Page 65 of Rebel

I glance back at the bed, anger welling inside me.

Did he fuck my sister?

Did he love her, or was he using her?

I step closer to the bed, gripping the picture, wanting to demand answers, but I turn away.

I guess nice guys don’t finish last.

I snap a picture on my phone and put it back, rummaging around for anything else. My fingers hit an old newspaper article, and I pull it out. My eyebrows furrow as I scan the words.

Four Dead in Tragic Crash.

A tragic car crash took the lives of four high school students last Saturday. The car careened off the edge of the Greenwash Reservoir early on Saturday morning. Four bodies were recovered at the scene and had passed before first responders could get to them. Two were recovered later, and it was established that the cause of death was drowning. Two others died from injuries sustained in the crash. There was one survivor who is in the hospital in critical condition, and police are hoping to speak to them if they wake.

My eyes hit the date. This was seven years ago. I glance back at Trav. He would have been a teenager then.

Shutting the drawer, I go to sneak out to investigate, but his sigh stops me.

“Baby?” he murmurs.

Stuffing the article into my underwear, I slide back into bed and his waiting arms as he sighs happily. He kisses my neck softly, and I bite down on my tongue until I taste blood.

Nausea rolls through me as I force myself to relax and allow the man who might have helped my sister kill herself hold me, his cum still running down my thigh.

I manage to sneak out of Trav’s bed before he wakes up, and after showering, during which I cried at losing that last shred of myself, I force myself to dress. I choose some comfy denim shorts and a shirt before grabbing my laptop and heading downstairs.

I stop at the bottom of the staircase.

Kolton is lying on Chase in the middle of the hardwood floor, alcohol spread around them. Both of them are snoring, and the music’s finally stopped. Shaking my head, I pour myself coffee and then head outside. This time, I choose the chairs all the way at the back, as far from the house as I can get. I settle there with my laptop on my lap.

After I make sure my screen is tilted away so even if the guys sneak up on me—doubtful, since Kolton and Chase were still asleep in the living room that looked like an addict’s den—they won’t be able to see what I’m doing, I open my search engine and start typing.

Greenwash Reservoir. I skim the facts on it before trying again.

Greenwash Reservoir car accident. A few articles pop up as I sip my coffee.

Four dead in Greenwash Reservoir.

Luckily, that gets some results, mostly from a local newspaper. It’s clear it’s a small as fuck town, maybe even smaller than where I’m from.

My eyes widen as I scan the articles, but I decide to read the last one, my heart pounding as I do.

Alcohol and drugs were found in the vehicle, and toxicology reports show all the passengers, including the survivor who’s still in a critical state, were well over the legal limit. The underage drinkers were thought to be heading back from a party after a gig in the next town when they swerved and plummeted over the edge of the reservoir. The families of those who died in the crash are demanding answers on how this could have happened, and fingers are already being pointed at the survivor who is thought to have been the driver.

Is Trav . . . Did Trav kill those four teenagers?

Why else would he keep the article? Was he in the car? Was he the survivor?

If so, it means it’s not his first time covering up a crime and starting over, but this time, I won’t let him get away with it. I guess they are right—a pretty smile can hide a lot.

I quickly send Ben a text.

Me: Might have something. Check out the Greenwash Times from seven years ago, a car crash. Dig up what you can.

Unknown: Got it.

His message comes back almost immediately, and I quickly delete the history on my browser.

---