Page 43 of The Fake Out Flex

I meet her in the middle. "Hey."

Studying her, I look for any signs of what she might be feeling. Is she angry? Sad? Did jerkface say something to upset her? Is it time for me to go in there and rearrange his face?

She smiles. "Hey. So, Bryce is dead. Long story. But it involves a rogue butter knife, a voice in my head daring me to do it, and another voice reminding me that you're here and that I could put you and your crazy big muscles to use helping me bury the body. I just need a shovel. Or shovels. Plural. I don't expect you to do all the grunt work by yourself."

"I've got two shovels in my trunk for just this very thing."

"Excellent. Lead the way."

I extend my arm and clarify. "Just so you know, I'm leading us away from the scene of the crime and toward the fun activity I have in mind."

"But what about the body?"

I crack a grin. "I really shouldn't encourage you, should I?"

"You really shouldn't."

Evie wraps her slender fingers around my bicep as I usher us along a gently sloping trail that winds down to the beach. I have so many questions for her, but I hold off. She might need some time after speaking with her ex.

The important thing is that she's with me, and I am a man on a mission—make Evie happy, or die trying.

The salty air mingles with her perfume. It's a different scent from whatever she wore in high school, but that same trace of vanilla is there.

High school.

Still can't believe that was seven years ago. It feels like a lifetime.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if, after returning from what would be my final late-night chat with Evie, my family hadn't ambushed me in the living room.

Everything changed that night.

We had a family meeting, talked about all the options.

Then we decided.

We agreed as a family to double-down and do everything we could to protect Dawn.

To immediately cancel filming that awful reality TV show midseason.

To pull back from all interviews and press.

To never tell a single soul outside of the family what had happened, even when people made up all sorts of nasty stories about us.

Over the years, some of the rumors have filtered through to me.

Mom went to rehab. Or had a botched facelift. Or went to rehab after her botched facelift.

There was gossip about my brothers and me, too. That we'd gotten into trouble with the law. That there was some big cover up. That we were on drugs.

All of it is nonsense.

But the worst rumors, the ones that hurt the most, were the ones about Dad. Especially the ones about him cheating on Mom.

That man loves Mom the way I want to love my wife someday. He would never, ever look at another woman, much less do anything to hurt Mom.

We braced ourselves, preparing for the inevitable blowback of doing what we were about to do. And we agreed as a family that no matter how bad it got, no matter how much mud they slung at us, we'd never cave.

And we haven't.

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