Page 2

Then, my father sighs heavily before saying the words that splinter my entire being into pieces. “Yes. But you’re still our son.”

My stomach lurches, the world tilting around me.

I hoped—God, I hoped—that it wasn’t real. But hearing them say it out loud feels like a knife straight to the ribs. A slow, twisting agony that rips through everything I thought I knew.

I stagger back, the porch suddenly too small, the air too thin. My mind races, struggling to connect pieces that I don’t want to fit together.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“Logan, please, just listen—” Mom reaches for me again, but I pull back so fast I nearly stumble.

“I am listening. And I hear everything now.”

Decades of secrets. All the shame I stuffed deep down. The fucking irony of it all. My whole goddamn life, I tried to be the son they wanted. The man I thought I was supposed to be.

Turns out, I was nothing more than a cosmic punchline at my own expense.

Dad doesn’t even try to soften the blow. “We did what we had to do.”

I bark out an almost manic laugh as I turn away, but I don’t answer. All I can think about is her. My wife.

And Devon.

My eyes squeeze shut, but that only makes it worse because now I see it—the two of them together. The betrayal carved into my skin, into my fucking DNA.

She screamed that our marriage was a mistake. She slept with my adopted brother. My parents’ real son.

A shudder wracks through my body, and I force my legs to move. One step, then another. The front door gapes behind me like a black hole, no longer my home. Maybe it never was.

I don’t say goodbye.

I don’t say anything at all. Just stumble to my car, throw myself inside and speed out of the driveway like I have somewhere to be and people waiting who care about me.

But the truth is, I don’t.

I have nothing.

And I am no one.

Chapter

Two

Salem - One Year Later

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I disagree.

A picture is worthless.

Flimsy paper, easily crumpled and tossed aside. Burned to ash, ripped to shreds. Weak. Delicate. Of all the ways to capture a memory, most choose thin material behind fragile glass.

Myself included.

As I pull the first print from the tray, I watch the image sharpen, details blooming in the dim red glow of my darkroom. It’s a face I know all too well—sharp gray eyes, a ghost of a smile, freckled cheeks. A moment stolen in time.

But it’s not real.

The person in the photo doesn’t exist anymore, not like this.