Page 141 of Coveted

The room is frozen in time. His nerdy movie posters line the walls and an empty soda bottle sits on his desk. The chair of his gaming station is pushed out, like he’s just stepped out of the room and will be right back.

If only that were true. I’d have my cousin back. I could do everything differently, starting with helping him fight his demons. If I had, maybe the killer never would’ve gotten to him.

In a gloomy daze, I move through the room, almost touching things but not quite.

What was I thinking by coming here? The idea of taking an item feels so wrong.

I see now why Gareth leaves the room untouched. Hannah’s too. Disturbing their personal spaces would feel like losing another piece of them.

With my back against the wall, I sit on the floor near Parker’s closet.

My heart feels sick, like it’s beating against good reason.

Then guilt jackknifes through me, because my cousins had their heartbeats stolen from them. And here I am, feeling sorry for myself over circumstances I created.

Why didn’t I control my obsessive tendencies toward Sadie better?

I tried revealing myself to her in layers, hoping to soften the blow. First the protective measures. Then my past. Then showing her the extent of my surveillance.

But giving her the truth in layers failed to soften any blow. The layers just built up, piling onto her until she couldn’t fucking breathe.

How else can I prove to her that we’re meant to be? By leaving her alone like she asked?

Fuck, that goes against every fiber of my being, but I’ll do anything for Sadie, even give her space.

My thumb hovers over my phone screen while I consider mending a bridge broken years ago. Do I dare to call? Will she speak to me?

Fuck, at this point, what do I have to lose?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I press a name on my contacts list and put the phone to my ear, heart thudding.

She answers so damn quick, like she’s been waiting all this time.

“Hello?” she asks. “Lucan? Are you okay?”

I wipe my face, a sharp rock in my throat. “Hey, Mom.”

Her voice sounds the same. Refined, with a lilt from living all over the world as a fashion model before marrying my father.

“Are you in trouble?” she asks.

“No.”

“It’s early here.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“I didn’t mean—” She pauses. “You can call whenever you like, you know that.”

I don’t actually. We usually only speak on holidays and birthdays, sticking to polite, safe topics.

This isn’t one of those times. Today, I want to talk to her. Really talk.

Where do I start? What do I ask to break down the wall between us?

I battle to keep my voice even. “Mom, why did you leave?”

Right to the point and awkward as fuck, but I need to know. Maybe if I can hear the vile, unvarnished truth about myself from my mother, I might be able to change.