I rip my bloodied shirt over my head and toss it across the room before heading towards the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror, leaning against the porcelain sink as I look at myself.
Bruises already darkened across my ribs and cheek bone. Brayden got a few decent hits in.Not enough though.
Prison carved me into someone I barely recognize sometimes. Tattoos snake across my chest and arms now. Scars too. My eyes look older—meaner.
Dead things wear my face better than boys ever did.
Curling my fingers around the edge of the sink, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“You let me think you were dead.”
The accusation guts me all over again.
Because I didn’t.
I wrote her letters for months inside Whitestone. Hundreds of them. I begged for visits that never came. I nearly got my ass beat to death twice protecting the stupid little photos of her from my wallet that I kept hidden beneath my mattress.
So why the fuck did she think I was dead?
A sick feeling crawls through my stomach.
Slowly, I push off the sink and head towards the kitchen counter where my laptop is buried beneath unopened mail and gun parts. Harley gave me access to a few things after I got out.
Databases, court archives. Newspaper records, but I never looked beyond that. I literally came home and got to work.
I didn’t want to see her because I knew this would happen. I was afraid that if I decided to do what I have done—stalked her life for the past two weeks—that I’d obsess and never let her go again.
I wanted revenge. I wanted her to feel the pain I felt the entire time I was away from her.
But this?
Her thinking I was dead?
That was not anything that’s ever crossed my mind. Not once.
So now I regret not utilizing the things Harley gave me to find the truth.
And now his words ring in my head.
He fucking knew.
He fucking knew this whole time and never said shit.
Did the twins know? What the fuck?
Grabbing the laptop, I take it over to the couch and throw it down on the coffee table harder than expected.
Opening it up, I power it on and look up my name, and immediately feel my blood turn to ice.
HAYDEN KINGSTON MARKS DEAD AT FIFTEEN IN DRUNK DRIVING TRAGEDY ALONG WITH BEST FRIEND JUSTIN COLE BANKS
I stop breathing.
No! No fucking way.
My hands shake as I click the article open.
A grainy photo of me and Justin stare back from the screen.
