin of splintered wood and broken glass. The revolver lay on the floor, smoking slightly.
Megan stood over him. She hadn't moved. The bullet hadn't hit the table. It had gone straight through the center of the star tattoo on her arm, leaving a clean hole in the skin, and embedded itself deep into the plaster of the restaurant wall, inches from Jack’s ear.
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Megan looked at the hole in her arm, then at Jack, her face a mask of terrifying delight.
"I'm not the target, Dad," she said, stepping over the debris, the smell of cordite filling the room. "I'm the one who finally gets to pull the trigger."
