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He’s happy Zane is gone.
My lids crack open, and the bright light shines into my eyes. A headache instantly forms across my forehead, and I wince, the heel of my hand pressing into my skin for some relief.
Memories of the night come back to me like a vicious wave, and it feels as if my insides plummet into my mattress.
My hand slides from under my sheets, and I glance at all the dirt and sand burrowed under my nails. Exhaustion hit hard last night, and I walked straight into my room, only stripping my clothes before falling asleep in my still damp underwear.
Sleep came easier than I thought it would, and maybe it was because I was in such shock, such fucking outrage of the events that unfolded.
I roll onto my side, pulling my sheets up under my neck as my eyes begin to water.
We killed someone.
My eyes shutter closed, and I whimper out a breath. Is this all my fault? Because I liked a stranger, not one of our own? They could have hurt him, shaken him up a bit for what he did to me, but they didn’t.
We didn’t.
Is this how life will be? Living the rest of my life with three men who are so protective and possessive of us they won’t allow our hearts to open for another?
Will they never let me go?
A knock on my door sounds, and I wipe my crisp white sheets against my eyes, drying the tears and clearing out the wetness in my throat. “Come in,” I croak.
The door opens quickly, and my mother and father step inside.
I narrow my eyes, shoving myself up, bringing the sheet with me as I pin it under my arms. Their eyes are stone, their bodies pulled taut with tension, their mouths pressed into a thin line, and I instantly grow uneasy.
“What’s going on?” I mutter.
My father walks across the room. Barnett Ashford, Governor of Maine. He’s in a crisp black suit, his dark hair combed to the side. He goes to my wall cabinet, sliding the oak door open and revealing the large plasma screen sitting inside. Grabbing the remote, he turns the TV on, flipping to the local news.
My eyes widen, my body stiffening beneath the sheets as I watch the beach from last night, right at the lighthouse. The grave we spent hours digging is completely unveiled, a lump next to it, covered by a white sheet. Yellow police tape surrounds the area, and when my dad turns on the volume, my stomach turns to ice.
“…a body discovered in the early hours of this morning. Signs of foul play are prominent. If anyone has any tips or evidence, they’re urged to call the local police department.”
My father mutes the TV, turning toward me with a blank stare.
“Where were you last night, Lakyn?” he asks me, his voice unwavering.
I narrow my eyes, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “You can’t possibly think I have anything to do with this?”
My mother, Lyana Ashford, steps forward, her blonde hair curled and pinned delicately to the side of her head. Her yellow floral dress is ironed and pristine, brushing her knees. “Lakyn… you need to tell us if you have anything to do with this.”
I bite my lip so the gasp so desperate to break free doesn’t give me away. I can’t say anything.I can’t.
My father sighs, shaking his head as he lifts his hand in a small wave. One of my father’s workers, George, comes walking in with two suitcases, already bulging.
Wait, those aremysuitcases.
“What the fuck is going on?” I snap out of my bed, not giving a shit at this point that I’m only in a bra and underwear.
My father snaps his fingers. “Wait outside, George.”
George blinks, his eyes averting from mine as he drops the suitcases and steps into the hallway.
My mother turns around, going to my dresser and pulling out a shirt and pants. She walks over to me, setting them gently into my hands. Her fingers graze my bruised knuckles, squeezing them gently. “Lakyn…” Her eyes stare at the dried blood, and I slip them underneath the clothes, narrowing my eyes.
I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
