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“You didn’t survive Huxton because of worthiness, Emma.” He looks at her. “I don’t know how you survived. But what really matters is that you’re surviving now, in spite of everything. That survival is all down to your strength of character and will. That survival makes you a fucking force of nature.”
“Monsters don’t always look like something from a horror movie. Mostly, they just look like… normal guys.”
Kirke makes an expression of distaste. “Don’t be vulgar. Good girls aren’t vulgar.” Aren’t they? Emma’s fingers itch for a trigger.
And she remembers: Like Linda, she has survived. Sometimes she thinks her survival has been the result of strength, and courage, and tenacity—all the good, virtuous foundations for survival. But now she thinks maybe she has survived out of pure spite. Because fuck Huxton. Fuck him. He doesn’t get to dictate to her from the fucking grave. She can be happy if she wants to be. She can live. She can be free. Travis was right—she is a fucking force of nature. She is the maelstrom. And she is mighty.
