Page 2 of Corrupt Game

"Sit down before you fall down, Ms. DeLandro." It wasn't a suggestion, and on legs that felt like they were molded from clay, I complied, stumbling over and collapsing onto the sofa, the fabric rough beneath my fingers.

"What happened? Was there an accident? How… how did he die?" The questions emerged from a throat constricted by grief, the words laced with a desperation for answers I wasn't sure I wanted.

"Unfortunately, we can't disclose details at this stage of the investigation." Ingrid’s moment of tenderness was gone, the federal agent back in control, her tone clinical.

"Of course." Numbness settled in as the initial shock waned. I swiped at my cheeks, smearing the moisture there, as if wiping away the tears could erase the news they brought with them. But Andy's absence was a void no amount of disbelief could fill.

Chapter 2: Collette

The sharp click of the lock echoed in Andy's apartment, a sound that resonated with finality as I stepped inside. The police had finally released his property to me, not before they'd scoured every inch, their sterile gloves rifling through the remnants of my brother's life, leaving behind an unsettling orderliness in their wake. With a deep breath that tasted of dust and loss, I closed the door behind me, letting my hand linger on the knob.

"Okay, Andy," I murmured to the stillness around me, "let's find out what happened to you."

The sorrow coiling around my heart was tempered by a fierce determination. Andy had been more than family. He was my protector, my ally in a world that had shown us little kindness. We had survived the foster system together, a bond forged in adversity that not even death could sever.

Andy and I hadn’t been born to the same parents, but he was the only family I’d ever claimed. More importantly, he was the only person who’d ever chosen me. Foster care had brought us together. Life had wedged between us, something neither of us should’ve let happen. If it hadn’t, he wouldn't be dead now. I wouldn't have allowed it.

Grad school and working on my master’s degree had been time-consuming. It wasn’t an excuse, but I could’ve made more of an effort. How hard was it to pick up the phone and call? We chatted on social media messenger all the time and texted, but it wasn’t the same as visits and calls.

Grief flooded me once again. A sob squeezed in my throat, but I held it in. I’d been so self-centered, I hadn’t noticed that it hadbeen almost a year since we’d last gotten together. What kind of sister was I that I hadn’t realized how long it’d been?

I surveyed the living room, my eyes tracing over the sparse furnishings that told tales of a life abruptly paused. There was the couch, its gray fabric devoid of any indentation that would signify long evenings spent lounging. No throw pillows adorned it, no blankets tossed carelessly over the back. It was simply functional, untouched by the personal quirks that characterize a home.

"Never one for decorating, were you?" I said, half-expecting Andy to emerge from the kitchen with his lopsided grin, ready to joke about his bachelor pad aesthetics.

We’d been inseparable in the early days. Together, we’d been certain that we could take on the world.

Three years older than me, Andy’d gotten a start on his life much sooner than I had. First, he’d gone off to college, but on weekends we’d hung and chilled, the same as always. He’d made time for me. As the years went by, there were girls, work, and lots of papers due. It had made it harder and harder to get together as often.

I’d graduated high school and moved to UCLA for my undergrad, making getting together even tougher than before. Frequent phone calls had slowed down to a trickle by the time grad school hit.

My master’s degree in library science had kicked my ass. I hadn’t had time for relationships or friendships. Or even my brother.

Now, the one person who I’d always counted on was gone. Supposedly there were stages of grief, but after I had cried and wiped my tears, I was certain they'd missed one out—revenge.

The coffee table was equally barren. No books, no magazines, not even a coaster to suggest that this was a space lived in and loved. The absence of these details felt like an indictment, a silent commentary on the isolation that Andy must have felt, even if he’d never voiced it. I hadn’t known. He’d usually come to me. I’d been so damn busy, I’d always appreciated that he would be willing to come to UCLA.

Andy’s apartment was a stark contrast to my own, where shelves overflowed with books and mementos, each item a chapter of my story. Here, the walls were bare, the air pregnant with a silence that swallowed my footsteps as I moved deeper into the space.

"Did you ever feel at home here, Andy?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. The emptiness gnawed at me, a physical ache that mirrored the hollow ache in my chest. He deserved more, so much more than this cold arrangement of furniture and blank spaces.

The scent of industrial cleaners lingered, a testament to the thoroughness of the investigation. Had they been as lost as I was, searching for clues in a place that revealed nothing of the man who lived here?

The couch cushions were as unyielding as they appeared, giving nothing away as my hands searched beneath them, finding nothing but the gritty texture of crumbs and dust that had accumulated over time, but no hidden slips of paper or concealed hard drives met my fingertips. It was as barren of secrets as it was of comfort.

I turned my attention to the coffee table, a simple piece, more functional than decorative. The surface bore faint rings from countless mugs of coffee, reminders of late nights or early mornings – instances of life now frozen in time. I slid openthe drawer, hoping for something overlooked, but found only a scattering of pens.

My search felt futile, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Frustrated, I stood back and scanned the room, taking in the bare walls devoid of photographs or paintings. No shelves lined with books or trinkets. The emptiness gnawed at me, a physical manifestation of loss.

I rubbed my temples where a headache began to pulse. He was smart. Too smart to just leave things lying around. And he’d liked to hide anything that meant something to him when we were children.

My gaze settled on the vents; thin slits cut into the anonymity of the walls. A hiding spot? It was something out of a spy novel, but then again, Andy's life had taken a turn towards the kind of plot found on a dog-eared paperback's pages.

Worth a shot. I approached the nearest vent, kneeling before it. The metal cover was cold against my fingers as I unscrewed it with the little multi-tool I kept on my keychain, the sound echoing softly in the barren room. I half-expected to find a cache of documents or a digital lifeline to Andy's past.

But when I peered inside, there was nothing but darkness and the faint smell of circulated air. I shone the flashlight from my phone into the void, revealing only dust bunnies.

"Of course." I sighed, replacing the cover with a sense of deflation. It couldn’t be that easy.

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