Chapter 38 Logan
LOGAN
The Rhodes’ house is too quiet for a day like this.
Not empty—there are plenty of people here, the occasional murmur from the living room, but the quiet is the kind that comes after something has been ripped out and everyone is afraid to bump into the hole it left.
My phone has been vibrating nonstop with texts from Beck, Carter, and Jaxon that I just can’t bring myself to respond to quite yet.
Beck stopped by a few days ago, and I let him know about the arrangements.
Outside of that, I’ve just been in complete survival mode, trying to navigate this new version of “normal.”
Eleven days.
I’ve been counting without meaning to. Like if I keep track of time, I can make it behave. Like numbers can change the reality that we’re living in.
I’m in the small bathroom off the hall, tie looped around my neck, staring at myself the way you stare at a problem you can’t solve. The mirror shows me a version of Logan Brooks I don’t recognize—suit jacket, jaw tight, eyes tired in a way rehab could never cause.
I pull the knot down. Too tight. I loosen it. Try again.
The tie comes out crooked. I straighten it with a sharp tug that feels more like anger than adjustment.
Get it together.
I exhale and look at the sink, not the mirror.
Because if I look too long, I’ll start thinking about 4:54 a.m. on that Thursday morning again.
About the way Sloane’s scream filled my room.
About how nothing has sounded normal since.
I step out of the bathroom and into the hall.
The air smells faintly like coffee and flowers and that sterile hand soap hospice left behind. The living room is dim, curtains drawn halfway even though the sun is already up and bright outside—California’s idea of mercy.
Cameron is in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with both hands braced like he’s holding himself upright. His suit is on. His tie is tied. His face is solemn but…steady.
Not okay.
But doing what Cameron does—functioning through it.
I stop in the doorway.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
He looks up, and for a second, his eyes flicker with something raw before it’s gone again. “Hey.”
I nod toward him. “You good?”
Cameron huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh if it didn’t die halfway out. “Define good.”
“Fair.”
He stares past me for a second, gaze landing somewhere down the hall where the bedrooms are. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Sloane’s been up since five,” he says, voice rough. “Still won’t eat.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
Cameron’s eyes come back to mine, and there’s a weight in them that wasn’t there before. Like he aged ten years in eleven days.
He gestures at my tie with his chin. “Your knot’s crooked.”
I look down. It is.
I swallow. “I know.”
He pushes off the counter, steps closer, and without asking, reaches for my tie. Fixes it in two quick movements like he’s done it a thousand times—like he’s been tying his dad’s ties since he was a kid and doesn’t want to remember that right now.
“There,” he mutters. “Better.”
“Thanks.”
He nods once, then clears his throat. “They’re ready.”
They.
Not she.
Not Sloane.
Not my sister.
Just…they. Like he needs the plural to survive the new singular.
I follow his gaze down the hall.
The door to Pops’s room is shut.
Of course it is.
A devastating thought hits me about how wrong it feels that his door is shut when he isn’t in there. Like the house is closing its eyes to somehow cope.
Cameron turns toward the hallway. I follow.
The bedroom at the end of the hall, Sloane’s room, has its door open.
Jade and Blakely are inside with her.
Jade is in a black dress that still looks like Jade—bright-eyed under the grief, trying to be supportive with her whole body. Blakely is in black, too, hair pulled back tight, posture like a wall.
And Sloane…
Sloane is standing in front of her mirror in a simple black dress, hands at her sides, face blank in that way that scares the hell out of me.
Not numb. Not calm.
Just…complete and utter quiet destruction.
She looks beautiful to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re seeing.
But I know.
I see the way her collarbone seems sharper now, like she’s been living on air and adrenaline. I see the bruised shadows under her eyes. I see how her mouth trembles at nothing and then locks down like she’s punishing it for moving.
Her gaze lifts in the mirror and finds me.
For a second, we just hold eye contact.
Cameron steps into the room first, voice low. “You ready?”
Sloane’s throat works like she has to force the word into existence. “Yeah.”
It’s not convincing. It’s not meant to be.
Cameron nods like he believes her anyway because he has to. Because if he doesn’t, what the hell do they do?
Jade reaches for Sloane’s hand. “We’ll be right there with you, okay?”
Sloane nods once, small.
Blakely steps in closer, too, and for a second, the three of them are pressed together like they’re trying to keep Sloane upright through proximity alone.
I stay near the doorway.
I don’t want to crowd her.
But I also can’t stand being far.
Sloane looks at me again—direct this time, not through the mirror.
Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Like she cried everything out, and now there’s nothing left but shaking.
“Is my dress…okay?” she asks quietly.
The question nearly guts me. Because it’s not about the dress.
It’s about control. About doing something right when nothing can be fixed.
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “You look…”
Beautiful dies on my tongue.
She doesn’t look beautiful.
She looks like someone walking into the worst day of her life.
So I finish with the truth that I can survive.
“You look like you,” I say softly. “Just…brave.”
Something flickers in her face—pain, gratitude, exhaustion—all tangled.
Then she nods once, like that’s enough.
Cameron glances at his watch, jaw tight. “We should go.”
Jade and Blakely exchange a look—silent coordination—and Jade steps toward me. “We’ll take our own car.”
Blakely nods. “We’ll follow.”
Cameron doesn’t argue. He just moves automatically into motion, the oldest-son muscle memory kicking in. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Get everyone where they need to be.
Sloane grabs a small black clutch off her dresser like she remembers that’s what you do when you’re a person.
As she steps toward the hall, she wavers—just a fraction.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like the threshold between her bedroom and the rest of the world is a cliff.
I move without thinking, staying close enough that if she falls apart, I’m there.
She glances up at me.
My hand hovers at her elbow—question, not demand.
She doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t lean in either.
But she lets me walk beside her.
We file down the hallway like a procession before the real one.
Past Pops’s shut door.
Past the living room, where there’s a half-empty mug on the coffee table that no one has touched since yesterday.
Past the spot by the wall where hospice supplies still sit, neat and practical, like the house is still pretending they’ll be needed for him.
At the front door, Cameron pauses.
He looks back at the hallway once.
Just once.
And something passes over his face—fast and private.
Then he opens the door.
The sunlight hits us like an insult.
Warm. Bright. Normal.
As if the world didn’t end.
Sloane flinches slightly, like the light is too much.
Cameron leads the way to his truck.
I open the back door automatically, then stop.
Sloane is standing there, looking at the car like it’s a vehicle and also a coffin and also a time machine she doesn’t want to climb into.
Cameron’s voice is gentle, for once. “Slo.”
She breathes in like she has to remind her lungs how to work.
Then she moves.
She slides into the front seat—passenger—where she always sits. Where Pops used to tease her for controlling the music.
Cameron gets in the driver’s seat.
I get in behind Sloane, because it feels wrong to be anywhere else.
The door shuts.
The car becomes its own small world—tight, quiet, humming with grief.
Cameron starts the engine.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Sloane’s voice, barely there. “I don’t want to go.”
Cameron’s hands tighten on the wheel. His voice cracks. “Me neither.”
Silence again.
Sloane stares out the windshield like if she looks hard enough, the building will disappear.
I can see her reflection faintly in the glass—eyes too big, mouth too tight.
I reach forward slowly, carefully.
My hand finds the back of her seat first—an anchor point—then my fingers slide down, just enough to brush her shoulder.
Not a hug.
Not a claim.
Just…a reminder that she’s not alone in this car.
She doesn’t turn around.
But her shoulders drop a fraction, like her body recognizes support even if her brain can’t.
Cameron pulls out of the driveway.
The Rhodes’ house disappears behind us.
And the closer we get to the church, the more the air inside the car changes—thickening, tightening, like reality is bracing for impact.
Sloane whispers something I almost don’t hear. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
My chest caves.
I lean forward slightly, voice low so only she can hear me.
“You don’t have to say it right,” I tell her. “You just have to show up.”
Her throat moves. A shaky inhale.
And then the smallest nod.
Cameron turns the corner toward the parking lot.
Black cars line the curb.
People in dark clothes.
A building waiting.
Sloane’s hand lifts to the door handle and stops.
Like she’s about to step out of the car and into a life that doesn’t have Pops in it.
And I can’t fix it.
I can’t soften it.
I can only be here—behind her, beside her, with them.
The car rolls to a stop.
Cameron kills the engine.
And for one last second, we sit in silence, holding our breath like we’re allowed to stay suspended.
Then Cameron opens his door.
And one of the hardest days of our lives begins.