The emails come in just after five.
The first one is curt, lacking in any of Ted’s usual flowery tone.
I tried to warn you.
I stare at it, unable to muster much in the way of alarm. Ever since what happened in the funhouse, I can’t seem to feel much of anything. Not even last night, when Killian found me in the bathroom with the glass pressed to my wrist. Not even when he gently placed me in the shower or carefully cleaned my wounds.
Wounds that he had made.
Not even when he asked me, voice so quiet and soft, if I remembered that blink of time when things had been good. Of course, I remember. Despite feeling out of place in their home, it was the first time everything had seemed full of promise and possibility—a new future laid out before me. I remember going to bed that night and wondering what it might have been like to kiss him, and then feeling stricken by the impropriety of it. He was supposed to be my new brother.
Sometime after, Ms. Crane brings a plate right to my room. It’s schlocky macaroni and cheese with ground beef stirred in, and she doesn’t even cuss me a warning against telling that ‘big blond fuckface’, so I’m assuming Tristian has all but written me off.
The second email comes as I’m staring impassively at the dinner, unhungry and uncaring.
I’ve been wondering, Ted has written, should I make it slow? Or should I just put a bullet in their heads and be done with it?
I look at my phone screen, feeling nothing but mild disappointment. All talk.
Ted is all talk.
Which means I came here for nothing. It means all the pain and torment and useless heartache had no point. It means I’m worse than a fool, because a fool doesn’t know any better, but me? I knew exactly what they were.
I get the third email ten minutes later. There’s no text, only an attachment.
It’s a photo of the Lords.
They’re outside somewhere, strolling down a street. Rath is wearing his leather jacket, but Killian is in short sleeves, looking thuggish and intimidating as his eyes fix to something in the distance, out of frame. Tristian is there, too, the sharp angles of his face turned away.
They look alert, like they’re in the middle of doing something they know is wrong. There are buildings behind them, places I’ve seen before. I realize they’re on the avenue, close to where I’d bought the drugs the other day. I’ve driven by that bench, have looked into the large, barred window of the pawnshop, have stopped at that traffic light.
They’re out there right now; Killian, Tristian, Rath.
Ted.
The email that comes after is to the point.
Either you come and watch them die, or I come to you, in that big, empty house.
The bowl of macaroni crashes to the ground as I lurch from my bed, frantically pulling on the first pair of pants and shirt I can find. I’m flying down the hall when I stop short, almost teetering on the edge of the stairs. I don’t know who Ted is, and I can’t be certain what he’s capable of, but if there’s one thing the Lords have taught me, it’s this:
No one’s going to protect me unless I protect myself.
I burst into Killian’s room first, dropping hard to my knees to search beneath his bed. I yank out the box he keeps it in—it was there the night I tied him up—but when I unlatch and open it, it’s empty.
I rifle through his closet next, which is easy. Everything is carefully organized, from his jeans to his belts. Most people would keep odds and ends in their closest. Mementos. Things they know they should throw away, but they don’t. Equipment, old electronics, just about anything.
Killian’s closet is pristine.
It has clothes, shoes, jackets, baseball caps, but little else. The shelf above his shirts holds nothing but five shoeboxes, and in a display of unutterable absurdity, each of them contains actual shoes.
His nightstand and desk are equally unhelpful, so I leave, pounding up the stairs to the third floor. There’s no way Killian is the only one with a gun. I search Tristian’s room next, which is almost as tidy as Killian’s but not nearly as sparse, and the instant I open the closet, I know there’s no way I have time to sift through it. It’s such a perfect metaphor for Tristian. The room is bright and open, clean and sleek, but hidden within it is a jumbled mess of designer clothing and discarded things. It’s all been packed in there haphazardly, as if he doesn’t like acknowledging the clutter long enough to do something about it.
I slam the closet and check under the bed, the nightstand, the dresser.
There’s a safe beneath his desk.
Of course Tristian would take safety more carefully than Killian, who just closes it up in a box beneath his bed.
My phone buzzes with another notification, and I frantically pull it from my pocket, thumbing the email open. To my bafflement, it contains only a number:
One.
I blink at it, unable to decipher what that means. Does he know I’m here, looking at Tristian’s safe? Does he know the combination? I might know Tristian pretty well now, but not nearly enough to guess a combination. Izzy and Lizzy’s birthday? Who even knows.
Growling in frustration, I leave the room.
Rath’s room is the most difficult, and not only because it hurts to walk inside. There’s nothing tidy or organized about it, and the second I step over the threshold, the sour scent of smoke and booze slaps me in the face. There are clothes strewn over the floor, record covers, sheet music, a guitar propped up precariously against his couch. Rath has always been messier than the others, but I’ve never seen it this bad. I step over an old takeout container and, ignoring the bed, go right to the nightstand. There’s plenty inside—condoms, lube, guitar picks, loose change, a tube of acrylic paint, lighters and matches, a crumbled cigarette—but no gun.
His dresser is next, and then his closet, and Rath might be messier than both of the other two combined, but at least he isn’t obsessed with clothes.
His closet is the jackpot.
I find a shoebox that’s tucked out of the way, but still easily accessible—well worn, as if he goes into it often. Inside is a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a bottle of prescription pills, and three IDs that look and feel fake. The only orderly thing inside is a tightly rolled wad of money. It’s thick and bound with a rubber band and even rolled together, it’s obvious how much time he put into flattening each bill. I can only assume this is his piano fund. Finally, and most important, is a gun. I feel my lips curve up into a smirk at how alike we can be, but it falls instantly away, stolen by the memory of what happened in the funhouse.
Just then, I get another buzz from my phone.
Two.
I freeze, realizing what this is.
A countdown.
His worn black hoodie is beneath my foot, so I pick it up and shove my arms inside. I snatch the gun from the box, so clumsy and rushed that the crumbled pack of cigarettes comes with it as I cram it into Rath’s hoodie pocket.
It’s hard to understand—I can’t follow the threads, and I’m not sure I want to—but something happened to me while I was on the floor that night, surrounded by mirrors. It wasn’t the punishment. Not exactly. Although that had been excruciating, it was the self-doubt that cut the deepest.
Because the thing is, I’ve always been a coward.
I’ve always counted on someone else to do what needed to be done. Before Rath’s performance, Killian’s pregame party, and the way I’ve been with Tristian, I’ve been largely hands off in the making of my fate.
Rushing out the door into the sprinkle of chilly rain, I’m eased by the certainty that once and for all, for better or for worse, everything ends tonight. Pointing my two enemies at one another, never getting my hands dirty…that’s not bravery. That’s not survival. It’s just weak.
Tonight, someone is going to be on the other side of this gun.
Maybe it’ll be a Lord.
Maybe it’ll be Ted.
And if all else fails, maybe it’ll even be me.
Despite the steady strum of rain, the avenue is as bright and alive as the carnival had been, and just as harsh to be in the presence of. My mom didn’t work down here for very long. Originally, we were from a couple counties over. That city had been smaller, and a lot more dangerous to be visible in. The day she decided to give South Side a stroll, that’s what she said to me.
“It’s easier to be invisible in a place like that.” I remember with perfect clarity the way she looked, sitting at her vanity and putting on lipstick. At my skeptical expression, she sent me a small grin, tapping me on the nose. “Hopefully, you never need to be invisible, my sweet little novel.”
If she only fucking knew.
She met Daniel not long after, and I think I always suspected he’d been a client. Now that I’m a little older and a lot wiser, I wonder if maybe it wasn’t worse.
A man like Daniel doesn’t need to buy sex.
When my phone pings with another notification, I don’t need to check it. The last number had been ‘six’. They seem to come at random intervals, and I’m not sure what the final number is meant to be, since we’re going up and instead of down, making it difficult to calculate how long I have before…
Before whatever happens when the time is up.
I drive straight to that little strip I’d seen in the photo, but they’re long gone. I’m not deterred, eyes scanning the distance as I roll down the avenue. I pass shops and street corners, the men I’d bought the drugs from, the girls in mini-skirts, the boys in their skintight pants, the customers, the happy people, the sad people—all of them converge into a writhing rainbow of humanity. Places like this aren’t scary to me. They’re more like home than Daniel’s house ever was.
Being invisible sounds nice.
I get two more buzzed notifications, so I search harder, down to the warehouse Tristian had taken me that one time, and then toward the Velvet Hideaway—the brothel Killian had taken me to.
Still, I don’t see them anywhere. The sun is fading fast, and I get stuck behind an old Chevy that can’t decide which lane it wants to be in. When my phone dings with another notification, I finally stop to check them, hoping for another picture.
Nine, it says.
There are no more photos.
“Shit,” I hiss, banging the heel of my palm on my horn. The windshield wipers thump to the rhythm of my pulse, and it’s as I’m craning my neck around that I catch sight of a street name.
No.
Not a name.
A number.
I make an ill-advised U-turn, causing a silver car to swerve and lay on their horn. Ignoring it, I speed toward 13th Avenue, and then 12th. I’m halfway to 11th when my phone chimes again.
Ten.
10th Avenue, I find, isn’t much of anything compared to the main strip. Down here, it’s all vacant lots and old manufacturing businesses. There’s a grouping of tents and makeshift shelters in the first alley I pass, but few cars. The second alley I pass is dark and deserted and much too narrow to get my car through for a proper search.
I’m considering looking on foot when I reach the last alley.
The buildings that bracket it are tall, constructed from old brick that looks like it’s crying. Tracks of oxidation trail down from the roof like crooked fingers reaching for the dark pavement below.
I know before I even swing my car into the mouth of the alley that they’re there.
I can feel them.
My headlights fall on their three forms and I hold my foot on the brakes, frozen at the sight of them, warbled and distorted through the rain on my windshield. They’re all squinting into the light, Tristian’s hand disappearing beneath the hem of his shirt. Killian looks uneasy, the broad line of his shoulders tense. Rath takes a couple steps to the side, like he’s calculating that the three of them being all clustered together might not be the best idea right now.
I’m so focused on them I miss the figure approaching from the other side of the alley.
Everything happens so fast that I can barely parse it through the rhythm of the wipers. One moment, they’re all standing around looking nervous, and the next, Tristian’s head is snapping back. There’s a flurry of movement, Killian’s hand thrusting out with the gun as Rath flies forward to jump the guy.
But then it all comes to a screeching halt, because the attacker has something around Tristian’s throat—a rope or a wire—and Tristian’s fingers are clawing at it, but he’s right in front of the guy and Killian can’t take his shot.
I watch, heart hammering wildly against my ribs as they stall, Killian’s back shifting, bellowing, twitching. I realize he’s yelling, but I can’t hear it in here—not over the beat of the rain.
The second I open my door, I do.
“I’ll fucking shoot!” Killian’s snapping, arms rigid as he aims the gun. If I can see it as the empty threat it is, then chances are the other guy can, too. Tristian’s pinned against the attacker, shielding him from anything.
“Drop it,” the voice shouts, yanking Tristian’s neck back, “or I’ll strangle your boy.”
My breath seizes as I watch Tristian struggle to breathe, face red and contorted as his fingers scrabble at his neck.
Rath says something low and panicked to Killian, but I can’t make it out.
Killian’s furious, “Motherfucker!” is perfectly clear, however. He lowers his hand and in a series of swift movements has the clip out of it, chamber emptied, and is chucking the empty gun across the distance. “If you want the money, you’d better let him go first.”
I blink the rain from my eyes as the attacker reaches around Tristian, yanking his shirt up. I see the gun in his waistband, silver and gleaming in the beam of my headlights, for only a brief moment before the attacker is plucking it out.
The gasp Tristian makes when the man shoves him forward makes my stomach turn. It’s a wet, desperate, painful-sounding thing, and he lands on his hand and knees immediately after sucking it in, back heaving.
The attacker himself is a disappointment.
He’s just a man with a ski mask pulled over his face, leather gloves covering his hands. If this is Ted, then he’s nothing special. He’s not eight feet tall, or four feet wide. He’s not carrying an Uzi or being flanked by henchmen. He’s simply one lone man.
“Nothing personal, boys,” the guy says, landing a hard kick into Tristian’s side. “Got a job to do.” Tristian curls against the blow, and even this far away, I can tell that awful wheezing sound is still being drawn from his throat.
Rath says, “Hey!” and charges at him, but the guy has Tristian’s gun pulled on him so fast that Rath almost tips over in his haste to pull back.
“I’ll be taking that money now.”
Without question, Killian pulls a pouch from his pants and lobs it at the man, hitting him square in the chest. “Take it and go fuck yourself,” he spits, edging closer to Tristian, who’s only now pushing himself to his knees.
He tucks the pouch into his waist, leaving the gun trained on Killian. “Oh, the money isn’t the job, Little Killer.” Cocking the hammer on the gun, he explains, “It’s the payment.”
The sound of the shot ringing out makes me yelp in shock. If any of them hear it, there’s no way to tell over the panicked flurry of motion that happens next. Rath flies at the man, clutching his arm and giving it a hard twist. Tristian scrabbles against the wet ground toward Killian, who’s bending over, almost like he’s looking for something on the ground.
I don’t realize why he’s actually folded over like that until he collapses to his knees.
Rath is struggling with the attacker, but all I can see is my stepbrother, as crumpled as the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, fists mashed into his stomach.
I know then that I’m not crazy.
The maelstrom inside my head is a chaotic swirl of relief, despair, and confusion. I’ve imagined this moment for so long, it feels surreal to watch it unfold. To see that desperate terror in Rath’s eyes as he tries to wrestle the gun away. To know that Tristian’s sputtering breaths are caving his chest with every frantic inhale. To watch the bowed curve of Killian’s shoulders as he curls there in the wet alley, bleeding and so alone.
Because that’s what they’ll be.
Suffering and hopeless.
No one to help.
I don’t need to ask how it feels. I think of them cutting those letters into me. I think of their vicious expressions as they covered me in their come, fucked me with that knife, and left me there on the floor, bloody and crying. I think of the basement, of Killian’s hard eyes, and the frat’s jeering taunts. I think of the library, Tristian forcing his fingers into me. I think of the video and Rath’s scheming grin. The sting of the tracker being pushed beneath my skin. Tristian’s voice in my ear, coaxing me to open up for my brother. Killian’s hands on me in the night, taking and using. I think, most of all, of that night in the laundry room. It was the bedrock of what we’ve become, and now it’s all stacked up into a crooked tower of their sins that’s finally toppling over.
I should throw my head back and laugh into the rain, because it’s perfect.
This is the perfect place for them to die.
But the reality isn’t so simple, because yes—there was the laundry room and the basement and the mirrors. But there was also last night, Killian’s eyes blank but soft as he talked about that Easter, years ago. There’s the way Tristian had looked at me when he said he didn’t like me being mad at him. There was Rath in that bathtub, telling me how he’d made plans—not for him, but for me.
It should be so clear to me, watching Rath lose his grip on the attacker’s arm. I should feel good as I watch Tristian cover Killian, pushing a hand into his gut. I should feel free and so fucking alive right now. But when the attacker raises the gun at Rath, all I feel is grief, because I can see the awareness on his face—the dull, pale flash of acceptance that he’s about to die—and all I can think about are those soft mornings.
Nothing about it is simple or easy.
I’m pulling the gun from my pocket before I really have a chance to think about what I’m doing. I blame the rain for Killian’s voice coming to me, unbidden.
“First rule of gun safety. Never point a gun at something you aren’t looking to kill.”
Pointing my gun at the man is the first easy thing about all of this. Clicking off the safety is the second. Aiming through the sights is the third.
But pulling the trigger?
That’s the easiest of all.
