Not the Murphy house. Not tonight's explosion, though that's there, too, lodged in my brain like shrapnel. No. It's Reilan. The image my mind created in the back of that SUVwhen I thought he was burning alive. I can still feel it in my chest, the absolute certainty that he was gone. The way my lungs collapsed around the knowledge of it. The sounds I made didn't belong to any language.
He's alive.
William told me. Aidan confirmed it through encrypted messages. Everyone is safe. The plan worked. The decoys burned, not people.
But my body doesn't believe it yet. My body is still in that SUV, still screaming, still clawing at leather seats while the sky burned orange behind me.
I roll onto my side. The room is dark except for a thin strip of light beneath the door. William is still out there. I heard him moving around when I first came to bed, the creak of the couch, the sound of a cabinet opening and closing. Then silence.
I wonder if he's using.
I asked him not to. The words came out before I could think about them, before I could question why I cared. He's an addict who let me believe my brother was dead. I shouldn't care what he puts into his veins tonight.
But I do.
And that bothers me more than the insomnia.
I sit up. The old t-shirt of William's falls past my thighs, soft cotton that's been washed enough times to feel like it belongs to someone. I didn't have a choice. It was the only thing clean in the closet. That's what I tell myself.
The room is sparse. I cataloged it earlier when I first came in, that old habit kicking in before I could stop it. Single bed pushed against the wall. A wooden dresser with three drawers. A small wardrobe with a mirrored door that reflects my own pale face back at me in the darkness. One window, curtains drawn, the glass thick enough that I can't hear anything outside.
No photographs. No personal touches. Just a room designed for hiding.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold. Bare wood that creaks when I stand, and I freeze, listening.
Nothing from the other room. Maybe he's asleep.
I should try again. Should lie back down and close my eyes and force my body to rest because tomorrow will be harder than today, and the day after that will be harder still. That's how this works now. Each day is worse than the last until something breaks.
But I can't lie still. Can't be alone with the images playing on loop behind my eyelids. The explosion. Father's blood. Reilan's name torn from my throat. William's mouth on mine and the desperate fury of it.
I need to move. Need to do something with my hands, my mind, anything to stop the circling.
The dresser catches my attention. Three drawers. Earlier, when I was looking for something to sleep in, I only opened the wardrobe. Didn't touch the dresser.
This is his safe house. His private place. The place he comes to when he needs to disappear.
I shouldn't.
I walk to the dresser anyway.
The top drawer slides open with a soft groan. Clothes. Men's t-shirts folded in neat stacks, a pair of joggers, socks. Basic things. Essentials for somewhere you don't plan to stay long.
The second drawer. More clothes. A heavy wool jumper. Underneath it, a flashlight and a pack of batteries.
The third drawer sticks. I have to pull harder, and it comes free with a sound that makes me wince. I go still again. Listen.
Silence.
Inside the drawer, beneath a folded blanket, my fingers find something hard. Rectangular. I pull it out.
A notebook. Black cover, leather-bound, the kind you'd buy in a stationery shop without thinking much about it. The edges are worn, the spine creased from being opened and closed dozens of times.
There's another one beneath it. Same style, different color. Dark brown. And a third. Navy blue, smaller than the others, the leather softer, more weathered.
Three journals.
William Murphy keeps journals.
