Page 234 of Remy

“What was it?” I swallow against the need to throw up.

He keeps staring, those beautiful lips clasped shut.

Panic creeps in, slow at first, the tingle of it climbing the back of my neck. I round the bed, my ability to think positive well and truly gone with the foreboding that strangles the room.

“Show me.” I hold out a palm.

He stands tall, his hands still firmly planted in those pockets.

I storm forward, decimating the few feet of space between us to grab his wrist and yank it upward, ignoring the remorse etched across his face. “Show me.”

His fingers remain curled tight around whatever is hidden in his grip. “Let it go, Ollie.”

Let what go?

I dig my nails into his skin. Claw at his hand. Pry his fingers open.

His posture loses the confident rigidity as he opens his palm, allowing me to snatch the tiny vial with a black lid.

“What is this?” The smallest drop of clear liquid remains trapped inside the glass. “Did you give him something?”

He doesn’t deny the accusation. Doesn’t do anything other than watch me suffer with pained eyes.

“Talk to me,” I scream.

He winces, raising his chin.

What is this? His dismissive demeanor. The pained silence.

I unscrew the lid and hold it to my nose, taking a sniff of the faint chemical odor. “Is it drugs?”

He remains mute.

“Is it drugs?” Panic consumes me, sharp and excruciating. I shove at his chest, causing him to stumble back. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Ollie…” His eyes beseech.

“Ollie, what?” I can’t take the secrecy anymore. I won’t. Months of stacking concealments have towered over me. Now, they’ve fallen and buried me beneath the rubble. “Why are you doing this?” I turn away, shoving my pinkie into the vial. I touch my finger to the liquid, then raise it to my mouth.

“No.” Remy grabs my wrist, stopping me before I can taste. “Don’t fucking do that.”

I freeze. The slowly creeping panic plunders me like a tidal wave.

I can’t breathe. Can’t compute. There’s only pain and agonizingly thick guilt that stares down at me.

“What did you do?” I plead.

I left my dad with him. I left him alive and well.

“Did you kill him?” I maintain eye contact as I blurt the outrageous accusation, his hand still wrapped around my wrist.

The words seem to strike him like physical blows.

His tormented expression intensifies.

But he isn’t offended by the allegation. He doesn’t even deny it.

All he does is stand there, peering down at me, his answer silent yet so deafeningly loud.

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