Inside, the house is silent. The staff are all asleep in their quarters. Vincent’s mom is probably asleep too. It’s just me, creeping up the grand staircase, trying not to think about Vincent alone with Father.
I reach my room and shut the door behind me. My hands are shaking. I don’t know why. Father talks to Vincent all the time. But something about tonight feels different. Wrong.
I flip on my gaming console, needing the distraction. The bright colors flash across the screen, but I can’t focus. My character dies over and over. I keep making the same stupid mistakes.
An hour passes. Two. My eyes burn from staring at the screen.
The house remains silent.
By three AM, I can’t take it anymore. I switch off the game and listen. Nothing. No voices, no footsteps. Maybe Vincent is back in his room now.
I open my door, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. The hallway stretches dark and empty in both directions. Father’s suite is at the opposite end from mine. Vincent’s room is just three doors down.
I creep along the plush carpet, avoiding the spots I know will make noise. Years in this house have taught me how to move like a ghost. How to exist without being noticed.
At Vincent’s door, I pause, then tap out our secret knock—two quick, one slow, two quick. The pattern we came up with months ago, a childish code that somehow survived as everything else in our lives grew more complicated.
No answer.
I frown, tap again. Still nothing.
Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s exhausted from dancing and whatever conversation he had with Father.
I try the handle. It turns easily, the door opening with a soft click.
Vincent never leaves his door unlocked.
I push it open, heart pounding against my ribs. “Vince?” I whisper into the darkness. “You awake?”
The room is silent. I feel along the wall for the light switch and flip it on.
The room is empty.
Not just empty of Vincent—empty of Vincent’s things. The bed is made, corners tucked with military precision. The dresser drawers are partially open, clothes missing. The photos that usually line his desk—his mother in her ballerina days, thetwo of us at the lake last summer—are gone.
I stand frozen in the doorway, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Maybe he’s in the bathroom. Maybe he’s somewhere else in the house.
But I know. Deep down, I already know.
Vincent is gone.
I move to his closet and yank open the door. Half his clothes are missing. The suitcase he keeps on the top shelf is gone. His favorite boots—the scuffed combat ones that Father hates—are missing from the neat row of shoes.
My legs give out, and I sink onto the edge of his bed. “Vince,” I whisper to the empty room. No answer comes back.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the blank walls, the empty spaces where Vincent’s life used to be. Long enough for the sky outside to lighten from black to deep blue. Long enough for the first birds to start singing, oblivious to the fact that the world has just shifted on its axis.
Eventually, I stand up on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. I turn off the light and close the door behind me. I walk back to my room, each step heavier than the last.
My stepbrother is gone, and somehow, I know he’s not coming back.
2
Alex
I STEP OUT OF the bathroom, zipping up as the door swings shut behind me. Voices and music pound against my skull like a physical assault. Leslie—at least I think that’s her name—stumbles out after me, lipstick smeared across her flushed face. She reaches for my arm. I shrug her off without looking back. Another forgettable hookup at another shitty frat party. Exactly how I like it—meaningless and easy to walk away from.
“Alex,” she calls, her voice slurring. “Where are you going?”
