XXIV
Payne
A nger issues run in my family.
My dad beat the shit out of me and my mom on a regular basis. The smallest thing would set him into a blind rage. Mom did her best to protect me, and then, when I was in middle school, he found out my mom was going to take me and leave him, so he shot her, me, and then took his own life.
I don’t remember much about it. I woke up in a hospital then went to live with my grammy. Found out most of the truth years later.
Grammy—my mom’s mom—was terrified I’d turn out like Dad and made me promise to study. To use my words instead of my fists. She resented me, though. The year I turned fourteen, on my mom’s birthday, she told me my mom married my dad because she was pregnant with me. She stayed with him because of me. And she died trying to protect me.
So I read, and I studied, and I learned how to speak in front of people. Captain of the debate team, I got a scholarship to an Ivy League college, earned a Ph.D. and got a PR job on the other side of the country that paid more money than I dreamed…
Everything was a facade.
An act to hide the truth.
That I’m nothing more than my dad’s son. Rage bubbles away in veins like a volcano waiting to erupt.
And it does, regularly.
The only thing I can do—the only thing I succeed in—is making sure that rage is never directed at a person.
The ax blade hits the wood with a dull thwack before it slices through the wood like butter. I chuck the smaller piece in the growing pile, then put the bigger chunk on the cutting block before repeating the process.
I can feel the beads of sweat pouring down the side of my temples, and my back. I’ve already cut enough wood for the week, but I don’t stop. I won’t until I feel the anger ebb back.
The January after I buried my best friend, I found out the bank had put this house up for sale. According to an old classmate, ownership defaulted to Lucy, but she hadn’t made any mortgage payments. That night, I bought the house, outright.
I thought maybe Lucy had spiraled. That needing to get away from everything for a while, she’d gone off the grid. The house would be there for her when she came home.
The rage won’t leave my body because the person I’m angry at is me.
During covid, when everyone was getting closer through Zoom calls, I was working. Trying to make the world a better place. Or, at least, that’s what I keep trying to convince myself.
I should have been reaching out to Lucy, especially after she lost her mom, Rene, to covid. Alec was overseas, and that responsibility fell on me. I called or Facetimed every few weeks, and she would greet me with a brave smile, tell me everything was okay, and that she didn’t need anything.
Not long before Thanksgiving, I called, only partially paying attention as she told me about the guy she’d met who was a student at the prestigious James Keyingham University, but he wasn’t an asshole like the others.
The only thing I’d said to her was not to get too attached to someone whose bank balance had the same number of digits as his phone number.
That was the last time I spoke to her.
It was only a few weeks later when I heard about Alec. I’d tried calling her before then, but when she didn’t answer, I’d stupidly assumed she was just busy.
At first, when I didn’t see Lucy at the funeral, I assumed that she couldn’t do it. She’d declared after Rene’s, that her mom’s funeral was the last one she was ever going to.
Fucking idiot .
No matter what she said, she would have gone to Alec’s.
I’d lost a brother, and I didn’t want to stick around after the funeral, so I got the first plane back to Cali.
Selfish fucking idiot .
I should have started looking for her then.
The night I bought their house for her, I took some leave and came back, finally starting to do some digging. It’s been nearly two months since I last spoke to her. The police brushed me off and told me she was probably making good on that promise to have a break before she went to college.
Angry, I’d gone for a drink in a local bar, showed her picture around, and found out she’d been working there, bussing tables. The owner had told me not to worry because she’d probably shacked up with her rich boyfriend and then one of the bar girls had said that was impossible because the boyfriend was arrested for murder.
That night, I quit my job.
While I might not have been the typical student accepted to JKU, growing up in the area had its advantages. The local library, where I would spend most of my weekends studying, was where Guy Tyson, one of JKU’s professors of Law, liked to grade his student’s papers. Years later, he helped me get the job at the university.
Like Tori, I was convinced the truth about what happened to Lucy could be found there. But if any of the faculty know anything, they’re not sharing. There’s no gossip, no rumors, and no one who will answer any questions.
A few weeks after I started, Guy took me aside and told me if I wanted to keep my job, I needed to stop asking questions. That the people who really ran the university were some of the students and their parents.
The pile of chopped wood is larger than the pile that needs to be chopped, and my rage is down to a simmer. I return the ax to its home in the nearby shed and then move the freshly chopped firewood inside to protect it from the weather.
Tori is sitting on the couch when I walk in, staring at the black screen of the television. She jumps up when I pass her, but I add what’s in my arms to the small pile by the fire before I turn to face her.
There may be people who are able to disappear without a trace; be able to leave everything behind—including their identities—and start a new life somewhere else. Lucy wasn’t one of them. She got good enough grades to get into college, and she never really kept up with social media.
As much as it pained me to admit, the only way she would disappear like this was if something happened to her.
Cole Reynolds refused to let me visit him.
I was starting to give up hope until Tori ran into me. Her features are more feminine, but there’s no denying she looks like her brother. And for the longest time, just looking at her made me want to punch something.
Synclair Keyingham is a rich, entitled bastard, but I still understand his anger.
Or I did.
Until last night.
Although I technically own this place, I don’t live here. There are a few things of mine in Alec’s bedroom, but every room seems to contain a ghost of someone I love, so staying here is uncomfortable.
I came here yesterday morning to check up on the place and fix some gutters before the winter storms hit. Since I didn’t finish by the time the sun set, I decided to stay so I could finish up today, even though I no longer sleep easily while I’m here. Which is probably the only reason I heard Tori scream.
The gun is one of Alec’s. I’d grabbed it and ran outside.
It wasn’t until I had her upstairs on Alec’s bed that I realized I was staring at someone I didn’t recognize. Until then, she’d been a way to get to the truth.
A tool.
Not a person.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I finally tell her.
“Which time?” she mutters.
“Specifically, I was referring to earlier today, but you’re right. I’ve lost my temper and been unreasonable with you a lot. I’m sorry about that, too.”
She tilts her head, then quickly shrugs. “Whatever.”
The way she dismisses me makes me feel like she thinks I don’t mean my apology or that I’m going to do the same again.
“You were right. I didn’t want you to go in there, because I thought you would find something and hide it from me. And since you’ve been living in that house, I’ve been impatient because you’ve not found anything. Both were unreasonable. I know you want answers as much as I do. But I think what I witnessed last night is just the tip of the iceberg. And I don’t mean the strange outfits you’ve been wearing, or that you have a collar around your neck with Synclair’s declaration of ownership on it.”
Most of the collar is hidden beneath the sweater she’s wearing, but she reaches up to touch the metal that’s poking out above her collar. “It’s hazing—”
“It’s not, Tori.” I’d been reluctant to come back in because I thought I was going to lose my temper again, but instead, I find a lump in my throat. “It’s dressed up as hazing, but it’s hatred. Syn looks at you and sees the person who killed his brother. You need to get out of that house.”
Her hand balls into a fist as she drops her arm. The sweatshirt is about three sizes too big, and her fists quickly disappear under her sleeves as she straightens her back. “I can handle it,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes.
“Handle what, exactly? Because considering the state I found you in last night, if they hadn’t dragged you back to campus to do who knows what, you’d have probably died from exposure. And if they had got you back? What then?”
“I’ve only been in there a couple of weeks, and it’s not been too bad until now. I’ve just not been left alone to really check the house out. Not that I think there’s something obvious, but if I can get on Syn’s phone or computer—”
“It’s not worth it.” It’s not anger but frustration that ripples through me, only it makes me want to march over and shake her. “I’ve not said anything because of my own damn desperation, but there isn’t a single student on that campus who was there when Cole and Lucy were. Cole wasn’t a member of the Elite, and he sure as hell wasn’t living in that house, so what are you—what were we —expecting to find in there? Your gut feeling, and the words of a student journalist that contain no verified facts, are not enough.”
“You think I haven’t thought about leaving?” she asks. “Because I have. Dealing with all the looks, comments, and targeting was hard enough the first time around, and it’s worse now. I don’t want to be around Syn at all, and now that you have me in the same classes as him, I get even less time away.”
I wince at that. Once again, my motivations were selfish, making sure she could report back to me. I’d not considered that I was forcing her to be around Syn even more.
“But I will put up with whatever I have to—until I can’t. Because I only have one opportunity here. Once I leave, I can’t go back. Maybe I won’t find anything. But if I leave without trying, without doing everything possible, how am I going to live with myself?” I can see her fighting back the tears in her eyes.
“What if he did it?” I ask.
“What if Lucy did?” she retorts.
The question takes me by surprise, so much that I take a step back. “Lucy?”
Sniffing, she nods, and suddenly, her eyes don’t seem quite as watery. “She’s nowhere to be found. What if she killed him, ran, and my brother’s taking the blame because he loves her?”
“Lucy could never kill anyone.”
“And neither could my brother. Something happened that night. I know it did, because he said—” She clamps her mouth shut.
“What did he say?” She tries to turn away, but I walk in front of her and put my hands on her shoulders, peering down at her. “What did he say, Tori? Did Lucy…?”
Tori looks up at me, but then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “He didn’t say anything about Lucy. I asked him to give me a reason to believe that he did it, and he said… thirty-seven.”
I take a step back, releasing her. “Thirty-seven what?”
She opens her eyes but lowers her gaze. Slowly, she sits down on the couch and runs her hand over her head, like she’s forgotten her bright blue hair is scraped back into a bun. “I don’t know…”
Making sure to keep as much distance between us as possible, I sit down on the couch, angling my body towards her. “Thirty-seven what?”
There’s a long pause as she stares at her lap. “I don’t know if it’s connected. I mean, really, how can it be? They weren’t even there.”
It doesn’t seem like she’s even talking to me. “Who weren’t, Tori?”
“They have tattoos. Synclair, Royal, and Gemini, at least. I saw them that night. Thirty-seven in roman numerals.” She finally looks at me. “I’ve not asked them about it yet. I’m not sure how to even bring it up without them ignoring it, or even lying about them. And if they have them…” She sighs. “Who else in the Elite has them?”
“Synclair, Royal, Gemini—all the students at that damn college—none of them were students when Cole was.”
“I know, but thirty-seven what?” she asks me. “It’s such an odd number with no significance. And yet, the only clue Cole has ever given me is the same number tattooed on at least three people’s bodies.” She turns in her seat, bringing a leg up beneath her. “I don’t understand the meaning or significance of that number, but what if a tattoo is what all members of the Elite get when they pass their initiation? That could be Cole’s way of telling me it was something to do with them without actually telling me it’s the Elite.”
“Then are we actually any closer than we were?”