Kenneth doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak. For someone who used to fill every silence with nervous rambling, thatstillness terrifies me more than anything. I can’t fathom what’s happening in his mind, what he expects, what I’m doing here. In an attempt to fill the void, I finish both doughnuts and down the iced coffee, before wrapping my arms around myself as the cold settles in my gut.
This is Kenneth, I remind myself. The geeky, harmless Kenneth who cried over a B-minus and once apologized to a spider. I can’t be scared of him. I’m just…unsettled. That’s all.
“Kenneth, we’re friends, right?” I ask, and when his eyes drop, he gives a small nod that barely counts as an answer. I nod too, breathing harshly through my nose. Relief seeps through me, thinly veiled but there all the same. The Kenneth I knew is still in there somewhere, and if he’s still in there, then I can reason with him. Clearing my throat, I lean forward slightly.
“Clearly, there’s been some kind of mistake,” I say softly. “Whatever’s going on, we can talk about it.” A sudden shift flashes within his eyes as they lift, the look cold and accusing.
“You’ve never wanted to listen to me talk before. Everything you want to know now, I’ve already told you. When Clayton left and you came to the dorm every night to curl up on his bed. I confessed, I begged for your forgiveness, I pleaded with you to notice what was happening before it went too far. But you’d turned your receivers off. You didn’t listen.”
His words hit me as if I’ve been physically struck, my next breath punching outwards on a gasp. He’d already confessed? I could have known this whole time…but I shut him out like I do to everyone else. My deafness is a barrier most people struggle to deal with, so they don’t try and I actively cut them off, telling myself I prefer it that way. But not everyone wears their loneliness like a shield. I should have known better. I should’ve recognized that same desperate need to be heard in Kenneth.
I’d tuned him out the same way people do to me every single day—eyes glazing over, lips moving too fast for me to catch,leaving me on the outside of every conversation like I don’t exist. I should’ve known better. Instead, I turned my silence into a rejection. I told myself he was fine because I was too wrapped up in my own issues to deal with his as well. Now here we are, trapped in the dark, both of us paying the price.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “I got so caught up in... well, none of that matters. I’m listening now, I promise. As long as you leave the mic on.” I force a weak smirk in an attempt to lighten the weight in the air, but it feels brittle, cracking at the edges.
Pushing myself back onto the mattress, I cross my legs and pat the space beside me, a gesture that feels equal parts brave and stupid. I could be inviting a maniac to sit beside me, but my gut says Kenneth won’t hurt me. Not yet, at least. He has a story to tell, and all he’s ever truly wanted was a friend. Maybe that’s all this is. Or maybe I’m about to find out the hard way just how wrong I am.
Chapter Two
“Stop that,” Clayton mutters, nudging my foot when the tremor in my leg starts shaking the coffee table. I keep doing it anyway, faster this time, the movement so restless it rattles the empty whiskey glass beside the stack of police folders. Flashing red and blue bleed through the curtains every few seconds, each flicker slicing through my patience.
The whole house smells like sweat and damp wool from the rain-soaked uniforms coming in and out, officers talking in hushed voices and tracking mud through my hallways like they own the place. My house is used to unwanted visitors, but now that Harper’s laughter has bounced off these walls, I itch at the thought of it being tainted. Of her memory being scrubbed away by pot-bellied assholes that don’t understand the use of a door mat.
“I said stop,” Clayton says again, sharper this time, but I ignore him. He’s pacing the living room like he’s the one losing his mind, muttering to himself about evidence and timing and how long it’s taking them to piece together what we already know.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the half-burned cigarette butted out on the wooden table. Harper would hate the bitter taste on my tongue, the lingering smoke in the air, and that’s exactly why I did it. Prior to being kidnapped, she did walk out on me. She tore my heart from my chest, set it alight and left it burning on the porch steps. Talk about the stench of ash. But then Clayton smashed my door in and knocked some sense into me.
“We should be out there looking instead of waiting for some incompetent fuck to tell us they lost the trail again,” I growl, anger rippling through my spine. My fingers are still bloody, the scratches I’ve carved into my torso searing hot. It’s nothing compared to what’s happening on the inside. I’ve been trying to sit tight, to trust the process and follow orders. I’ve tried tocooperate, because that’s what she would’ve made me do, but pretending is a luxury I can’t afford. Missing her is like realizing one of your ribs isn’t there anymore. There’s no warning, just the empty ache that ruins every breath you try to take.
“Seriously, how hard can it be to catch one carrot-topped coward who can’t keep his mouth shut? I have no doubt he’s blabbed to every gas attendant and motel clerk along the way.”
Clayton stops pacing and glares down at me. His hair’s a mess of being clawed at, his jaw shadowed and tight.
“Obviously, we didn’t know him as well as we thought,” he grunts. I roll my eyes. There’s no ‘we’ in this, I wasn’t the bastard’s roommate. A couple of uniformed officers are standing uselessly at my kitchen island, arguing over the next steps like that’ll bring her back any faster. When they first arrived, they wanted to treat the place like an active crime scene. Dust for prints, take photos, bag evidence. It makes sense, being the last place Harper was before she walked out that damn door. Kenneth could have been nearby, watching and waiting to get her alone.
Unfortunately, whatever they might’ve found in terms of footprints or hair was all destroyed when I lost it. The shattered glass, overturned chairs, and blood on the wall where my fist met plaster, tainted anything that could have been helpful. Now all they’ve got are scraps and my word which, judging by the looks they keep trading, isn’t worth much.
“I’m five seconds away from kicking these fuckfaces out and scouring this entire country on my bike.”
“You need to calm down,” Clayton hisses. I stand, the words cracking like a whip. Crossing the room, my chest bumps his, the dried blood cracking open again.
“Calm down?!” I narrow my gaze. “How about you man up? She’s out there, alone and scared, and you want me to sit here while they check traffic cameras?” I throw my thumb in the direction of the uniforms across the room. “You think I give a shit about protocol?”
Lifting a book from the coffee table, some novel Harper left behind that probably has a much better ending than our story does, I throw it at the nearest wall. It crashes into a mess of paper and drops to the floor, catching everyone in the vicinity by surprise. Clayton grabs my arm and drags me over to the window, keeping our words private.
“Rhys,” he sighs quietly, “they’re going to lock you up for your own safety. You know that, right?”
“Let them try,” I huff. “They’ll have to break both my legs to keep me here.” Running my tongue along the inside of my cheek, I taste the copperish tang of blood remaining. Clayton sighs again, scrubbing a hand down his face. The gesture makes him look older, more worn than I’ve ever seen him. His features are gray, his mouth lined with worry. I look away before I start feeling sorry for him. We’re both fucked here, there’s no need to compare, even though I’m hurting more.
Looking down at my chest, disgust glints in Clayton’s onyx eyes at the tattered material hanging from my shoulders. I refused to let a medic near me, my mood too volatile to control my actions right now. One sting of antiseptic and I might just lose my damn mind.
Striding away, Clayton reappears to shove a fresh T-shirt into my hand. It’s not one of mine. The polyester scratches against the open gashes across my skin, the collar rough against my neck. It must be one he left behind when he walked out. The fucker.
The sound of radios crackling drifts in from the hallway, muffled orders followed by the distant clatter of boots. We both turn to watch more cops enter, waiting for an update that never comes. Clayton lowers onto the sofa and cracks his knuckles. He swallows thickly, his lips forming around words that don’t make any sound. I grit my teeth, knowing I’m going to regret this.
“Oh, spit it out already,” I shake my head, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Our knees are practically touching as I stare him down head-on. I can’t avoid this anymore. We have tocommunicate. “I won’t react. Just say it.” Clayton lifts a skeptical brow, not that I blame him, but speaks anyway.
“I didn’t think she’d really leave. I thought…she’d stay with you, to be honest. That you’d convince her to stay regardless.”
