Doesn't open it.
Just looks at it like it might explode. Then pushes it toward me.
"But if you ever find something dangerous," he says, "you think before you share it. Not everyone around you gets to choose the fallout."
I don't understand. Not really.
I'm fourteen, full of fury and idealism.
I believe in black and white, in right and wrong, in speaking truth to power no matter what. I don't yet understand how truth can be a weapon that cuts both ways—how it can free you while damning everyone you love.
But I cling to one thing he does say, the one thing that feels like a rule I can live by: "Don't ever let someone else write your story."
I nod.
He smiles like it hurts. Like he's already seeing the ending and can't change it. "Then promise me, kiddo. If the world tries to silence you?—"
"I speak louder," I say.
His hand tightens over mine for half a second. Then lets go.
Two days later, he leaves for a meeting in D.C.
He never comes back.
No body. No answers. Just a voicemail that cuts off midsentence and a funeral with an empty casket.
The official report calls it suicide.
His colleagues call it burnout.
Everyone calls it abandonment.
But me?
I call it fuel.
And I decide right then:
If the world tries to silence you, speak louder.
The truth might kill.
But not knowing it, not telling it is worse.
The others filter out of the kitchen, their voices fading down the hallway.
Only Logan stays behind, methodically stacking plates with military precision.
I linger at the table, caught between the urge to help and the instinct to run.
The burnt toast sits heavy in my stomach, a reminder of mornings long gone—Dad's attempts at breakfast, the way he'd laugh at his own culinary disasters.
The truth doesn't set you free, he'd said.Sometimes it puts a target on your back.
Logan's movements are controlled, deliberate.
Each dish finds its place with tactical efficiency. I stand and gather the remaining mugs, needing something to do with my hands.
