Page 126 of Faithful

Or at least, I don’t think so.

Knowing him the way I know him now isn’t information I want to share with the world. To them, he can be the embodiment of dark mystery. To me, he’s just Kai, who laughs, cries, and bleeds the same as the rest of the humans.

These are the thoughts that cram my mind while I leave the office and drive to Westlake, where I spend a good thirty minutes outside a nondescript gray building rubbing my hands together and shuffling my feet in the snow until the doors fly open. All five members of Iodine file out into the back parking lot.

It’s instant, Kai’s reaction.

He comes to a stop, his posture suddenly tensing up, his jaw hardening.

Danny, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, avoids meeting my gaze and just carefully motions for the guys to keep moving.

They all look at me like I’m sporting a pair of horns (or wings?), then slowly start to disperse to their cars. Hushed whispers roll. Boots crunch over the crusted snow.

Finn’s the only one who actually speaks. To me or to both of us, I don’t know. He simply glances in the general direction of where Kai is standing and then sweeps his gaze to me. “You’re hopeless.”

They take off, leaving us alone in front of the building, surrounded by more buildings and scattered streetlights.

I go first. “I want to talk.” I shove my freezing fists into the pockets of my coat. “I can’t just keep doing this, keep avoiding the problem.”

His face takes on a pained expression. He remains silent, and when he finally opens his mouth, the words are stilted as if he’s trying really hard not to let out something he doesn’t mean. “We can’t do this here.”

“Yeah. Parking lots and us don’t agree, right?” I don’t know if he gets my joke or chooses not to react, but the next thing we do is walk to his van and he climbs inside. Then he says, “I’m pretty sure I’m being tailed. Just follow me in your car.” The door shuts.

I do as he asks and rush over to my own vehicle and soon we are on the road, pushing through the winter-white streets of Seattle toward the city limits and ultimately away from it.

The surroundings become unfamiliar first because Kai takes several turns that make no sense. I realize he’s doing it on purpose. Eventually, we’re back on the road I know, and the landscape triggers my memory—we’re on our way to the bridge.

My heart hammers against my ribs with triple force the entirety of the drive there. I’m convinced the skin on my knuckles is about to rip from how hard I’m clutching the steering wheel, but my hands are still functioning by the time we pull up to the destination.

Kai parks his van by the curb. I park right next to him.

We walk down the length of the bridge without saying anything until we clear the middle.

It’s empty, with hardly any tire or foot tracks. This is that forgotten corner of the county where no one comes. Knowing what I know now about how Ava died here makes me feel even more powerless. It was a dumb game and a dumb accident, and it hurts–having a full picture of what the final hours of her life were like.Muddled.

“Why do you want to do this here?” I ask, turning to Kai.

He’s right next to me, fists buried in the pockets of his long black coat, which doesn’t look very warm. Soft moonlight spilling from a crack between the clouds in the dark sky falls against his cheeks like shimmering fabric, only highlighting the paleness of his skin and the elegance of his profile.

The air around us moves slightly, stirring his hair against his shoulders.

“Because it should end where it started.” He finally dares a glance at me.

Our eyes meet and I feel my stomach shrinking.

“Are you just going to give up because some asshole in a suit told you to?” I take a small step forward to shorten the bit of a gap between us.

I can hold his hand now and I attempt to do exactly that, but he yanks it away, his chin dropping to his chest.

“I saw the photos,” I tell him, curbing my enthusiasm and leaving the physical intimacy out of this exchange.

Kai’s lashes flutter. He slowly shuts his eyes. A frown creases his forehead.

“Are you not going to say anything at all?” I whisper, my voice trembling and it’s definitely not from the cold.

He looks up then. “What do you want me to say, Dylan?”

“Who’s the man in the photos?”

---