Whispers of Deception

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

T here was a line, thin and fragile, that separated life from death, the humane from the inhumane. Augustus had been standing on it for so long now, he was not sure where one ended and the other began. The night wrapped around him like a shroud, the cold air biting his skin as he stood on the balcony, staring out into the dark abyss of the sky.

They’d done things—terrible things—that had marked them and left invisible scars that throbbed beneath the surface. There were secrets buried in their hearts, festering wounds that bleed into everything that they touch. The blood on their hands, though unseen, felt more real than anything else. He felt the weight of it all pressing down on him, a suffocating force that makes it hard to breathe. The decisions they’d made, and the paths they’d taken, all led back to this point. There was no escaping the consequences of their actions; they were tethered to them, like ghosts haunting the edge of their lives.

The others were inside, sprawled across the floor of his apartment, their breathing even and soft as they slept. He watched them, and he wanted nothing more than to protect them. To shield them from their reality. But the lines they’d crossed couldn’t be uncrossed, and now they had to live in the shadows of those choices.

Lilia stepped out onto the balcony, the soft rustle of her blanket barely disturbing the heavy silence. She stood beside him, close enough that he felt the warmth of her body against the cold night air.

“You should be asleep,” Augustus murmured into his glass, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against the railing, a beer bottle in his hand. He didn’t turn to look at her, his gaze fixed on the city beyond, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him look smaller, diminished somehow.

“I could say the same to you,” she replied, her voice soft, but there was a firmness in it, a quiet strength that anchors him.

She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, her hair cascading down her back in loose waves, still slightly mused from her sleep. She was wearing an old HU sweatshirt he had lent her once, years ago. It was worn and frayed at the edges, but she’d kept it all these years. It felt like a relic of another life now.

Augustus leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the inky darkness above. “You know, if you had told sixteen-year-old me that this is where we’d be right now, I would’ve laughed.”

She glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping friends, all sprawled across the floor, on the couch, motionless under their blankets. They had stayed up for most of the night—piecing together what they could from Willow’s things.

She sighed. “How did we end up here?”

He didn’t have an answer for her. (He couldn’t.) He didn’t think there was one. They’d been pulled into a tide of events beyond their control, swept along by forces they didn’t understand. And now, they were adrift, caught between what they know was right and the things they’d had to do to survive.

There were lines drawn in the withered grass of their lives, boundaries that once seemed clear, but were now blurred and indistinct. They’d crossed them over and over again until they no longer knew where they stood. They lived in the in-between, in the space where morality falters and survival took precedence.

“I don’t know,” Augustus finally said, “I really don’t know.”

She looked at him, her eyes searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or understanding. But all she found was the same confusion, the same haunted look that mirrored her own.

Augustus sniffed, a weak attempt at a smile tugging at his lips before he took a long swig from the bottle. He didn’t move from his spot, didn’t turn to face her.

“Come sit with me,” he said suddenly, lowering himself to the floor. His voice held a quiet plea, and Lilia hesitated for a moment before she gave, settling beside him. She sank down, her back pressed against the cool railing, the blanket she carried now wrapped around both of them. They sat in silence for a while, the night air heavy with unspoken words, the city lights a distant blur beyond the balcony.

“Do you remember when we were kids, and we used to hide out in your mom’s rose bushes?” Augustus broke the silence, his voice soft and distant, like he was talking to a memory rather than to her.

Lilia laughed softly, a sound filled with nostalgia. “We got so many thorns stuck in our hair, we sported matching haircuts for the better half of the school year.”

Augustus let out a soft laugh. “That was when I realized you were my best friend. That I never wanted to do life without you, ever.”

“We were seven, Gus,” Lilia replied with a laugh.

“You were everything to me even then,” he said. He paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. “You still are.”

“Gus . . . ” Lilia’s voice trailed off, the unspoken tension between them, the history they shared making her throat tighten.

Augustus turned to her then, his eyes searching hers. His gaze fell to her lips before finding her eyes once more, “Do you hate me for that night?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Lilia shook her head, the motion small. “I could never hate you, Gus, you know that.”

A silence settled between them, heavy and charged, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them.

“It should’ve been you,” Augustus said suddenly, his voice cracking at the weight of the confession. He didn’t explain, didn’t need to. They both knew what he meant.

She felt her heart clench, the ache of it almost physical. She knew what he was saying, knew that he wished it had been her from the beginning, that he had made a different choice.

“I wish it had been you. I should’ve chosen differently,” Augustus continued, his voice thick with regret.

Lilia swallowed hard, the words she wanted to say caught in her throat. She didn’t say it, but in that moment, she wished it had been her too. He would always be Willow’s—now, more so than ever. She wished she had been the one he’d chosen, wished that they could have rewritten the past, their mistakes.

“Did you read the journals?” Augustus asked.

Lilia nodded, picking at a loose string. “Yes.”

“So you saw what she wrote.”

“I did.” She rubbed a tired hand down her face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion and frustration that had become a constant companion. “She knew about us. She knew everything.”

“She never said anything, at least not to me. She never so much as hinted that she knew. She probably didn’t care anyway, she had someone else.”

“Willow loved you in her own messed up way,” Lilia said softly, “I don’t think she really knew much about love, anyway, how to do it correctly or feel.”

Augustus fell silent, staring at the bottle in his hands as if it held the answers he was desperately seeking. Lilia’s words hung in the air, a soft echo of the truth that neither of them could deny.

“I think that’s what hurts the most,” he finally said. “Knowing that she loved me, but never really feeling it. It’s like I was just another piece in her game. She used everyone around her.”

“She used all of us, Gus. We were all pawns in whatever game she was playing. But that doesn’t make what we had with her any less real.”

Augustus turned to look at her then; his brows were drawn tight, his mouth tipping down into a frown. “And what about us? Was that real?” he asked.

Lilia swallowed thickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me. Was it real?”

“You’re not mine, you never were. What we did is no better than what Willow did to you. It was a mistake.”

“Lilia”—he tilted his head town to meet her gaze—“that isn’t what I asked you. I don’t care about what you think you should say in order to not betray her. You don’t owe her anything—none of us do. Was it real?”

“Yes,” she finally said. “It was real, but it doesn’t matter because nothing can come from it. Especially not now. Not when you’re still hers. The last thing we need is for the cops to have their own case of some tumultuous love affair.”

He sniffed, a humorless laugh escaping past his lips. “How is any of this fair? She’s dead and somehow, she’s still pulling the strings. She still has us doing her bidding. When will any of us ever be free of her?”

Willow Montgomery was a master puppeteer, and they were nothing but mere puppets. Ready to comply whenever she wished to pull their strings.

And she was still pulling then, even now.

Even from the grave.