Page 3 of Shattered Fate

They’re falling too. Like fiery ash spewing out of a volcano, every time I turn on the news another bigshot is being cuffed and led away in humiliation. Latest one had a girl chained to a bed in the basement of his house. Said he got her from Ash Black. Claimed she could leave whenever she wanted, but that’s kind of hard to do if you have a shackle locked around your ankle, likethat pretty little thing did. It’s hard enough with the ones that are only figurative.

Never had a ball and chain myself.

I had a close call once. She did me a favor hooking up with another guy.

Yeah, Max did a lot of good for King’s Crossing. Scrubbed a toilet brush over the entire city.

I regret it a little that we grew apart while we were growing up.

Just a little.

Like I said, we were from different worlds, and I didn’t try to fit into his.

I ride the elevator to street level and lope down the sidewalk to my brother’s attorney’s office. I didn’t call to make an appointment. I figure if he wants to get this shit off his desk, he’ll see me and I’m not wrong. I tell the receptionist my name and she shows me to Mike McClennan’s door the minute the last syllable of my last name leaves my mouth.

The elegant blonde gestures me into his office and a distinguished gentleman rises to his feet, but I wave him back. I don’t need special treatment. Just show me the Xs, and I’ll be on my way.

“Nice of you to finally stop by. It’s only been a fucking year,” he says, sifting through a towering pile of folders on his desk. The mess resembles how Pop works. A method to a madness.

His language doesn’t bother me, and I shrug and drop into a chair. I don’t pull my jacket off, the only good one I have, because I don’t plan to stay long.

He peers at me over the rims of his glasses. “Coffee? It’s too early for something stronger.”

“I’m fine. Show me what I have to sign, and I’ll get out of your face.”

McClennan thrums his fingers on the pile of folders in thought. “What the fuck did I do with it?” he mutters. “Oh, right.” He swivels in his padded chair and pulls a file out of a black cabinet behind him. It’s squat, not the tall kind, and framed pictures of kids playing sports and a curvy brunette sitting in a garden cover the surface. “He wanted you to read this,” he says, shoving a white business envelope toward me. “Twelve months ago.” In Max’s blocky print, my name is carved into the paper, and my throat feels like I swallowed a fireball.

Max is gone.

I was an asshole, and I’ll never get to apologize.

I don’t want to touch it. That would be like admitting he’s really dead. If I read what’s inside, I’ll be ensuring Max never comes back.

It’s stupid.

He clears his throat. “Do you need a minute?” He doesn’t say it sympathetically. His tone implies I’ve had a year to come to terms with Max’s death. All I’ve done is ignore it.

“No.”

I lift the envelope off the cluttered desk. It’s light, and someone sealed it closed. I tear it open. The letter is written on notebook paper, blue ink matching the light blue lines. Max ripped it from the spiral, and the fringes along the side sprinkle bits of torn paper into my lap.

McClennan leaves even though just five seconds ago I told him he didn’t need to, muttering something about coffee, and alone, pressing a fist to my lips, I let tears fill my eyes.

Max and I weren’t close. I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him—before his funeral, I mean. Probably at Mom’s house. I don’t visit my mother very often. Baby hates Max’s father, and my dog is more family than my mom and stepdad will ever be. I’m happier celebrating the holidays with Baby and Pop.

The date at the top indicates he wrote the letter the morning of Ashton and Clayton Black’s fundraiser last year. The day Ash Black shot him. A stab of guilt hits me in the heart. I waited too long to do this.

Gage, the letter starts in his neat, even printing. I used to tease him, but he’d always wanted to be a reporter and he’d practice his penmanship every day. “I need to be able to read my notes,” he’d say defensively.

My own ineligible scrawl has landed me in trouble a time or two, especially in school, a huge red F on the top of a homework assignment, but Max wasn’t the type to say I told you so.

I almost expect the letter to start, “If you’re reading this, I must be dead,” like all the classic goodbye letters in the movies, but once again, Max proves me wrong.

I need you to do something for me. Something isn’t right with this whole thing. I don’t believe everything will end with Ash and Clayton Black. They’re in deep, and they know more than they’ll ever say. There’s a feeling in my bones—call it my reporter’s intuition—but I don’t believe Ash Black will leave Zarah alone. Even from prison (with God’s mercy that’s where he’ll end up when all this is finished). He’s obsessed. He feeds on torturing her and I don’t think he’s done.

If you’re reading this, they got me, and I’m sorry we were never close. If you want to make it up to me, find Zarah. Protect her. Keep her safe. The Blacks aren’t through with her. I know it. I just can’t prove it.

And I know you don’t want to, but take care of Smokey, okay? Baby won’t like it, but I love that cat and Mom will bring him to the pound if you don’t keep him.

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