Page 32 of Bend & Break
My fingers dig into the fabric of Mads’s joggers. I don’t even register it until I feel the tension in his thigh. He’s holding still, completely locked in.
The other guy scrubs both hands over his face under the mask he’s wearing, but it’s back in place before the camera ever gets a clear view of it. “You think that’s gonna fucking work? He couldn’t breathe. He was begging us to stop.”
A sick, creeping weight settles in my gut.
“We have no choice but to make them believe it,” the other guy fires back, pacing harder.
“There’s blood on the floor, Jonah. Actual blood. He hit his head. He—” The words choke off.
“I know what there is,” Jonah snaps. “But if anyone finds out what we were doing down here, we’re finished. You get that, right? We lose everything.”
A pause.
Then the second guy mutters, “We already lost everything.”
The video cuts to black.
I don’t move.
I blink at the screen, then at Mads.
“I know him. Or at least… who he was.” My voice scrapes out, rough and unsteady. “He was on Briarwood’s soccer team.”
My eyes sting, the room tilts under the weight of what we just saw.
“So do I.” His voice is flat, but his jaw tightens. He’s already digging his phone out, scrolling fast, checking like he needs proof even though we both know exactly who we saw.
His posture changes—spine straighter, shoulders squared—no trace of the eager boy who had me in his lap two minutes ago. This is Mads in problem-solving mode. Focused. Closed off.
When he finds it, he doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns his phone toward me.
A headline stares back:Briarwood Student Dies in Swimming Accident
It’s dated months back, during the timeframe of summer conditioning.
Under it: a photo of the guy from the video. The one slumped in the corner.
Miles Bennett.
I’m not sure I’m breathing right. Or at all.
“What the hell did they just dump in your lap, Blue?”
It’s the million-dollar question.
And I don’t have an answer.
Chapter 12
Mads
So much for sleep. I don’t think either of us even tried. Blake was stretched out on the mattress beside me, staring up at the ceiling with her fists clenched like she was ready to deck someone in her dreams. I kept my eyes shut, waiting for my brain to shut off, but every time I drifted, I saw the glow of that cursed drive and the mess it dragged us into. Not exactly how I pictured the first time we’d end up in the same bed—her rigid with tension, me filled with dread, both of us lying there like strangers who’d just survived a car crash.
By four a.m., we’d stopped pretending. She brewed the world’s strongest cup of coffee in Colin’s machine, and I spent ten minutes trying to convince her it wasn’t worth drinking battery acid just to stay upright. She ignored me, obviously.
Now the sun’s up and the house feels like a crime scene after the cleanup crew’s been through—quiet, stale, no trace of life except the two of us pretending we’re functional.
We still have to clean the bleachers this morning. Nothing saysbonding experiencelike scrubbing nacho cheese off concrete.
