That’s a bad sign...
“He’s waiting for you,” Apollo says, holding his hand out for my keys.
I know the drill. Dawn is almost here and, soon, the sun will rise, illuminating the weeds poking out between the cracks in the driveway and highlighting my shiny, cherry-red Corvette.
A brand-new, expensive, sporty car will catch too much attention in this neighborhood, so Apollo will park it out the back like he did the last three times.
The track record of those meetings doesn’t bode well. Neither does the forceful shoulder squeeze Apollo offers as I pass him in the doorway, dropping my keys onto his open palm.
He closes the door behind me, the narrow corridor lit by retro light fixtures. Orange-and-brown geometrical wallpaper peels off the top half of the walls, the once-light-green carpet now missing half its thread count. The interior hasn’t seen a décor change since this place was built in the sixties.
I step toward the living room like I’m walking on fucking tissue paper. I disregard the mounting unease fraying my nerves and the smell of decay filling the stale, dusty air.
Call it sentiment, but there’s an odd charm about this rundown house... Even if I’ve only ever heard tidings of death within its walls.
Veering left, I step across a threshold marked clearly by the carpet change: from seen-better-days green to dirty pink.
My father occupies an armchair by the large fireplace, his long, brown coat draped over the backrest, his hat firmly in place where it belongs: on top of his head.
Rhett’s sense of style is older than him, his black leather shoes so polished you could check in the reflection whether you have something stuck in your teeth.
He and Apollo must’ve arrived a while ago given the heat coming off the orange glow of the fire, and the near-melted ice in the glass of bourbon by Rhett’s arm.
His face is as impassive as always, the scar marking his nose and lips as sinister as any other day, but the haunted look clouding his black irises stirs a new flavor of hell inside me.
The rush returns. Adrenaline and anxiety course through me, shattering the hope I didn’t hold much of to begin with.Deep down, I knew what he’d say the moment I arrived, but... it’s true what Dante says.
Hope dies last.
“How?” is all I push past my clenched teeth, my world crumbling as his unspoken confirmation falls like a guillotine.
It severs the sliver of mercy I acquired under Dante’s mentorship clean off my bones. Whoever’s responsible for my little sister’s death... their days are numbered.
“Suicide,” Rhett barks out, sipping his drink.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Suicide.
The longer the word bounces around my mind, stealing the breath from my chest, the more meaningless it sounds. I’ve lived through my share of darkness, but taking my life never crossed my mind.
I’m reeling that I wasn’t there for Aalyiah when she needed me. I’m reeling that she’s gone. That she couldn’t escape whatever labyrinth of seemingly unfixable issues she fell into.
Everything can be fixed.
We’d have found a way if she fucking called me.
I should’ve been there for her. I should’ve known she was struggling but... she was so bright and happy whenever we spoke.
My little ray of sunshine.
Always smiling. Always seeing the positives, the goodness... even inside monsters like her father and brother.
“Sit.” Rhett points out an armchair directly opposite him, then clinks his glass against an empty one sitting beside an almost full bottle of bourbon. “Drink.”
It’s not an invitation.
