I move past Tyler, heading straight for the door, but his arm comes up, stopping me before I can touch the handle.
“Where are you going?” he signs, confusion drawn tight across his face.
“Is he sitting in his car right now?” My hands feel heavy, each movement weighted.
Tyler gives me a small, sad smile, then shakes his head.
“No. Mike’s the one downstairs.”
The tiny spark of hope in my chest flickers.
“Alex left this morning,” Tyler continues, “said he had to take care of something. But… he should be back later tonight.”
I shake my head, my heart thrumming too fast to wait.
“I need to see him.”
The words tear out of me in my voice before I even know I’ve spoken. Both Tyler and I freeze. My throat burns at the sound, rough from days of silence. I didn’t think my voice would come again, not after my mind buried it under everything else. The trauma, fear, and the weight I carry. But right now, none of that matters.
I need to see him.
I need my Alex.
“He might be at his apartment,” I rasp again, my voice cracked and scratchy. “Ty… I need to go to him. I need him.”
Tyler watches me for a long moment. I know he hears the desperation bleeding through my voice, the plea lodged in my chest. Something in his expression softens, loosens.
“Okay. Chill.” His signs are slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to calm a restless child. “You need to put on your hearing aids before you go. But first and most importantly, you need to clean up. You haven’t showered in days. Your hair’s a mess and you kinda stink. So, how about we take care of that first, okay?”
His hands move with steady patience, his eyes warm in that way that can still cut through my chaos. I force myself to focus on that, the even rhythm of the way he signs, the way he doesn’t rush me, and his gaze holds me in place.
Another breath leaves me, this one pulled from somewhere deep in my chest. I nod slowly.
“Okay.”
FORTY-NINE
ALEXANDER
I pop a cigarette between my lips as I drop into the cold metal chair, the room thick with the smell of damp concrete and old blood. My legs spread, my body sinking back like I’ve been here all my life.
The lighter flares, the paper catches, and I drag in slow and deep, feeling the burn settle in my chest. I tip my head back against the wall, exhaling, watching the smoke twist upward into the stale air until it disappears.
The heavy metal door scrapes open. Footsteps echo across the floor. I don’t look.
I’m just bringing the cigarette back to my mouth when a hand snatches it away. My eyes flick sideways. Anton.
He breaks it clean in two, the tobacco spilling onto the cracked floor before he drops the pieces like they’re something filthy.
“I thought you quit,” he says, voice deeper than mine, close enough to our father’s to make my jaw twitch—but his face is all our mother’s, just sharper, meaner.
“I thought I did,” I reply, my gaze steady.
He gives me that slow, assessing look, then turns his head toward the far side of the room. His eyes settle on the man slumped there before he drags a chair closer and sits beside me.
“You think he’s gonna make it till this weekend?” he asks, nodding toward the unconscious body.
“Oh, trust me,” I say, my voice low as my gaze locks on the body. “He will.”
