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“Stop talking.”

My voice cut through the room sharper than I intended, and Archer blinked at me, still half-smiling like he thought this was a joke I was not in on.

“I’m just saying⁠—”

“If you want to play on Friday, I suggest shutting your mouth.”

“Whoa, Jax,” he said, pushing back a fraction. “What’s crawled up your arse this morning?”

“I’m serious,” I deadpanned. “It’s not funny. Not even a little bit.”

Archer scoffed, but it didn’t land the same. “Relax, captain. It’s just⁠—”

“It’s people,” I cut in, my chest suddenly feeling too tight. “It’s not just one of your fucking podcast episodes, mate. They were all real people, have some fucking respect.”

“I didn’t mean…” he started, then stopped short. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” I said flatly. “You weren’t.”

He looked down for a second, then back up. The dismissiveness was gone, replaced with something closer to discomfort. “Yeah, alright. Sorry,” he muttered, then he shrugged like he needed to take some control back. “Didn’t realise it was that deep for you.”

“Just don’t talk about him like that again,” I responded, standing up. “That goes for any of you,” I added, glancing at the faces of the men who relied on me before turning. Bailey gave me a look that I didn’t return, and instead, slammed my locker shut. Because what I didn’t say—what I never said—is that there was no version of this where it wasn’t “that deep.”

It was something that weighed me down every second of every day…not that they would know. Because letting my team in on my connection to The Skinner meant unwanted attention and questions I couldn't answer anymore. Even when I’d have moments where I wanted to scream it from the rooftops, let everyone know why I was such a screw-up outside of the game. I was a fucking mess because my girlfriend was murdered and they never found her body, by the way.

That was that part that always got me.

We never fucking found her.

It was as if she was never here—just a figment of our imagination. A vibrant ghost that only we could see. Her voice heard during a single moment of static silence. But I swear to God, Evie was real. She was the best person I ever knew. She made me want to be better and do better just so I could deserve to be around her. She had no idea about the raw magnetism that clung to her very being, and she would never know.

But I knew.

Evie was love, Evie was light. Evie was everything I ever wanted, and everything I’ll never have again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

EVIE

An unrecognisable pop tune quietly flowed from the portable radio sitting upon the windowsill while I cooked breakfast. The yellowed curtains gently danced in the wind as the warm breeze billowed in from the open window, the sound of distant wind chimes momentarily balming my racing heart. The hot oil from the strips of bacon sizzling in the pan, splattered up my arm as I turned the pieces over, but I barely reacted as I cracked an egg in a separate pan and pulled the toast down, moving around the kitchen in a well-practiced routine.

I wiped my hands on the apron around my waist and picked up the spatula for the egg, and for a second, my mind slipped. I imagined a version of myself that could grab the hot pan and smash him across the head, his blood squirting across my face as I pummelled it into him, his skull caving beneath the assault.

I blinked hard, but the image didn’t leave right away.

“Don’t,” I whispered under my breath, though I was not entirely sure who I was talking to.

Maybe me, or maybe whatever part of me thought like that now.

Behind me, Wayne sat at the head of the table like he owned the air in the room, loudly sipping his cup of coffee and turning the pages of the newspaper, and occasionally laughing as he read out the obituaries. He let me out of the basement last night, scrubbing my body raw in the shower like I was filthy from being in the same room as Christopher until red splotches marred my skin. All Christopher and I did for two days was trade stories from the outside. He was a good man, I had decided. And that decision made it easier to be near him when I bathed him this morning.

Wayne let the paper fall slightly, just enough for his eyes to find me over the top edge. “You’re quiet this morning,” he said casually, and I forced my hands to keep moving, hastily buttering the toast with a blunt knife and plating the bacon and eggs.

“Just focused on cooking.”

“Mm.” He took another sip of coffee. “Good girl.”

My throat tightened, but I offered him a tight-lipped smile as I brought our plates over to the table. Wayne rolled the paper up and pushed it aside, kissing my chin as I placed his in front of him. “Always so good to me, darl,” he murmured as I pulled the chair out beside him and sat down, slightly flinching as our knees touched when I tucked myself in. His loud chewing filled the absence of noise. I began to eat, looking out at the paddocks through the lounge room window, watching the clouds cast shadows over the pig sty.