Names. Mine. Liam’s.
Except they’re wrong.
My fingers curl around the edge of the photo as a sharp, cold realization sinks in. Either he was so careless he couldn’t tell us apart, or he didn’t want to. Both possibilities turn my stomach.
I flip over the one labelledKhai.
And I’m staring at my brother.
His last full day alive.
He’s walking out of a motorbike shop, caught mid-step, shoulders relaxed, expression focused. No doubt buying another beast he didn’t need. He was the one who dragged me into riding in the first place, insisted I learn, swore it would save me. And in some ways, it did. I still feel closest to him on a bike, like the road keeps part of him with me.
Seeing him like this hurts all over again.
He looks healthy. Solid. Alive. Not like an addict spiralling toward an overdose. Not like someone on the edge of self-destruction. I know he dabbled when things got rough, used it to quiet the noise, but never like that. Never enough to kill him.
The thought lands hard, knocking the breath from my lungs. Why isn’t there an autopsy report?
This wasn’t a natural death. It shouldn’t have ended quietly. Yet the paperwork isn’t here. Everything else is, timelines, records, even funeral arrangements, but not the one thing that should have existed.
The absence is deliberate.
And suddenly, I’m no longer searching for answers.
I’m uncovering what someone went to great lengths to erase.
I fire off a message to Jaxon and Keys, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
Khai:
You sure there were no other papers? No second envelope? There are no medical records here.
Keys, can you pull hospital records and autopsy reports?
The replies come quickly.
Jaxon:
Nothing else. Just the envelope from the safety deposit box.
Keys:
I’ll start digging now. I’ll report back.
I set the phone down and take in the mess spread across the kitchen island. Papers everywhere. Fragments of a truth that refuse to align. I try to force them into order, into meaning, but nothing fits. Nothing explains enough.
Frustration coils tight in my chest.
I pour another drink, the clink of ice too loud in the quiet, and check my phone again. Still nothing. The waiting gnaws at me.
Eventually, I drift back toward the bedroom.
The door is still ajar, the room steeped in darkness. I step inside and stop at the foot of the bed.
She’s asleep.
Curled beneath the covers, hair fanned across the pillow, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Untouched by the storm gathering just beyond these walls. For a moment, the sight of her steals the air from my lungs.
