Outside, raindrops drum from the roof in slow, uneven beats, like the world’s shaking off the weather.
Inside, Rhys’s breathing changes. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He doesn’t look at me now.
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer.
I take another step. “Rhys.”
His mahogany eyes find mine, and for one second, I see it flicker. It isn’t what I suspected, guilt or deceit. No, it’s something I can’t explain—regret with teeth. “He wasn’t following orders.”
The room tips.
I wait for more. But nothing comes.
“What?”
“Phoenix.” His voice scrapes over the name. “He wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”
My pulse pounds once. Hard.
“No.” I’ve already sensed this, read between the lines. Felt something off. And yet, still, my knee-jerk reaction is to protect him… protect my brother’s memory.
Rhys’s expression doesn’t move.
The refusal leaves me before I can stop it because some part of me is twelve years old again, barefoot in a field with my twin racing ahead of me through the dandelions, golden hair bright in the sun, turning back to shout,Come on, Sloane.
Phoenix was reckless with laughter…not lives.
“But the reports,” I whisper. “That’s not what they say.”
“I know.”
“That’s not what the interviewees said, either.”
“I know.”
“You wrote those reports.”
His eyes close for one moment. “Yeah.”
Anger burns in me. “Then why would you leave that out?”
“Because don’t you see? Dead men don’t get to defend themselves.”
I flinch. He notices… like he notices everything. I hate it.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all you’re getting.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell me just enough to wreck one version of him and then stop.”
His face hardens. “I didn’t destroy him.”
“No? Then what are you doing?”
“Trying to protect what’s left.”
