Mom.
She’s crumpled on her side, blood leaking from multiple holes in her stomach. My brain freezes, like I’ve stumbled into a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
“Axel!” Johnny shouts, dragging my attention. “Joe ran into the woods. We have to go after him. We can’t let him hurt anyone else.”
I nod before I fully register what he said. We’re out the frontdoor and running into the dark, chasing a monster with nothing but adrenaline and zero sense of direction.
We don't get far.
“Police! Put your weapons down!” someone shouts.
“He’s getting away!” Johnny yells back, furious.
“We’ve got it under control. Lower your weapons.”
Reluctantly, Johnny places his Glock on the ground. I do the same. The officers move in, saying something about how they’ll take it from here. That we should go back to the house.
Back to Mom.
She wasn’t going to make it. I think I knew that the second I saw the rug.
They said we’d be okay. That we’d be safe. They lied. That was the last time this place felt like anything close to home.
I failed the rest of senior year. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe in these walls. Nik’s parents let me crash with them until I got back on track. That’s when I learned the truth about Nik’s family—the world he hid even from me. But I kept my mouth shut, repeated the fall semester, and managed to graduate only a few months behind.
Now, as the house comes into view, I’m hit with a wave of déjà vu. Everything looks the same. It’s perfectly preserved, like a goddamn time capsule. Ben keeps it spotless, as if maintaining the shell of our past keeps Mom close.
I park and jog up the steps, knocking twice out of habit. He shouldn’t be home right now. It’s Pickleball night.
When there’s no answer, I unlock the door with my key, disarm the alarm, and shoot off a quick text.
Me:Hey! Stopped by, but guess you aren’t home. Gonna grab a few things from my room and head out.
It takes less than a minute for him to respond.
Ben:Sounds good. Sorry I missed you, kid. See you soon, yeah?
Me:You know it. Miss you, Old Man.
Ben:Miss you too, Punk.
I smile at his old nickname for me. I was a little shit in high school. Honestly? Not much has changed.
I don’t head to my old room. Instead, I make a beeline to his office.
The air in here is heavy, like the room knows I’m not just visiting. Everything’s exactly as it was—framed photos, paperwork stacked neatly, mahogany desk polished to a shine. I start with the drawers. They’re unlocked, but empty of anything interesting. I tap along the sides, listening for hollow spots. Nothing.
Too easy, maybe.
I move to the hardwood floor, testing each board with my weight. No creaks, no give.
Still nothing.
Annoyed, I head to the bookshelf, pulling books, shaking them, checking behind rows and in crevices. It takes longer than I want it to. Ben’s match won’t last forever. Pressure builds behind my ribs.
Eventually, I grab a screwdriver from my pocket and climb onto the office chair. I check the vent. Empty. Damn.
I’m running out of ideas, until one more possibility hits me. I move to the outlets. The first two come up empty, but the last one? Bingo.
