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“I know, silly,” I laugh. “Your favorite color is blue.”

“But why are we red then? It’s sticky, and my chest hurts.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s fine. There is nothing red. Or sticky.

“What do you mean, Mickey?” He turns his head with a sad look on his face. I don’t like it when he’s sad.

“I’ll get you some medicine,” I tell him, trying to roll out of bed, but my legs are tired.

“Just wait a second, Mickey. I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll wait for you, Lexie. I will always wait for you.” I grin, but my smile dies when I see he’s red. Where did the paint come from?

“It’s not paint, Lexie.” A tear runs down my cheek. Why am I crying? Mickey sticks his hand out, his arm dangling off the bed. “It’s not real. You’re dreaming again.”

“No, I’m not silly. I’m right here talking to you.”

“You need to wake up. I’ll wait for you, I promise, but you need to get healtely.”

Healtely?

“You mean healthy, Mickey?…I am, I promise. It’s just a sore throat.”

“It’s not, Lexie. You need to wake up.”

“But I don’t want to leave you.” My lip trembles. I try my best to grab his hand, but my arm doesn’t work.

“I’ll be right here, always and forever.”

My eyes flash open. I still have a sprinkle of hope that I’ll find him lying next to me, grinning with his toothless gap, still waiting for his human tooth to grow. His tousled bed hair that was always pointing in different directions. But when I look over, I find nothing. No sign of my built-in best friend.

Instead, I’m met with an empty bedside, crumpled sheets, and my sweat soaking through my blanket. Is it so wrong for someone to hope their brother would still be here?

Carson is working a morning shift. I had heard him leave over an hour ago, but I was so tired, I fell back asleep almost instantly. It’s been a few days since we went to the beach. Carson wanted me to swim with him, but I didn’t know how. He didn’t seem surprised, he was sad I didn’t get to learn that as a child. He had offered to teach me. He said that’s it’s dangerous not being able to swim, I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t in a hurry to learn, I have survived twenty-three years without it. But I accepted his offer. He looked terrified, probably because he’s a firefighter. He doesn’t know yet when he will teach me, just that he’ll start soon.

An hour after my bad dream, I still feel restless. I sat on the side of the bed for an hour, my brother’s bloody face plaguing my mind. It took me over half an hour to braid my hair. I kept staring at the empty side of my bed, hoping Micah would miraculously appear.

I still haven’t found the courage to visit his grave. Every time I pass the cemetery, I have the urge to throw up. The thought of my brother lying there in a wooden box six feet in the ground. Makes me nauseous. He shouldn’t be there. He should be here, or wherever he wanted to live. But not in the ground.

The loud, shrill sound of my doorbell rings through my house. I lower my head in defeat, wishing that person would go away. A few seconds later, the same sound follows. I muster up all my energy and walk downstairs, my legs feeling like lead. It takes a few seconds for my mind to register who the man on my doorstep is. The grey hairs and the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes have changed. He didn’t have them the last time I saw him, which was fifteen years ago. Officer Kane.

One of the police officers who worked on my brother’s case.

If you had a good cop and a bad cop, he would be the absolute definition of a bad cop. He had interviewed me after I woke up, when my mind was clear enough to have a normal conversation.

He didn’t believe what had happened. Somewhere in his messed-up mind, he thought I had made it all up, that I was the one who killed my brother and then slit my own throat. All the evidence proved otherwise, but he didn’t care. He thought I had something to do with it, and the angry look in his eyes more than a decade later proves he didn’t change his mind. “Officer Kane,” I greet, voice lacking any emotion.

“Alexis Caldwell. Never thought I’d see you again.” I lean against the doorpost, wishing this conversation was over.

“What can I do for you?”

“What?” he asks, offended. “Can’t I see how you’re doing?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Well, the last time I saw you, you were convinced I had murdered my own brother. So no, I don’t think you can ask about my well-being.”

His lips form in a snarl. Fury flashes in his eyes before he smooths it out, leaving a blank look in its wake.

“You certainly grew up, didn’t you?”