“What did the texts say?” Kai asks.
I glance up at him, my throat tightening. The room feels colder now, heavier. My fingers twist harder, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “There was a lot about the crash. And my father. And they knew things… things they shouldn’t.”
“Things only your father would know,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. One he’s already pieced together.
I nod. “Only my father, my sisters, and me.”
For a second, there’s nothing but silence between us. But it’s not empty. He’s thinking, I can tell. I can almost see the pieces falling into place behind those sharp, too-intense eyes. He leans back against the edge of the pool table, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away. He’s interested now. He cares—or at least, he cares about whatever puzzle I just handed him.
“But why do you want to know?” I blurt out while I still have the nerve. “You don’t even know me.”
Kai’s eyes meet mine. “My sister,” he says.
Two words. That’s all it takes to knock the air out of me.
I blink at him, my heart skipping a beat. “What about your sister?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
Because I’m ninety-nine per cent sure I already know. I’ve been told by Unknown that my father was the reason she died. That night, it wasn’t just an accident. It wasn’t suicide. He was driving so fast, so recklessly, that he killed her. That it was his fault. And, in many ways, mine. I was the reason he was even driving that fast in the first place after all.
I swallow hard and look at Kai. His expression hasn’t changed, but the look in his eyes says enough.
Heknows.
“What about your sister?” I ask again, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Kai’s jaw tightens. “I want to know why she was there when she shouldn’t have been,” he says, his words clipped. “Thisperson appears to know a lot, and I want to know everything they know.”
Of course. Of course it’s not about me. It never was. He’s not worried about me—he’s worried about his sister. He wants answers, and I’m just the unlucky thread he has to pull to get them. I force myself to breathe, to keep my thoughts from spiralling.
Of course. It was always about her.
I should’ve known. I did know. But still, an ache lodges in my chest anyway—a feeling I don’t dare name.
What right do I even have to feel this way?
We’re not close. I barely know him. He doesn’t know me. I’m not entitled to anything.
Especially not him.
I push the thought down—tuck it somewhere deep—then glance at him again as he leans against the pool table, watching me.
“I’m not saying I know everything,” he says finally, voice light. “But I know how to find things out. It’s what I’m good at.”
I don’t respond, so he straightens, takes a slow step forward. Then another. “You don’t trust me,” he says, with a soft smile that makes my stomach twist. “That’s smart.”
My voice comes out quieter than I want it to. “Should I?”
He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”
It’s not the question I expect, and it throws me, just a little.
“You’ve got someone in your messages,” he continues smoothly. “Someone in your head. And you’re scared—because they know things. Things about your family. About you. They’re pulling strings, and you don’t know where it ends. But I do. I’ve seen how this works.”
I stay still, but every part of me is on high alert. My fingers tighten around the hem of my sleeve.
“You don’t even have to like me,” he says, taking another step forward. “You just have to decide what’s worse—having me on your side… or not.”
I hate how persuasive he is. How calm. How certain.
