Page 43 of The Omega Verse

His eyes harden. “No kid should have to deal with the shit that goes down on the streets.”

I think back over those first few months. It was terrifying, but I wasn’t totally alone; I’d made a couple of friends along the way who were willing to have my back. In exchange for a little petty theft and casual sex, but that was just how things worked on the street. Not that I was proud of it, but the line between right and wrong becomes blurred when the system lets you down.

“Being a beta made things easier,” I tell him. “Omegas were fair game, and alphas were always trying to beat each other up to prove who was top dog. I kind of just stayed in the background, moving from shelter to shelter, until I heard about a music festival down south. I tagged along with a couple of people, and then never left.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that almost looks like respect, but I tell myself it’s just understanding. He and Steven had an equally tough start, after all. But while I made a quiet life for myself in a sleepy town, they shot for the stars. And ended up in the stratosphere, until Steven was ripped from the sky altogether.

Somewhere between the town outskirts and the bypass road, Jett falls asleep and I drive the rest of the way in silence. I think about giving Tom a call, but I don’t want to mess with the GPS. Or maybe I don’t want to ask for forgiveness just yet.

“Jett,” I whisper when we pull up at the address. Turning the engine off, I rub my hands down my face. I should be exhausted, but the truth is, my skin is buzzing with anticipation. “I think we’re here.”

Jett sits up with a grunting yawn, his stretched arm grazing my shoulder. He pulls back with a mumbled apology, staring through the window at the dark street. All we can see is a large stone wall with a black security door. “Right. Let’s do it then.”

The slight unease in his tone brings my nerves roaring to life, but I grab the ring of keys and follow him to the door. It’s like something you’d see at a high-end club, with only a small keypad hidden under a brass box. “Give me your date of birth,” he says, finger hovering over the numbers.

I rattle it off, jumping slightly when the door clicks open. He pushes it wide, then glances down at my face. I’m standing so close, my hair brushes his arm and I can smell the bourbon on his breath. “Want me to go first…?”

I nod, even though I know I should be thrusting my shoulders back and marching through like I own the place. I was invited. Hell, Steven basically forced us here. But I breathe a sigh of relief when he takes the lead, staying close on his heels as he steps through.

The door swings shut behind me and seals with an audible click. Jett has already started down the flagstone path, but I pause to look around in appreciation.

“Oh, wow.” We’ve entered a secret garden, complete with thick green hedges, stone statues, a trickling brook, and a rockpool lit from below. The hedges make it feel like a maze, hiding parts of the garden from my gaze. I rub my fingers over a glossy palm frond, wishing I was here during the day so I could explore. But Jett has already reached the small portico at the front of the building and is waving me over with a jerk of his head.

I join him, breathing in the scent of cool stone and rich wood as I sort through the keys. When I find the right one, the door opens with an inviting creak and we step into an entryway with polished floorboards and exposed stone walls. The air is cool but fresh, brushing my overheated cheeks as I follow Jett into an open-plan living area. More exposed stone and floorboards, but with a soaring ceiling panelled in pale wood topped by a circular glass skylight. My gaze drifts downward, taking in the modern art on the walls and the silky oriental rugs on the floor. There’s a sunken lounge complete with fireplace right in front of us, a raised dining area to our left, and an expansive kitchen to our right. Long, pale curtains hang over the far wall and my fingers twitch to pull them back and check the view. From the scent of salt in the air, we must be pretty close to the beach.

“What is this place? Are we in a resort?”

“Don’t think so,” Jett says, pointing to a row of pictures on the fireplace mantle. “Pretty sure this is someone’s house.”

I take a longer, more careful look around and I think he’s right. Everything is spotless, but there are touches you wouldn’t find in a hotel, like the dried wildflowers in a handmade vase, the paperbacks mixed in with the coffee table books, and a worn leather rocking chair, covered in a sheepskin throw.

“There’s an envelope here,” Jett says and I follow him to the kitchen island. I’m a bit dazzled by the fittings – all stainless-steel appliances against a backdrop of dark marble and gleaming pale pine cabinets – but Jett is focused on the envelope. “Addressed to Cassie Lynch, and it’s Steven’s handwriting.”

He leans on the counter as I take it from him, staring down at the swirl of my former name. It’s almost like calligraphy, written in a beautiful dark blue pen, and I feel a jolt in my chest at discovering this about my brother. If his music career had failed, he could have made a living writing wedding invitations.

My fingers shake as I peel open the flap and pull out a thick wad of stiff paper. It smells like vanilla and almonds – which of course makes me think of Silva – but my heart rate accelerates as I see more of that perfect penmanship.

“Dear Cassie,” I read aloud, before glancing at Jett. His bottom lip is between his teeth, his brow furrowed over his striking blue eyes. “Is it okay if I read it aloud?”

“Sure, but maybe we should sit down.”

His reasoning is obvious – he thinks there’s something in the letter that could knock my feet out from under me.

Which is why I let him steer me over to a sleek leather sofa, leaving a full cushion between us as he sits at the other end. I get the message. He’s here for Steven, not me. He’s probably curious about his best friend’s last written message, but that’s as far as his investment goes.

Focusing back on Steven’s letter, I pick up just the top sheet. The rest looks like some kind of contract, but I barely notice as my eyes lock on my brother’s handwriting.

Dear Cassie,

I won’t start with the usual ‘I must be dead’ crap, because if you’re reading this, I’m not around to say this stuff for myself.

I wish I was, but shit happens. We know that better than anyone, right?

Which I guess means I should begin with an apology. I could write a book on that, starting with how I didn’t shield you enough from our shitty parents. But I’m going to leave that for another day. Another song. Instead, I just need you to know that I never stopped looking for you. I never stopped carrying a part of you around inside me, waiting for the day when I could give it back.

But regrets are a waste of time. Remember that dickhead at the Christian Care House telling us that every morning over our soggy breakfast? ’Every day is a fresh start in the eyes of God.’ Jesus save me from that shit. And fucking bran flakes. Whoever made those things should burn in hell.

But I don’t regret you, Cassie. I don’t regret my little shadow. My creeper. The koala I lugged around on my back and dinked on my bike. Your pointy elbows. And the way you stuck your tongue through the gap between your teeth… Drove me crazy. Is any of that little shit-stirrer still around? I guess you must have left her behind years ago. But I remember what you were in your heart, and what you wanted, more than anything.

---