“I came here this morning to look for my keys, thought maybe I dropped them outside. But then I saw the lights on.” Her voice cracks. “When I came inside, I found this taped to the desk.”
She holds up a flash drive and a piece of paper, her hand shaking so badly they rattle together.
I snatch the paper from her with trembling fingers and read the message scrawled across it.
This goes viral unless you meet me.
Find me at Kenna's resting place after the game or I'll upload this.
No.
No, no, no, no.
Fear floods through me in a tidal wave so violent I can barely breathe. I grab the flash drive from Maddison's other hand, ignoring her protests as I jam it into the computer and slam my finger down on play.
The video loads.
And my entire world shatters.
Bile rushes up my throat as the image fills the screen, me and Xaden in the office, our bodies tangled together on the desk. The sound of my moans pour through the speakers, obscene and damning, and I'm powerless to stop the broken whimper that tears from my throat.
The camera angle is perfect. Crystal clear. There's no denying what's happening, no way to claim it's anything other than what it is.
And then… God… then it shows Xaden pushing the hockey stick inside me, and I'm dry-heaving, my vision blurring with tears as shame burns through me like wildfire.
Maddison yanks the flash drive out of the computer and wraps her arm around my shoulders as I bury my face in my hands, sobbing so hard I can barely catch my breath.
“Toren, I'm so sorry,” she whispers, her voice thick with pity that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. “I thought you knew about the cameras in here.”
I nod into my hands, choking on my tears. I did know about the cameras. But I didn't know there was one in the back office.
The realization slams into me with brutal clarity.
Meekan.
This has his fingerprints all over it. The timing, the method, the location he chose for the meeting, Kenna's grave.
“What are you going to do?” Maddison asks quietly.
I force myself to breathe, to think past the panic clawing at my insides. “I'm going to the game,” I hear myself say, my voice distant and hollow. “And after... I'll handle it.”
“Toren—”
“I'll handle it,” I repeat more firmly, wiping the tears from my face with shaking hands. “I just need you to not tell anyone about this. Please.”
She hesitates, conflict written all over her face. “Are you sure? Maybe you should?—”
“Promise me, Maddison.”
After a long moment, she nods reluctantly. “Okay. But if you need help?—”
“I know where to find you.”
By the time I pull into the parking lot at the rink, I've managed to construct some semblance of control over my emotions. I've shoved the shame and fear and disgust down into a locked box in my chest where they can't touch me.
Can't break me.
I need to get through this game. Need to smile and act normal and not let anyone see that I'm falling apart inside.
