Hunted Luna

Iris

The rental agreement hit the coffee table with a sharp slap, and I flinched despite myself. Diana stood over me, one manicured hand still pressed against the paper like she was afraid it might fly away, her lips stretched into that smile she always wore when she was about to ruin my life.

"Arkansas," she announced, her voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. "I got offered a regional manager position. We're moving next week."

I stayed crouched in the corner, my arms wrapped around the duffel bag I'd been packing. Regional manager. Right. Last month's "business conference" had been three days at the Marriott downtown with some guy whose Mercedes I'd seen parked outside our building twice. The "position" she'd landed was probably a nice little apartment and a monthly allowance, paid for in the same currency she'd been trading in since Grandma died.

"Iris, did you hear me?" Diana's voice sharpened. "This is a huge opportunity for our family."

Our family. I almost laughed. There was no "our" anything. There was Diana, there was Brycen slumped on the couch pretending to give a shit, and there was me—the unwanted baggage she'd been stuck with when the state decided seventeen-year-olds still needed supervision.

"I heard you," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the worn carpet.

"Good." She crossed her arms. "Start packing. We leave Friday."

Friday. Four days to say goodbye to everything I'd ever known, to the town where Grandma was buried, to the few people who'd ever given a damn about me.

"What about school?" The words came out before I could stop them.

Diana's eyes narrowed. "You'll finish senior year in Arkansas. It's not like you're some straight-A student anyway."

Behind her, Brycen grunted something that might have been agreement, his eyes glued to some college basketball game. "Your mom's right, kid. Fresh start might be good for you."

Of course he agrees. My stepfather never disagreed with Diana about anything, not when half the money she earned selling herself went straight into his pocket for sports betting and beer.

I tightened my grip on the duffel bag. "I don't want to go."

The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees. "Excuse me?"

"I said I don't want to go." My voice was steadier than I felt. "I have a job here. I have friends. I—"

"You have nothing." Diana took a step closer. "That minimum-wage shit you call a job? Those loser friends who'll forget about you in a week?"

Yes, I wanted to scream. Yes, because it's mine. Because I built it myself.

But I didn't say any of that. I just stared at her, my fingers digging into the canvas until my knuckles went white.

Diana's hand shot out and grabbed the strap of my bag. "Give me that."

"No—"

We both pulled, the bag caught between us. Diana yanked hard, her face flushed with anger, and I held on because letting go felt like admitting defeat.

"Let. Go." Diana jerked the bag with enough force that her high heel slipped on the tile.

For one beautiful second, she teetered there, arms windmilling, eyes wide with shock. Then gravity won.

She went down hard, her ass hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the apartment. The rental agreement fluttered down after her like a mocking white flag.

The silence that followed was absolute. Diana sat there, legs splayed, one shoe half-off, staring at nothing. I stood frozen, trying desperately not to laugh because I knew that laughing would get me killed.

Behind us, the TV announcer shouted about a three-pointer. Brycen didn't even glance over.

Diana's face went from red to purple. She scrambled to her feet and her eyes landed on the glass jar sitting on the coffee table. The one I'd bought three months ago with my own money, $19.99 at Target, the one where I'd been saving spare change.

"This house—" Diana grabbed the jar, her voice shaking with rage. "This house is being paid for by me!"

The jar flew across the room and exploded against the wall. Glass shattered everywhere, glittering shards mixing with quarters and dimes that rolled in every direction, pinging off furniture and spinning across the floor.

I watched a quarter roll past my foot and disappear under the couch. Nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. I'd worked four hours at the restaurant to earn enough for that jar.

Not her money. Not her jar. Of course she doesn't give a shit.

"Brycen!" Diana's shriek could have shattered what was left of the jar. "Can you please get off your ass and deal with your daughter?!"

Brycen finally moved. He heaved himself off the couch, shuffled over to where the coins had scattered, and started picking them up. One by one. Dropping them into his pocket.

"Iris," he said, not looking at me, "don't make your mother upset."

I stared at him. At this man who'd moved into our home five years ago, who'd eaten Grandma's cooking and smiled at her funeral and promised to "take care of the girls," who was now literally stealing my tip money while pretending to mediate.

He's not even trying to hide it anymore.

Diana took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice had gone quiet. That was worse than the yelling.

"Listen carefully, Iris." She smoothed down her skirt. "I am your legal guardian. You live where I say you live. That's the law."

She walked toward her bedroom, each step measured and final. "When you turn eighteen, you can do whatever the hell you want. Until then, you're mine."

The door slammed. The frame shook three times.

Brycen pocketed the last quarter, cracked open a fresh beer, and returned to the couch. The game was in overtime now.

I knelt down and started picking up the glass shards. The biggest fragment still had part of the price sticker on it: "Made in China. $19.99."

"Should've bought plastic," I muttered to myself.

At least that wouldn't break.

The morning we left for Arkansas, I went to say goodbye to the only person who'd ever really loved me.

The cemetery was empty under a gray sky. I'd taken the bus and walked the rest of the way because I didn't want Diana knowing where I'd gone. This was private. This was mine.

Grandma's headstone was simple: Margaret Hayes, 1945-2024, Beloved Grandmother. I knelt down and brushed away the leaves, then placed the plastic daisies I'd bought at the gas station next to the stone.

"Hey, Grandma." My voice sounded too loud in the quiet morning. "I'm leaving today. Diana says there's a big opportunity in Arkansas." I tried to smile and failed. "We both know what that means."

My fingers traced the letters of her name, worn smooth by two years of weather. She'd been the only stable thing in my chaotic childhood. When she died, she'd left everything to Diana—the savings, the insurance money, this modest plot.

"I've been saving," I told the headstone. "Got almost a thousand dollars in an account Diana doesn't know about. The day I turn eighteen, I'm gone."

A bird called somewhere in the trees behind me, sharp and lonely.

"I'll be okay," I said. "Just a few more months. I can survive anything for a few more months."

When Grandma was alive, there'd been hot meals waiting after school, someone who asked about my day and actually listened. After she died, everything had gone cold and sharp and hungry.

That's when I'd learned to work. To save. To hide money in places Diana would never think to look.

Nine hundred and seventy-two dollars. It wasn't much, but it was mine. It was freedom.

My phone buzzed. Diana's text was two words: "Leaving now."

I stood up, brushing dirt from my jeans, and looked at Grandma's name one last time.

"I promise I'll survive this," I whispered. "I promise I'll get out."

Then I turned and walked away without looking back, because looking back would make it real, would make it final, would make it hurt more than it already did.

The bus was waiting at the corner. Arkansas was waiting beyond that. And somewhere in the future, freedom was waiting too.