Like concern. Worry.
God, I can’t let myself name everything he makes me feel.
I go to his cot, picking up the photo again, thumbing over his face. He shaved this morning, and all the wild disappeared. He kept hair on his face, but there’s no denying he looks more like this.
The man who was supposed to answer my questions. Not create more.
My eyes drop to the book again,Starship Troopers. I open the front cover, and that’s when I see it.
“Phoenix Hale” in neat print.
My breath stalls. The ground moves beneath me. My brother’s book.
Why would he have this?
My fingers run over the print as if it can somehow make me feel closer to my twin again.
He’s why I became a war correspondent. I thought if I stayed close to his world, I could protect him. I realize how silly that was now.
Not even Rhys could do that.
His words crash back through me.It was me. I was the problem.It tells me everything and nothing all at once. Like so much of the research I’ve done since Phoenix died, every answer only opened another rabbit hole.
He said he’d drive me into town on his ATV. Mentioned the winch, too. Either way, I should leave. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
But leaving now feels like abandoning Phoenix. I can’t do that.
When the mountain man finally returns, he’s shirtless and covered in sweat, arms loaded with wood. His arms bulge and flex as he stacks perfect rows.
I see it again. The tattoo coordinates. Rhys catches me staring, and he turns away, striding to his dresser. There, he fishes out a white Henley and puts it on, never saying a word. Never looking in my direction.
He approaches the pile of pancakes like a predator on prey, grabbing an empty plate and stacking it with pancakes, syrup, and butter. I do the same.
Then we focus on the food instead of each other.
He shovels it in like a Marine recruit in training. If I had a watch, I’d swear he set a record. Next, he swigs down his coffee, looking miserable the whole time.
“Gonna see about getting that Jeep out,” he says finally. “Get you on your way where you belong.”
“But—” I say, heart racing. “I’m not leaving until I understand what happened.”
His gaze bores into me. “Already told you. Phoenix, good guy.” Then he points a thumb at his chest. “Me, bad guy.”
I shake my head. “It’s never that simple.”
“You want to complicate it then? Torture yourself with every detail?” His face hardens.
“I want to know what really happened. Because the more I’ve researched, the harder I’ve looked, the less any of the official narrative makes sense.”
“No, what you want is your brother back. And I can’t give him to you.” He presses his hands firmly into the counter, not breaking the stare.
“You kept his book,” I say, nodding my head toward the cot. “And a photo of the team. First Recon. Pretty sure the coordinates tie back to Afghanistan, too.”
He leans back on his heels. “If it helps, take the book. It’s yours. The picture, too.” His voice goes raw over the last sentence.
And that’s when it hits me. The man in front of me isn’t the story I came to expose. That means the real story is worse.
I lick my lips. “Phoenix had something else going on. Something that went beyond First Recon.”
