Page 67 of The Lies We Steal

I shrug, “Fuck if I know, next week maybe. They have a board meeting for the school coming up and they wouldn’t miss an opportunity to flash their accomplishments. And with the holidays coming up, my mother has to start planning her gaudy parties.”

The holidays were always the worst.

Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween.

Any excuse to host a gathering where people could admire them. Any excuse to be in the spotlight, they took it.

The house was always full of people, swarming around like hornets disguised as butterflies. Always too loud, too bright, too fake. So usually I stayed with Thatcher and his grandparents for the holidays.

Because it wouldn’t matter if I showed up for Christmas morning or not, they wouldn’t care, nor bother to ask where I was. Plus, Thatch’s grandma makes killer pancakes in the morning.

“Silas wouldn’t blame you, you know.”

My eyebrows come together, “What?”

“He wouldn’t blame you if you decided to leave before we found out what happened to Rose. He knows what you go through here. None of us would blame you.”

It had never been said out loud till this very moment, but I already knew that. We all knew that.

“Would you blame yourself? If you left him alone in his grief, before he got answers, would you blame yourself?” I return the question.

“I’d fucking hate myself if I left him.”

“Then what makes you think I feel any different?”

He nods, accepting my answer. It’s not like he doubted it, but I think he felt like he needed to say it, to make sure I wasn’t here because I had to be.

This town may have been cursed with lies and trash parents, but in it I found the people I’d tear down the gates of Hell for.

Family wasn’t who you were born with. It was who you’d bleed for.

Thatcher. Silas. Rook.

They are the only people who mattered.

We make our way to the upper level of the house, both of us splitting up to shower, taking just enough time to clean up before my front door opened and by the click of the Oxford shoes, I knew it was Thatcher.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Rook comments from my kitchen where he is inhaling a sandwich with only a towel around his waist.

I tug my shirt over my head, looking at Thatcher who is wearing a brownish, cream colored sweater thing that looks like it was shaved straight off a lamb’s body.

“Italian luxury, honey. Cost more than your left testicle.”

I blow out a laugh, seeing Silas walking in behind him, folders tucked beneath his arm. We’d all planned to meet here earlier today. Silas hadn’t been at school and neither had Rook because the two of them had stayed up all night while Silas hacked into the security cameras.

He’d texted early that he had found something that would be of interest to us.

Rook stayed with him most of the time. Partly to keep an eye on him, the other part to make sure he was taking his meds. The last thing we needed was for him to be vengeful and unmedicated from his schizo drugs.

I follow both of them into the kitchen, slapping Silas on the back in greeting, before he lays out the folder on the marble island.

“Thomas and Briar aren’t involved.” Is the first thing out of his mouth, before even opening what’s inside.

The sound of her name makes my toes curl and the urge to bare my teeth hits me abruptly. I don’t like the way other people say her name. Something about it rubs my gears the wrong direction.

“Sorry, what?” I say, shock evident in my tone.

Opening the white binder he pulls out sheets of what looks like times, along with black and gray still photos.

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