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“It’s not your fault, Rex. We never blamed you, but this makes it official,” Maxwell told me back then.

I laughed it off, saying I knew that. How could anyone blame a six-year-old who forgot to clean up after himself, the same little kid who found his mother’s dead body later on?

But that was a lie. I did blame myself. For years.

It’s hard not to when you have a near-photographic memory and relive that night constantly, processing it as an older kid, a teenager, an adult, each time seeing the scene more vividly, each time thinking you can stop it from happening.

A million fruitless attempts at changing the past, the nightmares so real in my mind, I thought I was a little kid again.

I reach for the marble on my nightstand. A reminder of the day that changed my life.

The same day awaits me every night after I go to sleep.

Tossing the glass ball in my palm, I remember the months following Mom’s death, how life was sucked out of the Anderson Estate.

Something in the house other than my mother died that day.

Laughter, music, innocence, carefree happiness.

You don’t erase that type of guilt from your conscience with the snap of your fingers.

Especially when there’s still a part of that day no one knows about, something I’ve kept inside all this time, unwilling to share.

Because…guilt, and punishment. I don’t want anyone to console me.

I don’t deserve it.

God, Olivia would have a field day with my messed up mind.

Her pretty face appears behind my eyelids—eyes the color of freshly brewed tea, pools I can drown myself in, the elegant slope of her neck, the delicate frame of her body. I grab my phone and swipe to my email to see if the investigator has any updates on the camera search, but there aren’t any. He said it may take months to track down.

Then I swipe to my secret album with her images.

The wonder on her face when she pressed her nose against the car window, eagerness rolling off her when we first arrived in Mykonos.

The lonely silhouette of her standing by the cruise ship at the port, camera in her hand, wind rustling her dress. The world moved around her, but she was still. So still, like a sturdy, reassuring lighthouse standing up against a storm.

The devious smirk on her face when she left me speechless on the sun deck, my cock digging out of my pants, because she got in the last word in our little spat.

I smile at the photos, heat spreading through my chest.

For a moment, I forget about the terrible memories, and I can finally breathe.

No. You don’t deserve a break, not until you atone for the deaths, if that’ll ever happen. Heck, you woke up with a fucking knife in your hand and you don’t even know how it got there. You’re trying to drag her into hell with you.

Disgusted with myself, I toss my phone on the bed. I bury my face between my knees, my hands shaking, when I smell it—the faint moisture, the damp earth, the brine reminding me so much of that night. Clambering off the bed, I struggle to stay upright before striding to the windows and throwing open the curtains.

Limestone cliffs dotted with muted green loom in the distance. White buildings with terracotta roofs pepper the landscape. A faint mist clings to the shoreline, cloaking the city in a ghostly fog. Thick clouds hang overhead, the dim daylight telling me it’s very early in the morning and the rest of the world is still asleep.

Dubrovnik, Croatia. Otherwise known as “The Pearl of the Adriatic.”

The historic city calls to me, and I know I need to get off the cruise, away from the crowds, to take a break from everything before Lana and Elias board the ship tonight, after which I won’t have a moment of peace.

I need to lose myself in an ancient city that has seen natural disasters and wars, and yet remains standing.

Maybe I’ll withstand it all too.

Two hours later, after a violent match against a punching bag in the gym, my healing knuckles bloodied again, I take a quick shower and bandage my fresh wounds.