Journals. Dozens of them. Leather-bound. Some cracked at the spine, others pristine like they’ve never been opened, never dared to bleed.
I crouch down, running my hand across the covers, each one marked with a year. Neat. Controlled. Like whoever wrote them wanted someone,me, to find them.
There’s a part of me that sayswait for her. That these belong to Athens. That reading them without her is a betrayal she doesn’t deserve.
But I’m not built for patience. Not when truth is in arm’s reach. Not when lies are all we’ve ever known.
I start shoving them back in the box, until one slips from my grip and tumbles off the bed, landing with a thud and flutter.
It cracks open.
One word, scribbled in frantic ink like a scream caught in paper, “Daddy.”
Everything in me stills. My chest tightens. My skin goes cold.
I’ve felt fear before. Real fear. But this? This feels like something more.
Slamming it shut, I shove it beneath the others and try to ignore the way my hands are trembling. But now Ihaveto know. I sort them fast, scanning dates, putting them in order, lining up years like bones for the autopsy of her past.
By the time I’m done, sweat clings to my back and I can hear my pulse in my ears.
I should stay here. Crack them open. Go full grave robber.
Instead, I reach for my phone and shoot off a message to Dash.
If what’s in these pages is what I think it is, we’ll need more than whiskey and fists.
We’ll need blood.
Me: Need you to dig up everything on Athens’ parents.
Dash: Names?
Me: Henry and Kaia Walker. Start there. Don’t stop till you hit bone.
Dash: Copy that. I’ll gut whatever records are left standing.
Me: You rolling out tonight?
Dash: Fuck yeah. Feels like the calm before a storm. Let’s light it up.
Me: Bet. I’m out.
Dash: See you in hell, brother.
They say curiosity killed the cat and I’m starting to think I may be the cat because the need to know more is killing me.
I can’t stop picturing them. What he’s doing to her. What she’s letting him do.
It’s fucking with my head. So, instead of spiraling, I grab my spare key and head down the hall. Fred’s room. Distraction wrapped in chaos.
The lock clicks open with a satisfying snap.
“Wells, I said I was sorry, now go away!” Her voice is sharp, but it wavers. Trembles like she’s holding back a scream.
“I’m not Wells.” I step inside. She’s crouched by the bed, gripping a lamp like it’s a goddamn weapon. “Fred… what the fuck were you planning to do with that?”
She glances at the lamp, then at me, wide-eyed and guilty. “Bash his skull in?” It comes out like a question. Even she knows how ridiculous it sounds.
