Zoë's head snaps up. Her eyes widen. The composure slips. "Your cousin?" she repeats. "Rylan Vance is your cousin?"
"Nobody knew," I say, watching the realization hit her like a physical blow. "That was the point. My father's sister married a Vance. We don't advertise the connection. Keeps the bloodlines clean and the scandals separate."
She stares at me, processing the geometry of it. "You've been going to school with him," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "For three years. You watched him walk around like he owned the place while you wore the scarlet letter."
"He does own the place," I say bitterly. "I just rent the space underneath it."
She looks back down at the phone, her thumb hovering over the blurry image. "Rylan Vance," she says again, testing the weight of it. "Jesus, Gio."
"He wrapped the car around a tree," I say, pushing past the shock. "Passenger died. Rylan walked away with a concussion and a DUI charge that would have sent him to juvie until he was twenty-one."
I look at her. "So your father," she says, her voice flat. "He decided to fix it."
"He decided to protect the family name," I correct her. "Rylan is the heir apparent. The golden boy. You don't let a future CEO rot in juvie for vehicular manslaughter. When you have a spare son."
I laugh, but it's just an exhale of air. "They came to me the night after the accident," I say. "My father. My uncle. Rylan's mother. They sat me down in the study and told me what I was going to do."
The memory still carries the smell of cigar smoke. I can still feel the heavy weight of my father's hand on my shoulder. A phantom pressure that feels real enough to make me rub my shoulder, trying to erase it. "I was seventeen," I say. "I wasn't even in the car. But I was the good kid. The one with the spotless record. Straight A's, no detentions, the fucking golden child of the varsity team. That's why they chose me. Rylan was already a liability. He had a jacket thick with DUIs and possession charges. If he took the fall for this, he was going away until he was thirty. But me? I was clean. A blank slate. They told me it was my duty to take the fall because I could survive it."
I look down at my hands, the knuckles scarred from fights I started years later. "They used my virtue as a weapon," I say. "After that, I decided to make sure they never could again. I started acting out. Made sure my record wasn't so spotless and that they couldn't use me as their sacrificial lamb ever again."
Zoë looks up. Her eyes are dark, unreadable. "And you said yes."
"I didn't have a choice," I say. "They promised it would be sealed. My father looked me in the eye and swore it would never see the light of day. He said he'd use his connections to get me into the NHL. That was the deal. I take the hit, I keep my mouth shut, and I get my dream."
I laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "But he made sure I knew the alternative. If I didn't do it, he'd crush me. He'd pull every string, shut every door. No hockey. No college. No future. He'd leave me with nothing but a record and a one-way ticket to nowhere."
I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them tight against my chest. I feel small again. Powerless. "They paid off thesheriff," I say. "They had the report scrubbed. They replaced it with a new one, saying I was driving. Saying I took the keys without asking. They forged the witness statements. They made me a killer to save a murderer."
Zoë stares at me. I see a flicker of something behind her eyes. A cold, sharp realization. "They blackmailed you," she says.
"They managed me," I say. "Just like Adrian tried to manage me downstairs. Just like the school manages me. Everyone has a plan for Gio. Nobody asks Gio what the fuck Gio wants."
I look at the phone in her hand. "That picture," I say, nodding toward the screen. "It's a ghost. But it's the only thing I have."
I suck in a breath. "It wasn't just a conversation," I say, staring at the baseboard where the carpet meets the wall. "It was a negotiation." My voice drops, flattening out. "Who negotiated?"
"My aunt. Rylan's mother." I spit the words out like they taste like bile. "She was on her knees. Literally. Begging my father to fix it. She was weeping, snot running down her face, clutching his pants like he was a fucking saint."
I remember the sound of it. The wet, ugly sobbing of a woman who knew her son was garbage and was willing to burn someone else's house to keep him warm. "She told him Rylan was sick," I say. "That he had a disease. That he needed help, not prison. She said the family couldn't survive the scandal. With the IPO coming up. With the board watching."
I look up at Zoë. She's still standing, arms loose at her sides, watching me with that terrifying, clinical focus. "And your father?" she asks. "He agreed?"
"He took charge," I say. "He manages disasters. He looked at me—his own son—and he saw a line item on a balance sheet."
The cold, detached calculation of his face is seared into my brain. "He told me the sheriff owed him a favor," I say. "A DUI from ten years ago that got swept under the rug. He said hecould make the file disappear. He said he could make a new one appear."
I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers catching on the tangles. "He sat me down at his desk," I say. "He pulled out a blank piece of paper. He told me exactly what to say. I was driving. I took the keys without asking. I was drunk. I was scared. I ran."
Mimicking my father’s deep and authoritative voice. The voice of God. "He said, 'Gio, this is what men do. We protect the name. We protect the legacy. We take the weight so the structure doesn't collapse.'"
Zoë's jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath the skin of her cheek. "He sold you."
"My father bought me," I correct her. "He bought my silence with my future. Promising me the NHL. He promised me that if I took the fall, if I let them put that scarlet letter on my chest, he would make sure I still got to play. He said he'd call in every marker. He'd get me into the draft. He'd grease the wheels."
I laugh, shaking my head. "My dream became a leash," I say. "He knew I'd do anything for hockey. He knew I'd rather die than rot in a cell while Rylan got to live the life I wanted. So he made me the killer."
I look at Zoë, waiting for the revulsion. "The sheriff came to the house the next day," I say. "I signed the statement. Lied to a cop. Lied to a judge. Let them lock me away for six months of “community service” and anger management—just a fancy way of keeping my mouth shut."
