Page 71 of Mason

My stomach knots, but I force myself to stay neutral, to let the moment pass without giving anything away.

David Eddy is dead.

And I’m the only one in this room who knows it.

I toy with the idea of telling Clay. Of just putting it all out there, letting him carry some of the weight pressing down on my chest. But what good would that do? If I tell him, he’ll be complicit. That means if the feds come knocking—if some loosethread unravels—he’s right back in a cell before he even has the chance to start his life again.

Iwon’tdo that to him.

He’s already sacrificed enough.

So I swallow the truth and bury it under a practiced indifference. “Maybe. But I don’t have proof.”

Clay exhales through his nose, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. His dark eyes pin me in place, reading between the lines the way only a brother can.

“You’re lying.”

Shit.

I reach for my coffee, taking a slow sip, willing my hands not to shake. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re leaving something out.” He studies me, his expression unreadable. “You always get that crease between your brows when you’re holding back.”

I force my features to relax. “You’re imagining things.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “No. I know you. I know when you’re scared, when you’re pissed, when you’re about to burst into tears but pretending you’re fine. And right now? You’re not telling me everything.”

I press my lips together, forcing myself to hold the line. “I’m just exhausted, Clay. So much has happened the past few days, and I’m tired.”

His jaw flexes, hands clenching into fists. “Shelby.”

I look away, staring at the edge of my mug. “Let it go, Clay.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, filled with all the things I won’t say and all the things he wants to hear.

Then, his voice lowers—quieter now, edged with something raw. “I can’t. Not when it’s about you.”

I close my eyes briefly, becausethis—this is the part that always breaks me. The way Clay looks at me like I’m the mostprecious thing in his world. Like he’d burn the entire city to the ground if it meant keeping me safe.

But I don’t need him burning for me. I need himfree.

I sigh, shifting in my seat. “What do you want me to say, Clay? That I know who did it? It’s a bit of a stretch to burn down a house, even for Eddy, don’t you think?” I shake my head.

Clay scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. “He tampered with my car, remember?”

The reminder jolts me.

If I had any guilt over killing David, it’s quickly erased when I remember that he almost killed my brother.

I look at him then—reallylook at him—and I see it. The darkness that prison left behind. The bitterness. The weight of time spent behind bars, plotting all the ways he’d even the score once he was free.

“You’re right,” I say softly. “He is capable. But you just got out of prison. You have a second chance, Clay. Don’t waste it chasing ghosts.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “A second chance? I was in jail for absolutely zero reason except that David Eddy wanted me out of the picture to get to you. I’m convinced of that.”

He leans forward, voice barely above a whisper. “Shelby, if he comes near you again, I will kill him. You hear me? If I’m going to do jail time, it’ll be because I actually deserve to be there.”

“Revenge won’t fix what’s already broken, Clay.”

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