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age eighteen
We’d all been tricked by death at least once in our lives. The story had been told for thousands of years across the entire world about the man who was dead. Except… he wasn’t.
I stared at him now as his statue towered over the congregation, blood seeping from his wounds, and his dark eyes watching—always watching. He saw everything, even the depths of our souls we hid beneath forced smiles and beautiful lies. No wonder his glassy eyes always seemed filled with tears. Jesus. That was his name—the man who died… but didn’t. It had always been the most fascinating story I’d ever heard.
Colorful reflections from the stained-glass windows peppered the tile floor of the cathedral. The red velvet kneelers were already in place, waiting for our benedictions.
Every time I walked into a church, I was surprised it didn’t burst into flames. A guy like me had no business mingling with the saints. I was a sinner to my core. I knew it. My family knew it.
Glassy-eyed, blood-stained Jesus knew it.
Dad insisted we show up to St. Mathias every Sunday as a family to maintain a wholesome image. Everyone knewwholesomeandpoliticswent together about as well as oil and water. But Malcolm Huntington had secured his seat on the New York Senate with shrouded secrets and careful lies, and we were all required to play our part. On the inside, our souls were damned—all but my sister’s—but to the world, we looked like good and faithful servants.
I was sick of pretending.
Fortunately, today wasn’t about maintaining an image or worshiping a God who turned His back on me when I was just thirteen years old. Today, we were here as moral support for Lyric—my little sister’s best friend. Today, I watched a fifteen-year-old girl’s life turn upside down as she said her final goodbye to her mother. Death had claimed her, she wasn’t coming back. There would be no fantastic story of a resurrection. This time, it was for keeps.
The media called it a drug overdose. It was almost as if they gloated about it. Lyric’s father had made a fortune writing and recording songs that put his ex-wife on blast, and the public ate that shit up. No one gave a flying fuck about how it might affect their teenage daughter.
During the service, there were readings and rosaries, and prayers spoken, but I only paid attention to Lyric. She’d been a constant fixture in our lives since she was a little kid—family outings, vacations, damn near every weekend and holiday. She was like family. And even though she was three years younger than me, I was drawn to her.
Broken sees broken.Wasn’t that the saying?
After the mass, she sat on the cathedral steps, plucking the petals off a red rose, then releasing them into the wind. The sun was shining above us, but all I felt was darkness. I guess that was what people meant when they said,“the shadow of death.”
She watched as one petal blew away before picking the next one off and letting it float through the air. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders in long curls, and her flawless skin was stained black under her eyes from where her mascara had run.
My gaze trailed over the hot pink dress she wore, and I smiled. She refused to wear black to her own mother’s funeral. Lyric Matthews hated rules. We lived in a world of proper etiquette and refined social behavior, and she defied expectations. I liked that about her.
Her father wore his best suit, just like every other man here. I wore jeans and a polo because I defied expectations too. We were alike in that way, Lyric and me.
She caught me staring at her and stood up.
I looked around and over my shoulder for my sister, but she was nowhere to be found. We were surrounded by small groups of people lost in their own conversations. They didn’t matter. No one mattered but the sad, beautiful girl in front of me.
Lyric moved closer with slow, deliberate steps until we were toe-to-toe. She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. And then she took my hand, lacing her fingers in mine.
Holy shit. Her gentle touch was an adrenaline rush like no other. And that look… Fuck me. I couldn’t handle that look.
“I feel like I need to run. I don’t know where. Just… away.” She looked down at our hands joined together then back up at me. “If I ran, would you run with me?” she asked in a voice smaller than I was used to hearing leave her lips.
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “I would run with you.”
