Page 69 of Monstrous Serpent

“Dad is gone. Move on.”

Garrett sighs. “If only it were that easy.”

My gaze drops to my hand. To the tattoo on my inner wrist, the ink covering the scars along my forearm.

Shouldn’t have said that.

Some things don’t get moved on from.

Garrett reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. My shoulders pull taut, eyes narrowing. He hesitates before slowly pulling out a small white business card pinched between two fingers. Grease stains mark one corner. The print says “Ironline Auto Repair” with his name underneath.

I take it, my eyes locked with his.

“I’m not Dad, Hunt.”

My fingers tighten around the card.

“My number’s on the back. Use it or don’t.”

He turns, walking toward an old Chevy pickup. It has Ohio plates. No 906 sticker.

I stand there, card cutting into my palm as I watch him go. After, I look the card over, dragging my thumb over my brother’s name once.

Garrett Kincaid.

I slide it into the pocket of my joggers and pull in a breath that stops halfway. I need to get to Atlas.

My boots hit the concrete path, stride already lengthening. I cut left across the grass, then right at the library. The campus opens around me—too much space, too many shadows between buildings.

Too much fucking time between where I am and where he is.

Atlas had better be in our room because Garrett is here. Garrett saw him. Garrett said his name, looked toward the arena like he had a right to put his eyes on what survived him.

My pace turns into something close to a jog.

Fuck.

Atlas is going to ask. The second I walk in, he's going to ask where the hell I was. And he’ll push until he gets something that satisfies him.

I need a story.

Something that keeps him breathing. Keeps him steady. Keeps him from breaking apart all over again. Because I won’t let that happen.

Ironwood was never home. Never safe. But I did learn something there.

Silence keeps people alive.

Chapter 19

Cody

“That's three in a row.” I spin the club between my fingers, grinning at Davis. “You want to keep going, or should I just start signing autographs now?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Davis grabs a club from the rack and steps up to the tee. “You play hockey, not golf. We’re all equally bad at this.”

“And yet.” I gesture at the scoreboard, then drop into the chair at the high-top table and grab my water.

“You're the worst.” He lines up his shot, shifts his stance twice, then shanks the ball right into the safety netting. “That doesn't count.”