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It’s almost a letdown when there’s no one waiting for me in my apartment. I arrive home to find the door locked, and when I look around, it’s clear that there’s no one there.
Immediately I pull off my new hoodie and chuck it onto my bed with a grimace. I should burn it, or cut it up, or do something to show my disdain for being dressed up like a mascot when I certainly have no interest in being one.
I also take care of the tattoo on the back of my neck; glad for the thin, clear bandage that does most of the work for me as I just make sure nothing looks infected or like it’s not healing well. To my relief and disdain, it’s healing perfectly fine. I gaze at it in the mirror, and I can’t help but almostlikethe flowers behind the skull and the way the knife rests directly between my shoulders. If it wasn’ttheirmark, I’d like it more.
But I can’t help but be…impressed, maybe? That’s probably the word I’m looking for because even though I’m mad about it, I can’t deny how good it looks.
How goodArlomade it look.
“C’mon, Ari. You really can’t have a crush on them. Any of them, let aloneallof them,” I tell my pale reflection, letting my hair fall down my back once more. On the bright side, with my hair down, I can hide the tattoo easily enough if I want to. At least until I get it covered.
My stomach twists at that thought, and I frown at the way I almost don’twantto remove it.
But it’s only been a day, and I’m tired, I tell myself. That’s definitely the reason. I’d rather just curl up in bed and do nothing, so it’s obvious that right now, I don’t want to worry about having a tattoo removed.
I sigh heavily and go to my couch, where I can drag my laptop over and put on one of my never-ending horror movie marathons.
I meant what I said to Cyril. I don’t care what he told me or his warnings not to get involved in Lost Boys business. Theymademe a part of their business, and I’m not going to get caught without knowing what in the world I’m getting into. Or, in this case, getting dragged into.
Though, I’m not exactly sure where to start. Absently I draw my thumb over the scars on my wrist and finally, type in the name of Cyril’s uncle.
Nathan Chancellor.
The articles I find are…obvious, to say the least. The man who owns most of the city is everywhere, and the news cycle normally follows what he’s doing and what he’s buying, so that’s most of what I find online.
There’s no mention of Cyril anywhere. And when I type his name in, I only get a few articles that say he’s the nephew of Nathan and was taken in by his uncle after something happened to Cyril’s parents. It seems he was fourteen or so when that happened, and some blogs talk about Nathan as if he did some kind of great, charitable thing by taking in his nephew.
I stare at them in one picture, noting that the two of them look remarkably similar, and then exit out of the browser I was using. There’s no use in looking up the Lost Boys when I don’t know any of their last names.
Except Isaac’s,that sly voice in my brain points out.
Idoknow his last name unless he’s changed it.
Isaac Hurley.
It would be easy to type it in. I’ve never tried searching for him before, outside of social media, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I’ve always been afraid of what I might find if I did.
Though now I don’t have that excuse. Not when I know he’s alive and kicking, and so the worst possibility is no longer a possibility at all.
But still.
It feels…wrong, somehow. It feels like I’m intruding if I search his name since I have a feeling something happened between back then and now to make him into the Lost Boy he is today.
And I’m not sure I want to know just what that is. I’ve spent a good amount of time blaming myself for not doing more to get him out of a bad situation, whether that be arguing with my parents about taking him in or getting a social worker sent to his house, and now that I have the opportunity to find out, I…almost don’t want to.
Because what if something awfuldidhappen, and I could’ve saved him from it?
My heart ties itself into a knot in my chest, restricting my breathing as my fingers curl so that my nails dig into my palms.
I’m not going to look him up, I finally decide, because it’s not my business. And out of all of them, he’s still my Isaac. Still the boy that I knew years ago with the sweetest, dorkiest smile on the playground and a heart of gold to match.
I just can’t help but wonder if that heart of gold has been shattered, and if it has, what kind has reformed in its place.
On a whim, I pick up my cellphone and dial the main number for Chancellor Enterprises, knowing what I’m doing is a stupid idea at best. But I want to know how official Cyril is or how under the radar heisn’t.
Because I’d never heard of him before yesterday, and Chancellor is a big deal in this city. If he is related to Nathan, which I don’t really doubt, there would be more about him online.
The phone rings twice, then a woman picks up with a pleasant, polite greeting of, “Chancellor Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”
