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It’s Elio. He’s alive.

He’s been alive this whole time.

That’s why I sensed something was different. I wasn’t crushing on my best friend’s boyfriend—it was his dead twin brother. Except he’s not dead. He’s been alive and pretending to be DiAngelo. For how long? How many times have I spoken to Elio thinking it was D?

My mind is so damn blown that my thoughts ricochet in my head like popcorn popping.

Elio’s alive, and he has a horrific scar on the side of his neck. What did Dad tell me about a man with a scar? The Reaper. He said the only identifying information they have on this mysterious killer called the Reaper is a scar on his neck.

Elio has a scar.

The Reaper is scarred.

Elio.

The Reaper.

Elio Farina is the Reaper, isn’t he?

And I walked right into his trap.

“If you don’t breathe, you’re going to pass the fuck out,” he growls, suddenly closer than I realized. His strong arms steady me, guiding me to an elegant ivory sectional sofa.

I sit and try to collect myself. My emotions are so scattered that I can't figure out how I feel. There's relief and wonder over how such a miracle could have transpired, while at the same time an oppressive grief is falling heavily on my shoulders to think about what DiAngelo and his parents went through.

All those years he was alive, and we never knew.

I want to lash out and demand answers, but the shock has me mired in quicksand, unable to do anything but sit in bewilderment.

“You’re alive,” I finally manage to murmur dazedly.

“And you’re overjoyed.” The dry, cutting quip is exactly what I need to pull free of the haze.

“Joy?” I snap at him, returning to my feet. “Do you have any idea what your family has been through all these years?” He knew, yet he did nothing. He let them suffer. How could he? The Elio I knew as a child would never have done that to his family.

That’s when it hits me.

The man towering over me isn’t Elio. There’s a reason he goes by the Reaper, and I see it clearly in his violent stare, shredding me to pieces.

“What they’ve gone through?” he roars, spreading his arms wide. “I fucking died that day!”

CHAPTER 14

ELIO

Twenty Years Ago

Fuck, my head hurts. What the hell did I do?

I reach for the side of my head where it feels like poisonous thorns are burrowing into my skull but stop short when I realize my hands are shackled. My eyes fly open. I grimace, then squint more carefully at the metal around my wrists.

What the actual fuck?

It gets worse. My feet are shackled, too.

No exaggeration.

Legit iron shackles, rusty enough to be straight out of a medieval dungeon, are fixed to my wrists and ankles. My wrist shackles have the steel leg of a machine that is bolted to the concrete floor within the circle of my arms, preventing me from leaving this spot. When I do finally tap my head where it hurts most, my fingers come away with drying blood.