Chapter 21
Monday morning couldn’t come fast enough. I’m parked in the same spot I always take, near the back corner of the lot, where the early sun doesn’t hit so hard. I’m perched on the tailgate of my truck, one foot resting on the bumper, scanning the lot for any sign of her.
Then I see Morella’s sleek black car sliding smoothly into a space across from me. It’s still early, and most of the lot is empty. The second she steps out, oversized sunglasses in place and her black bag slung over one shoulder, I hop down and head her way. She catches sight of me and groans.
“Good morning, Silas,” she says, voice scratchy. “Not sure my hangover’s fully cured yet, so make it quick.”
“I want to talk about Liv.” My arms cross over my chest, tone flat.
Morella doesn’t even pause. She just dips her hand into her bag and starts rustling around. “I’m sure your girlfriend will be here soon enough,” she mutters. There’s a rattle of pills and then a water bottle appears.
“As cute as the nickname is baby Haverhill,” I say, sharper now, “this is serious.”
That gets her attention. Her head lifts, I can see her eyes narrow slightly behind her glasses as she studies my face. The way I’m standing. The fact that I’m not smiling.
“What?” she asks, slower now. More alert. The sass drains from her voice.
Around us, the lot is starting to fill. Doors slamming, music thumping from cracked windows, morning laughter echoing. I flick my chin toward her car. “Get back in.”
The locks click open. She gives me a look but doesn’t argue. She just climbs into the driver’s seat. I round the hood and slide in beside her, slamming the door shut. Damn this car is small. My knees are practically in my chest.
“What’s going on, Silas?” Her sunglasses are off now. She squints at me, confused but clearly uneasy.
I turn to face her fully. “Who put the bruises on Liv’s arm?”
Her eyes widen and for a second, I see it. That flash of panic.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“What do you know? When did they show up?”
“I don’t know,” she repeats, faster this time. “The first time I saw them was Friday night.”
She’s staring straight ahead now. At the wheel. At nothing.
“So they weren’t there before?” I press.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice is low. “I didn’t see anything at school. Or at the rink.” Her fingers start picking at the frayed rip on her jeans. It’s the only part of her that’s moving.
“You’re sure you don’t know who did it?”
She doesn’t say anything. I reach over, my hand is gentle, but firm as I take her chin between my fingers and turn her to face me.
At first, she resists. Her eyes stay low, lips pressed into a tight line.
“Morella,” I say, softer this time.
Her gaze lifts slowly, lashes damp, eyes red around the edges.
“I don’t know anything for sure but…” she trails off, and tries to pull away. I hold her in place.
“Morella.” Sharper now.
“I asked her if Rafe did something,” she blurts out. “And she… she avoided the question.” Her breathing picks up. “I don’t believe he would do something but, Silas, you know how angry he gets. You know.”
That’s all it takes. The words are barely out of her mouth before I’m throwing the door open and stepping out.
I'm watching the clock like it’s mocking me—counting down the seconds until first break.
Ten. Morella and I talking cost us breakfast.
Nine. Not that I’m hungry.
Eight. I wanted to find Rafe.
Seven. First break. I’ll find him then.
Six. My leg is bouncing violently.
Five. I can’t hold this in.
Four. Fuck this.
I snatch my bag and storm out. The bell rings the second I cross the threshold. I’m on a warpath. I will find Rafe. If he touched her, if he put a single hand on her, I will break his fucking face. Morella even wondered. That’s her twin. She knows him better than anyone. If she had to ask...
I spot him across the courtyard. In line at the cafeteria window. Doing his usual bit. Looking at nothing, talking to no one. Detached, like always.
I march right up and get in his face. “DID YOU TOUCH HER?!”
He jerks, caught off guard. Eyebrows crease, lips part. Then it’s gone, like it never happened. “What the fuck are you yelling about, St. John?” His voice is calm and dismissive. His gaze slides away. That’s when I grab him.
“You see what I go through. You know what it’s like. And you had the nerve to do it to her?” I’m yelling again. Fist twisted in the front of his shirt. I shove him back, out of line.
“Goddamn it, Silas.” He rips my hands free and slams me into the wall. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
We’re grappling now. He gets the upper hand for a second and shoves me around the building’s corner, out of sight.
“What the hell are you on about?” he barks once we’re clear of the crowd. “You better have a damn good reason for fucking up my day this early!”
Someone rounds the corner and drops onto the stone planter behind him.
“Well, now,” Archer drawls. “Didn’t know the boys were giving blow jobs back here. Thought that was just a girl thing.”
Neither of us look at him. We’re still locked on each other, fists clenched, breathing hard. Like two dogs who haven’t decided if they’re going to kill each other yet.
Archer sighs and wedges himself between us, pushing Rafe back. “Okay. Seriously. What the hell is going on?”
“Good question,” Rafe snaps. “Ask him!” He turns away, dragging a hand through his hair.
My chest is heaving. I don’t take my eyes off him. “The bruises,” I say, voice low.
Rafe drops his hand from his hair and his shoulders fall. He turns to face me, looking exasperated.
“What bruises?”
“On Liv!” I roar.
The silence that follows swallows everything.
Rafe doesn’t yell back. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
“Bruises?” he finally says, softer now. “On Liv? What do you mean?”
“You tell me.” I cross my arms, staring him down.
It takes him a moment but it finally dawns on him what I’m saying. He looks stricken. “You think I did something to her?” He jabs a finger at his own chest. Then he laughs. A dry, bitter sound that makes my hands twitch with rage.
“I can’t even stand being around her. You think I’d want to put my hands on her?” He spins away, throws his arms up. Then he whips back around, and this time his voice shakes with fury. “You really think I’d put my hands—on a woman? You think that little of me?”
There’s a flicker of something, but I push it down. Right now, I need the truth.
Then a voice cuts through.
“…It was me.”
We both turn.
Archer’s eyes are on the ground. His shoulders sag like someone’s strung weights from them.
“She bumped into me,” he says, and finally looks up at me.
But I see red. My fist connects with his face before I can think. His head jerks back, and I grab his shirt, ready for another blow.
Rafe’s arms wrap around me from behind. “No, man! Come on.”
He’s dragging me back, but Archer doesn’t move. He doesn’t fight back. Blood drips from his nose onto his shirt.
“You’re gonna hate yourself if you do this,” Rafe growls in my ear. “Remember how it feels, dude. Remember.”
I shrug him off. “Get off me!”
Archer’s slumped on the ground now, one knee up, arm draped across it. He won’t look at me.
“How could you?” I whisper. “Stay away from her. From here on out Archer, I swear to god…Stay. Away.”
As I walk away I hear Archer mumble something but right now I do not care what he has to say.