How my dad broke me from my downward spiral in some ways—addiction—only to fuck me up worse in others.
You’re stronger than this.
Shakily, I straighten.
Lydia’s rigid body in my arms didn’t feel like she’d murdered my chemist, but maybe she’s good at acting now.
I turn.
There he is.
Eyes unseeing, skin discolored, lips dry and parted too wide.
I will myself to walk.
Closer.
My boots hit blood, but I will all emotion from my chest and crouch down, looking up at the metal frame of the door behind Grey as I dip my hand into his pants pocket.
His body is stiff; I can feel it even with denim between us.
My stomach lurches and not for the first time, I wonder how the fuck my parents do this and call it a career.
Mercifully, it’s the right pocket. My fingers close around a rectangle, and I pull his phone out as quickly as I can.
Hating myself but knowing I don’t have a choice, I click the side button on the device, stay crouched, and reach for Grey’s rigid hand.
It’s hard to lift it, the weight unseemly, disproportionate to what it should be, if he were living.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes but I refuse to fucking cry. I pretend his finger is different from the rest of him; not attached to a man I knew. One who worked for me. A personwho had a girlfriend he loved, and could’ve went on to a good life, away from me and this world and whatever it is that led him here.
The phone unlocks.
His background is a photo of Indie. The pressure behind my eyes pounds.
I can’t do this, so close to him.
With a gun in one hand, the phone in the other, I stand, then charge down the stairs, needing fresh air before I vomit.
I sprint through the room Lydia held a knife to my throat in, then out into the mountain air.
The cool chill of it laces around my throat, calming my panting breath, but the phone will lock if I’m not fast enough, so I don’t let myself breathe as I lean against the side of the marina, in the dying flowers planted along the edges.
I had a hand in the landscaping here. And just last week, I was responsible for wrapping up some of the boats.
Whoever killed Grey knew that, but he didn’t work with his hands. Why the fuck was he here?
I open his messages.
The ones to Indie are pinned at the top of his phone and my chest squeezes, but I don’t open those.
It’s the thread right below it I go for.
An unknown number, but I fucking recognize it. The same one that’s been texting me, with the IP address in the Hollows.
I tighten my grip on the butt of the gun in my hand and open the texts, scrolling through the short exchange to the top.
Unknown
