My father hired Cleo to hurt Dylan.
He covered up Cleo’s involvement.
Dylan is dead because dear old Dad can’t bear the thought of his legacy going to ruin.
I’m sorry, Dylan. I’m sorry you can’t have the justice you deserve.
There’s a knock at the door. I can’t bring myself to incline my head to see who it is. I feel as though I’m made of sand. If I move, I’ll crumble to pieces and the ocean will wash me away.
Claudia slumps into the window seat, facing me. She slides the window shut and pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. She studies me as I take another drag, those icicle eyes seeing every dark thought.
“It’s your birthday next week,” I say with false brightness. “We should do something fun.”
Her lips form an O of surprise, but she doesn’t challenge me on it. “What did you have in mind?”
“A surprise. Leave it up to me.” I hold my hand to my heart. “Gabriel Fallen knows how to plan a killer party. Just be ready at seven PM, and wear something devastating.”
She sighs. “Gabe, I…”
“How did you stand it?” I ask.
“Stand what?”
“Being alone in this house for so long. I’d have gone mental.”
“You’re mental anyway.” She punches me in the arm. “It’s kind of the same as your place by the ocean. It’s nice being alone sometimes.”
I don’t tell her that sometimes I can’t stand the silence at my condo. That every crash of the waves whispers accusations.Guilty. Guilty.
I’ve tormented myself over Dylan’s death. Even returning to Emerald Beach was a punishment of sorts. I shouldn’t be out on tour, enjoying myself, playingourmusic, while he rots in the ground. I’ve gone so long without pouring my heartache into music because I knew it would make me feel better, and I didn’t deserve to feel better. I don’t know if I still have the music in me.
Cleo may have written his note, but that didn’t make it a lie. I never saw Dylan’s death as anything other than a suicide because that note drove a stake right through my heart. I was everything he claimed – a selfish friend, a heartless bastard, a half-assed lover who made him grand promises and then leaped into the arms of every girl or guy who’d have me because I was too afraid of what we had.
The truth doesn’t always set you free. Sometimes, the truth is the noose you use to hang yourself.
I hold out the joint to Claudia. She whips it from my hand. “What I loved most about that condo was escaping it. Why do you think I toured as much as possible? After Dylan, it felt like the only place I could go – a prison of my own making.”
Claudia rolls her eyes. “I guess… I understand. Sometimes the silence would get to me. It’s like… all my thoughts were amplified. And that’s okay when I’m reading books or playing with Queen Boudica, but the demons creep into the spaces in-between. Sometimes my thoughts were drenched in blood. They still are.”
Claudia picks up my acoustic guitar from where it leans against the wall. She gave the strings an experimental strum. “You brought this with you?”
“Don’t get excited. Note the layer of dust on the fretboard. I haven’t touched it since I got here.” In her hands, the instrument doesn’t seem real. It takes on the appearance of a weapon. Something she can use to bludgeon me with until I stop feeling sorry for myself and become the man she believes me to be. I love the way danger rolls off Claudia’s skin. I just want to fuck my gangster girl all the time.
She holds the guitar out to me. “Play me something.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather smoke.”
She holds the joint out of reach and jiggles the instrument. “Go on. I’ve spent so many years alone with your recordings. I think your voice is baked into the walls. I know you’re not writing songs, and I won’t push you, even though you still owe me a Christmas present. But you can still play, can’t you?”
She tosses the guitar at me. My heart clatters as I grab it from the air. It feels alive in my fingers, charged with starlight. A bead of sweat collects above my eye. I shake my head to flick it away.
I close my eyes.
I strum.
The note fills the room, low and humble. It feels significant, and yet I know it’s nothing. It doesn’t say any of the things I want to say to this remarkable woman.
My eyes flutter open. I lock my gaze with Claudia, and I launch into ‘The Black Witch,’ one of our most popular songs – the song I wrote with Dylan when we first left Blackwich Castle. It’s about giving up all the bullshit of my family legacy to live life on my own terms.
