WELCOME BACK TO SIN
ONE
WILDER
The soundof vomit gurgling violently from the twitching man before me makes my stomach turn over. He’s splayed out in his armchair, body twitching as life drains from him and his glassy eyes go blank. I’m stunned, frozen in place, unable to take myself from this scene.
It’s fuckin’ disgusting, the way the mess flows from his mouth like a puke-beige river down his chin. My eyes flick to the football game playing loudly on the den’s big-screen TV. Cold, sticky sweat trickles down my back as I stare, unable to quite believe the horror of it all. I blink. Hard. Then do it again. The air is heavy with both the stench of the cigar left on the ashtray and the rancid stomach contents that now dribble from chin to chest. I inhale and almost gag but choose to focus on the whiskey tumbler that sits beside the cigar, completely empty of the amber liquid he loves so much. He’s always swallowed it down like it’s nothing.
I drag in a shaky breath as I stare down, then suddenly it’s all too much. I can’t handle it. My stomach revolts. The bitterness that’d been threatening surges up to the top of my throat, and I whirl around, stumbling for the small bathroom across the hall with a hand over my mouth. I don’t make it. I fallto my hands and knees, upchucking my dinner all over the cold tile floor.
My heart jumps around in a psychotic rhythm that I can’t control. Shock at the sight of the lifeless bodies in Beckham’s bed slams into me. My ears buzz, static filling them and making me unable to hear anything around me. On instinct, I turn, snatching up the small trash can beside Beckham’s desk. The bourbon I’d drunk earlier comes spewing from me over and over until I’m left gasping and panting.
This is the second time in my life I’ve seen a dead body, not including the cadavers in my anatomy lab. I’d only been able to look for a split second, as the two lying there naked with their throats slit had thrown me directly into the memory of the day my dad died in his favorite armchair, surrounded by his favorite things: booze, cigars, and football.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and set the basket down, telling myself to pull it the fuck together. We’ve got to call for help. There’s a party raging downstairs—a houseful of people who are completely oblivious to the murder scene above their heads.
Swallowing hard, I grimace at the very real possibility that they’ll send Brian Kilroy over here. It’s not a huge police department. There are only so many detectives.Fuck.I rub my hands over my face. People are dead. It doesn’t fucking matter how much I hate my goddamn brother-in-law. Or how ugly things might get for Royal. Or that we’re trying to avoid the cops right now because of Echo’s psycho stalker. We have to call.Now.Every minute we wait makes this look worse.
I turn back to the other three stunned people in the room, my mouth open to say as much, but Echo spins around, crashing into Royal as she tries to flee. He grasps her by her arms, then clutches her to his chest, his eyes still locked on the gruesome scene before us.
Echo wails, her voice frantic. “Getmeoutofhere, getmeoutofhere, getmeoutofhere!” Sobs tear free as panic grips her. She sags against his chest, shaking hard.
“I got you, baby. Don’t look. You don’t need to see any more,” he rasps. He scoops her into his strong arms and turns on his heel, carrying her from the room.
I should follow, but I can’t seem to make my feet fuckin’ move. My breathing is shallow and ragged. “What the fuck,” I grind out, the taste of vomit still lingering on my tongue.
“We’ve gotta call 911. I’m really fucking sorry, Wilder. I know none of us want to bring them to our door.”
It’s then I notice Beckham isn’t even looking at me as he speaks. His eyes travel over the grisly scene with mild curiosity. He’s almost relaxed as he studies the dead bodies of Freya and Zane.Oh my fuck, Freya and her boyfriend are dead.They’re bleeding from stab wounds—or they were. There’s a sea of red on the sheets and pillows.Fuck.I’m well aware that I’m a mess, but poor Echo. This must be like reliving her worst nightmare.
Beck swallows hard, glancing at me before his gaze returns to the bed. He lifts his arm straight out, pointing a trembling finger toward them. “I, uh. We saw something like this in one of my classes the other day.” He lowers his voice—cognizant that Echo doesn’t need to hear anything he says—as he utters, “Double homicide. They were found in their bed, too. The investigators questioned whether it was a murder-suicide but determined that wasn’t the case. They were murdered. It was… fascinating.”
I give him a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look, my brows slamming together.
“I’m just saying. I found the whole process interesting.” He shrugs, unfazed.
I huff out a breath, my eyes roaming over him. At least he seems to have been scared fucking sober if he can spout off about some case they studied in one of his courses. He just keepsstaring, and it’s weird as fuck. But if I had to guess, I’d say this is the way his shock displays itself.
Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
Beckham scrubs a hand through his wildly tousled tresses, slowly shaking his head. “This is fucked, though. This is fucking real. We’ve gotta go.”
My eyes crash shut, trying to steady myself as another wave of nausea greets me. “Yeah.” My ploy to find equilibrium fails, and I stumble before catching myself.
Beckham puts a hand to my shoulder, squeezing. “Stop looking at them. Grab your puke bucket, hot stuff. We shouldn’t be in here.”
My teeth clench, knowing he’s right, and I nod. “Fuck this.” I snatch up the trash basket, as he suggested, careful not to splash the contents as I turn and exit. Royal and Echo are just outside the door, huddled together. Beckham is right behind me, and he stops to talk to them, the question of who is making the call meets my ears while I advance across the hall to my room. I don’t care who calls, but it can’t be me. I can’t do that again.
Making quick work of cleaning out the trash can and brushing my teeth, I head directly back to my people. Harsh, awful memories of everything that happened after I called 911 for my father swirl in my head.
Doing a physical check of myself as I leave my room, I find my heart slamming viciously behind my rib cage, which might explain why my skin is clammy and hot. My stomach flips again as my eyes flick to Beckham’s door. What lies just beyond it is—Nope. Don’t go there.Thankfully, Beckham had the foresight to shut it behind him. I draw in a shaky breath through my teeth, imagining that it doesn’t matter if he touched the doorknob or not. It’s his room after all.
But where is he? I look up and down the hall. “He didn’t go back in there, did he?”
There are dead people in Beckham’s bed.
Royal lifts his head to meet my eyes, holding a rigid Echo on his lap. “No. Beck went down to my room to call the cops. We didn’t feel like we should leave the room unattended. ’Cause…” He swallows, his eyes traveling to the door. “Fuck. You know.” Exhaling sharply, he glances down at Echo as he strokes a careful hand over her head. “What do we do? I’m— Fuck. I’m fucked. They’re going to look at me. I’m the one with the record.”
