Chapter 55
FIFTY-FIVE
Red Vineyard - Diggy Graves
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I feel like I’m suffocating, so I roll the window down, letting the air rush around my head.
I shouldn’t have gone back to my place. I shouldn’t have left Ronan and Dakota alone. I’ve been caught up in anxiety the entire time, watching the tracking software I have on both of their phones. Neither has left.
But after Ronan called me, I’m afraid he will. He was pissed, demanding to know more about Greyson. And I should have told him. It’s not like I’m trying to keep secrets from him. Fuck, I really do care about Ronan. But this shit is so hard for me to think about. I try not to. Because, much like Ronan, I can lose my mind a little bit when faced with trauma. Only for me, I see things.
Ronan asked if Greyson’s grandfather was dead, which made me defensive all over again. He is. He died of a stroke before I could get to him. It’s not like I didn’t try. After Greyson died, I went to the cops. I showed them the letter. They asked if I saw Greyson write it. Asked if he was truthful. Told me the letter didn’t say expressly what happened. Which filled my rage to the top. They were cops. They were supposed to help. But they didn’t. They didn’t do a thing.
So, I decided I was going to take matters into my own hands. It’s probably where my little murderous streak was born. But before I could get justice, Greyson’s grandfather died. Just keeled over, dead. No justice. Very little suffering. I blacked out most of my last year of high school. I don’t remember who I was or what I did, only that a black cloud followed me everywhere I went.
I feel that black cloud following me now. I don’t like thinking about Greyson or even looking at his picture for this very reason.
I suck in a breath. The car is loud, fluttering the papers I retrieved on the passenger floorboard. The movement sends a bolt of fear through me, and I shut the window.
I went to my trailer to get the sheet music Greyson left in my mailbox before he died. I figured…I don’t know what I figured. But it was fucking stupid.
I slam my fist against the steering wheel, my rings hitting against the leather. I thought this would help, thought it would help me heal. But now, all I want to do is spill blood.
Because there is someone who’s still alive. The cop who shrugged off Greyson’s case like he didn’t care. And I wonder now if that was an isolated incident or if Apex was around even then?
Suddenly, all I smell is sunscreen.
It kicks me straight back to Greyson. It’s almost like he’s here again, and for a brief moment, I’m excited.
And then my stomach sinks. Anytime it feels this strongly like Greyson is here, he usually is. I’ve hallucinated Greyson and others from that time before. It’s why I try not to look at the picture in the hat. It sends me into psychosis.
I sense a presence in the passenger seat beside me, but I don’t look over. If I don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be real, right? This is just trauma. I’ve researched it. It’s just my brain trying to heal the wound by giving me what it thinks the medicine is: Greyson.
The presence is unnerving. I know he’s not real, but I see movement. Greyson’s playing with a ring on his hand, spinning it over and over.
My mouth is suddenly so dry. “This doesn’t help,” I grit. It’s never helped. The first few times I saw Greyson, I broke, crying that I’d avenge him and begging him to forgive me. I’d killed my first few people in the most brutal way I could imagine—my tattoo machine through their eyes. Somehow, though, Greyson never accepts that. He just…keeps appearing.
“You’re not real.”
He just keeps spinning the ring. But it looks familiar. I glance over at it, and it’s the first ring I gave Ronan. The one with the skeleton holding the gemstone. He took it from Ronan.
Immediately, anger rushes through me, and I snatch at it. But my hand goes right through Greyson’s hand. Because of course it does.
Then, guilt pushes past the anger. Why am I mad at Greyson? He didn’t do anything.
“Please. Just go away.” I hate the way my voice cracks. I don’t want to see Greyon’s pretty hazel eyes.
“No.”
I startle. Greyson has never said anything to me in the hallucinations, and I snap my gaze over. And for a horrifying minute, Greyson doesn’t look like Greyson; he looks like Ronan, all grown up with his pretty skin and a cocky arch to his eyebrow.
I gasp, and the car goes over the rumble strips, shocking me back into looking at the road.
“You’re not real!”
I want to hit my head against the steering wheel. Will I crash? Is the car real at this point? But as soon as the thought enters my head, it goes away. If it is real, I’ll wreck into the ditch going 60 miles per hour and won’t be able to see Ronan again. Or Dakota.
Greyson, or Ronan, is still sitting there, but I don’t look at him. The only way I’ve ever been able to get rid of the hallucination is crashing out.
“I’m going after that cop.” I drone the words, almost out of habit. That cop who slid Greyson’s case under the table still hasn’t seen justice. Maybe that’s the solution. Right?
It doesn’t feel like it.
Also, Greyson is still there. I hate it. I fucking hate it! How dare my brain be so fucking stupid. So fucking painful.
“I met someone,” I spit the words into the void.
There’s no movement beside me. Because of course there isn’t. Maybe I’m not going hard enough. “A few someones. You’re dead. I can’t keep pursuing you.”
Nothing.
Fuck, why does it hurt so bad? And why am I feeling bad?
“They need me.” I justify. As if I didn’t just tell my hallucination ex that I replaced him. Fuck, I’m an evil dick. I don’t want to be. I just want to be okay.
“I’m being the friend that you were to me.” I swallow harshly. “The best of friends.”
Silence. Suddenly, I sense that Greyson is gone. I glance over, then blink.
There’s no one there.
Greyson is gone.