Page 91 of The Mourning Throne
He’d started to.
Stopped when he saw a picture of a test score.
81/84.See what you can do when you put in the effort, written in red cursive.
This was fromhigh school.
All of these had transferred from his old phone when he finally upgraded a couple years ago.
Instead of going back up, he went down memory lane.
Pictures of his old friend group.
Croissant in that atrocious birthday hat he’d laughed his ass off when he finally wrestled her into it.
A pool party selfie. Holding a bottle of beer. Acne so bad, pizza wanted a slice of him.
Down further.
Morgan.
Lots, and lots of Morgan.
Hundredsof pictures. Years worth.
No wonder his poor phone chugged sometimes. Overheated at the drop of a hat.
If Lex was being honest? He really didn’t remember taking half of these.
Some? Yeah. Definitely.
The one of Morgan in the red and green flannel pants—his version of celebrating the holidays. Knee pulled to his chest, chin propped on the back of his hand. Christmas tree trying to swallow the side of his dark head. He just looked… sad.
Morgan had moved out a month later.
Lex had moved out three months later.
One month after he got out of the hospital.
Two weeks after he’d looked Mr. Delacroix in the eye and swore he wouldn’t go hunt Morgan down. Again.
Good pictures were rare. Most were blurry, rushed, taken from behind corners and down hallways. But they werehis.
Lex kept scrolling.
The one that stopped him sat dead center of the camera roll.
Lex tapped the screen. Zoomed in.
Morgan in the woods, backlit by that blue-white winter sunlight. No coat, just an oversized T-shirt. Glove missing. Cheeks flushed with cold. Eyes haunted as hell.
He looked like theideaof sleep was foreign.
Staring—not at the camera—but at Lex.
No yelling. No,Stop following me.
Just awkward silence.
