Page 83 of Secrets & Sake

Hiro’s a reporter? Is that really true?

“Hiro, he kissed me. Not the other way around.”

But he holds up a hand and turns away to face the window. “Let’s go home.” His voice is thick but resolute.

My heart sinks into my stomach like a stone. “Okay,” I say, voice heavy with defeat.

I start the engine and drive us home in silence.

We don’t speak. Not when we get out of the car. Not as Hiro lets me into his apartment. Not when Hiro dresses for bed. He hasn’t told me to go, but I don’t feel welcome, either. I can’t leave him like this.

“Want me to stay?” I ask.

Hiro takes a moment to reply, like he can barely hear me. “If you want.”

Hiro is pretty indirect, but never to me.

“Listen…” Fuck. What do I even say? “If you hadn’t punched him, I would have. You know how I feel about you.” Seeing his brother kiss me must have brought back awful memories for him. There’s probably not a lot I can say to make him feel better. He needs space to work through the trauma his brother’s actions triggered in him.

Hiro suddenly laughs, but the sound comes out more like a sob. “My father is right. I am a coward. I turned my back on my family, made them hate me, and for what? I’ve accomplished nothing!”

“Hiro—”

Wiping his eyes, Hiro suddenly stomps to the step-style dresser by the window and starts pulling open the drawers, tossing clothes onto the floor. What is he doing?

“Your father is an asshole, and so is your brother! I don’t give a damn what you’ve accomplished. I like you, Hiro.”

Hiro sucks in a gasp, slender shoulders rising and falling. “You shouldn’t.”

“Too damn bad,” I growl, but my insides are starting to cramp. Something’s wrong. “Give me one good reason why—”

“I’m a reporter!” He whirls around and yells the words at me.

I fold my arms. “I know.”

He blinks and takes a step back. “What? How?”

“Your brother said something about that. But so what? Unless you were investigating me, there’s no problem.”

Hiro says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. The agony in his eyes says enough.

Ice falls into my stomach. “Were you?” I ask, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Lips wobbling, Hiro reaches into a drawer and pulls out a shoebox. He tosses it on the ground at my feet.

Fingers oddly shaky, I lift the lid of the box. Inside the box is a photo album. I knew he was making a photo book, so that was expected. I take a seat on the floor with the box and start flipping through the book. There’s nothing in here I didn’t anticipate; it’s just pictures of the bathhouse, scenic shots of Tokyo, even pictures of the garden I took him to.

I flip a page, and my stomach sours in an instant.

There are pictures of the Namikawa-kai shifting to wolves. Our bare bodies sprout hair as we drop to all fours, our faces and bodies twist and reform. Our most vulnerable moment has been captured, our biggest secret laid bare. Why would Hiro take pictures of us like this? For what purpose? If he wanted pictures, he could have just asked me. With these pictures, he could expose us to the world.

But Hiro wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

“Read my journal,” Hiro whispers. He’s not looking at me, hands braced on the dresser.

I snap the book shut. There’s a journal in the box, too, and my heart races faster. I open the journal, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands. At first, I don’t understand what I’m reading. There are pages dedicated to the disappearances piling up all over Tokyo. Whole sections penned about the Namikawa-kai and whatever connection Hiro can string together that ties them to the disappearances. With each page I turn, everything falls into place.

A story. Hiro has been writing a story, and he’s dangerously close to connecting Namikawa to the disappearances.

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