Page 22 of The Shadow King's Brother

With that settled,I grab a cup of coffee.

Outside, birds chirp, their song lingering as I take a sip. I stare out the window, feeling the familiar pull of a dream I’ve carried for years—to be a private investigator. It’s something I’ve wanted ever since I could remember. I used to think it was a pipe dream, but now, the possibility feels closer, real even.

If I asked, Elio would make it happen for me in an instant. He’d make sure I had everything I needed—cases, resources, all of it. But that’s not what I want. I want to earn it. I want to be good enough to build something from the ground up, something I can call my own.

I could start slowly. Take small steps now, build my skills, take on cases. Maybe I’ll finally renovate that office downtown—the one Elio’s been paying the rent for, even though he insists it’s no trouble. He always says it’s nothing. But I hate how easy he makes it for me, how he takes care of things when I’m too caught up.

My money disappeared last year when I was too deep in helping him and Tuvio. ‘Consider it a salary for all your work,’ Elio had said, and I’d accepted, just like that. But now... it doesn’t feel right.

It gnaws at me, like a woodpecker tapping at my peace. I can’t help but feel like I’ve let him do too much.

Go for your dream. Make it happen.

My father’s voice rings in my mind, as if he’s standing right beside me, urging me on. I shake my head and push the thought aside. I need to focus. But it’s hard to ignore the pressure of his words. I tuck them away, not too far—just enough to breathe.

I take a deep breath, the lukewarm coffee halfway to my lips.

Then Jackson’s call yanks me back into the present.

"V-Vicks!"

His voice is a mess of panic and slurred words – that tells me he’s been drinking again. He’s like a broken clock, stuck on the same agonizing hour.

“I—”

“Hey, listen to me,” he implores. “The B.C. thing is real. I dreamt about it again, and I know—I know—it’s not just in my head.”

His words hit me hard, the tone, and for a second, I’m back to that night when he called about his wife, his voice trembling with that same raw panic. I press the phone tighter to my ear.

“Jackson, calm down,” I say.

“You calm down, Vick—hic—key,” he pants. “It’s real!”

“You’re drunk,” I sigh.

He isn’t getting his life back like this. He’s digging himself a grave, and I’m running out of shovels.

“I don’t care! Me having a few drinks don’t change the fucking facts.”

I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say to him.

“Vickie, are you there? Dammit, you have to look into it,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Please. I can’t do this alone. They won’t listen to me, and you’re the only one—the only one who gets it. You have to look for that B.C., whatever it is, I k-know it’s them—Look at the safe house camera feeds. Please. They’re hiding something.”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know—”

A sigh escapes me. It’s a loop with him, a pattern I can’t seem to break. But I can’t ignore that bone-deep terror in his voice.

“Jackson.”

“Please—”

How can I say no to my friend? Even if he’s teetering on the edge of crazy. I’m not exactly a pillar of sanity myself.

“Alright, buddy. I’ll check it out,” I say. “But you need to get some rest, okay? Promise me that. Let me handle this.”

He mutters a lisping, “Thank you,” the sound defeated, and the call cuts out. I stare at the phone momentarily, my thoughts spiraling, a hundred different scenarios flashing before my eyes.

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