Now? He’s…dead.
Dead.
I don’t know how to feel about it.
“How?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop it, my voice barely a whisper.
“Hanging.” Brock's voice is flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes tell a different story—a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like pity. “In one of the hotel rooms. Looked like he'd been there a couple of days.”
My mates exchange glances, their protective instincts warring with their understanding of my complicated history with Sam. Luka’s thumb traces circles against my back, a silent offering of comfort that does little to soothe the turmoil inside me. I can feel their questions, their concern, but they're distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears, the sluicing of blood that drowns out all else.
Sam’s…dead.
He’s actually dead.
I don’t know what I expected when I sent Brock on this mission, but it wasn’t… Fuck. It wasn’tthis.
I wanted to see Sam with my own two eyes. Confront him. Demand answers. Ask him how he could betray me and if it was worth it.
Did he do it for money?
Fame?
Something else?
Will I ever know the truth behind his intentions?
Were we ever truly friends, or was it always a lie?
“Anything else?” I force the words out, my throat tight and constricted.
Brock reaches into his jacket and withdraws a folded piece of paper, the edges yellowed and worn, as if it had been handled countless times.
“He left a note. Addressed to someone named Karen. His sister, I believe.” He extends it toward me, his fingers brushing mine as I take it.
The paper feels impossibly heavy in my hand, weighted with words I'm not sure I'm ready to read, each crease a potential knife wound to the heart.
Then his words register.
My stomach bottoms out as a frigid jolt of fear hits me. I feel as if I’m standing on the icy surface of a lake that’s crackling and shattering beneath my feet, drawing me into its glacial depths. A corrosive combination of emotions I can’t quite articulate shoots through me, quickening my pulse.
“Karen?” I don’t recognize my voice.
“With a C,” Brock confirms.
No. No. No. No.
Hurt, shock, anger—it all battles inside of me. Outrage wins, crystallizing in my blood, causing my hands to shake where they grip the edges of the paper.
“Brylee?” Luka's voice is laced with concern, his deep baritone cutting through the fog in my mind. “What's wrong?”
I don't answer. I scan the hastily scrawled words, each line a fresh wound, each sentence a twist of the knife:
Dear Caran,
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I can't live with what I've done. I told myself it was for you, for your happiness, but I was lying. I was scared, and I chose the easy path. Brylee never deserved what I did to her. She was always stronger than me, always better. Tell her I'm sorry—not that she'll care. Tell her I was weak.
I hope you're happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. And T… I know T is what makes you happy. This will be the last time I’ll be able to get you medicine. I can’t do it again. I won’t.
