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I feel somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept locked down for a long time, because I don’t know what to do with it, don’t know how to accept something that feels so foreign. Even when I thought I had someone on my side, it was never like this. Not even Trent, not even when things were good, not even when I believed in what we had.

Something in my chest cracks under the weight of it. I feel it before I can stop it. The tear slips free, tracking slowly down my temple into my hair. I don’t try to hide it. I don’t have the energy to.

I pull in a shallow breath, wincing at the way my ribs protest even that small movement, and gather what little strength I have left, forcing the words up past the rawness in my throat.

“I think…” My voice barely makes it out, rough and broken. I swallow carefully, trying again. “I think I killed someone.”

Chapter 15

Conor

I have never been more thankful for my mother in my life, and that’s saying something considering everything she’s done for all of us over the years. She’s been holding this family together for as long as I can remember, keeping us in line, keeping us grounded, saving us in ways we didn’t even realize we needed. And from what I’ve been told, she was doing the same thing for Dad and Uncle Duncan long before any of us were even around.

Somehow, in a matter of minutes, she’s managed to do what I haven’t been able to accomplish in months of watching him, following him, trying to understand him from a distance that never should have existed in the first place. She got through to him. Not much, not everything. But more than I’ve ever gotten from him in every conversation we’ve had combined. Just that quiet, steady way she has of making people feel like they’re safe enough to tell the truth.

I glance at her, watching the way she sits there beside him, calm and composed, like this is exactly where she’s supposed to be. And maybe that’s why it works. Because she doesn’t treat it like a problem to solve, she treats it like a person who needs to be seen.

Something tight settles in my chest as I look back at him, at the tear still drying against his skin, at the way he looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread. And for the first time since I saw him on that camera feed, I know one thing for certain. I’m not walking away from this.

I reach up without really thinking about it, my thumb brushing along his cheek to catch the tear before it can disappear into his hair, the motion careful, slower than anything I usually allow myself to be. I hate seeing him like this. He’s always been quiet. Closed off.

Broody in a way that made it hard to read anything from him at all, and in the eight months I’ve been watching him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile, not once, not even when he thought no one was looking. My gut tightens at the thought, because I want to. I want to see what that looks like. I want to hear him laugh, and I want to be the reason it happens.

“No one is going to touch you here,” She tells him, keeping her voice steady and even. “I’m stationing guards outside your room. You’re safe. Now for the next part,” She continues, as I watch his eyes closely. “You think, but you don’t know for sure if the person is dead.”

I wait. One blink. My jaw tightens.

“We need to know where and who, so we can figure this out, Jaxon.”

Mom’s hand moves over his hair, gentle and grounding in a way I wish came naturally to me, and I watch closely, noting the way he doesn’t pull away from her touch. Or mine.

He blinks twice, then closes his eyes, trying to shake his head, but the movement is weak, cut short by the pain that pulls a visible reaction from him. I shift, ready to step in, ready to say something, but Mom beats me to it.

“Listen to me, Jaxon,” she says softly, her hand moving to cup his cheek. “It’s okay for you to accept help. It’s okay to let people in when they can actually make a difference.”

He tries again to shake his head, stubborn even now, but the wince stops him before he can finish.

“My family and I can be that for you,” she continues, her tone never changing, never pushing too hard. “Conor has offered, and I’m standing with him on that.” There’s a pause, just enough to let it sink in. “And even if you don’t agree,” she adds gently, “we’re still going to help. It’s what we do.”

She straightens, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair one last time.

“Get some rest,” she tells him. “We’ll talk later and figure out a plan.”

Then she turns, heading for the door, pausing just long enough to motion for me to follow. I hesitate for a second, my eyes going back to him, taking in the way his face tightens, the way another tear slips free despite everything.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him quietly before stepping out into the hallway.

The brightness out here is harsh compared to the dim room, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

“Don’t push him too hard right now, Conor,” Mom says, her voice softer now but no less firm.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair as I look down the hall, already knowing she’s right. She always is. Out of all of us, I’m the one with the least patience. The one who wants answers now. The one who acts first and deals with the consequences later. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. It’s the same reason I started watching Jaxon the first night I saw him. I couldn’t walk away. I still can’t.

That’s what I told Mom when I called her on the way to the hospital, my hands tight on the wheel, my thoughts spiraling so fast I could barely keep track of them, every instinct in me screaming for violence, for retaliation, for something that would make whoever touched him pay for it. I wanted to burn it all down. Every single person who had ever laid a hand on him. And somehow, in the middle of all that, she pulled me back. Like she always does.

Her voice alone is enough to cut through it, to slow me down just enough to think instead of react, to breathe instead of explode. I told her everything. Everything I knew, everything Taylor had reported. Every detail I had gathered, every piece I had put together, even the parts I hadn’t wanted to say out loud before.

She was quiet for a long moment after I finished, and I knew that silence meant something, knew she was thinking, weighing it, deciding what mattered most. Then she asked me the one question I had been avoiding.