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“Hey,” Dylan rasps, reaching up to adjust the oxygen mask. He and Rafe pump fists.
“Been hanging around the firefighters,” Rafe says, and I see Dylan’s brows climb up to his hairline.
Why? I want to ask Rafe, but every time I try to speak, a coughing fit grips me, so I just watch curiously as he grinds his jaw and turns to look over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be listening in.
“The police are here,” he finally says.
Police? What’s going on?
Dylan pulls the mask off his face. “Why?”
“A body was found,” Rafe says. “Inside the house.”
A body. A corpse.
Dylan pushes off the step, standing up, but Rafe pushes him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”
“Dylan…” Rafe scratches the back of his head, and behind him I can see the guys approaching, clustering behind Rafe like a human wall, hiding the world.
This doesn’t bode well.
“What?” Dylan stares at them, his gaze jumping from one to the next. His lips are white with tension. “Who was it?”
“Hell...” Rafe glances to the side, away from Dylan’s face. “Look, Tessa told me the cult your dad was involved with, and as soon as I heard about the fire, I knew…”
“Knew what?” Dylan grinds out, and by now I think I know what Rafe is going to say. “Knew what?”
Ice spreads through me.
“Fuck, I’m no good at this.” Turning, Rafe walks a few steps and kicks at a loose stone. “Tell him, Z-man.”
“Damn.” Zane steps forward and runs his hands over the shaved sides of his head. His jaw is tense. “Look, Dyl… There’s no easy way to say it. It was your
dad. He started the fire and died in it.”
The words buzz in my ears.
Dylan’s face turns white as paper. “My dad. My dad started the fire?” He’s staring at Zane, his eyes round. He clearly wasn’t expecting this, and it hits me that I never told him what Rafe said about Sky Gate and his suspicions. “And he’s dead?”
“Dammit.” Zane looks like he wants to punch someone, the way his fisted hands shake at his sides. His mouth twists. “I’m sorry, fucker.”
Dylan’s breathing harshly, and reaching up, I pull the oxygen mask back over his face. I squeeze his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Dakota tugs on Zane’s elbow. “Let’s give him some space.”
“Yeah.” But Zane hesitates. “You two,” he glances at me, fury and sorrow clashing in his dark gaze, “are getting tattoos from me. I’ll be waiting for you at Damage Control once this is over.”
Tattoos? What on earth is he talking about?
Dakota pulls him with her. One by one, the guys step away. Rafe still has his back to us, breathing heavily. I wonder if he feels guilty for having his suspicions but not acting on them.
Then again, what could he have done?
Dylan is staring right ahead, his eyes unseeing. I see the glimmer of tears gathering, but not one spills over. His cheeks are dry, his mouth white. His quick breaths fog the inside of the clear mask, and his broad shoulders tremble.
I can’t imagine what he must be feeling—knowing not only that his father set the fire that burned down their house with all their belongings, almost killing him and his brothers in the process, but that he’s now dead, too. No chance to talk, try to get some explanation, some closure. Say goodbye.
Dylan hunches over, his breath hitching for the first time. I expect him to get up and walk away—hide his face, his emotions—or maybe work out his sorrow, kick some stones like Rafe did, maybe even punch Rafe or something—but he doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, only holds my hand more tightly.
