Page 18 of The Sound of Him

I should have called and checked in with him instead of being thankful he hadn't bothered me yet. While I was internally groaning over how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be about updates on these particular survivors, he was filling himself to bursting with self-hatred and despair.

“He was so young! He was a fucking father! He had a whole life ahead of him and we - we didn’t -Icouldn’t save - I couldn’t - Icouldn’t-”

I lose the rest of his words beneath the sound of his sobs.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to take deep breaths. My chest feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself, an invisible hand wrapped around my heart andsqueezing. The urge to give in is overwhelming. To just let myself be angry and devastated. To just yell and sob. To sit and feel the heartbreak of this.

Only one of us gets to fall apart right now, though. It might as well be him.

“Casey St. James,” I say calmly.

His breath hitches. “That’s not-”

“If we’d rushed things, been more aggressive,maybewe would have saved Ellis, but we likely wouldn't have had the time to save Casey.”

“If we’d rushed things, maybe Carter would have never been kidnapped, terrorized, and raped in the first place!”

I force myself to stay calm. “It was my fault he was found, not yours, Keaton. If you want to go there-”

“That's not - you know that's not - it wasn't your fault, Ace. How could you have known?”

“And how could you have?” I counter. When he doesn't come up with an argument, I push further. “Besides, if Carter was never taken, then wedefinitelywouldn’t have saved Casey.”

He breathes out, low and slow. It’s achingly familiar.

I can picture him, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as he blows out smoke. Nostalgia wars with heartbreak inside my chest.

“I thought you quit?” I ask, my voice suddenly raspy like I’m the one smoking. “Cinnamon gum, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been a fan of staying on wagons.”

Ah.

So he’s drinking again too.

“Where are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m home. Safe.” He clears his throat and I know this topic is no longer an option. We’re about to shift, and if I don’twant him to hang up on me, then I better play along. “I need to see them.”

And that’s what he shifts to?

Jesus Christ.

“Keaton-”

“Please.”

I close my eyes, pressing two knuckles against the corner of my eye and my brow. I can feel the low thrum of a migraine building. It’s the last thing I need right now.

Correction: it’s thesecondto last thing I need right now.

The absolute last thing I need right now is Keaton falling down this dangerous rabbit hole all over again.

We all have our coping mechanisms, but Keaton’s have always aired on the more destructive side of things. Helping him has always been less about convincing him to stop self-destructing and more about convincing him to only do it a little bit at a time.

When Keaton spirals, he doesn’t do it halfway. He drinks and smokes and takes drugs. He starts fights and lets himself get the shit beat out of him for a while before fighting back. He’ll go into seedy clubs and find someone who will wreck him just short of beyond repair, then go home with them. He’ll take contracts without letting us know, often coming out the other end with a slaughter in his wake and another close call under his belt.

On his worst days, Keaton stands on the edge of metaphorical and physical cliffs alike, just waiting to see which way the wind will decide to blow.