Page 27

CHAPTER 26

As soon as we reach my door, something shifts. A strange feeling coils in my chest causing me to look around. My heart is thumping, a sense of doom crowding in that I can’t quite place.

“Do you hear that?” I ask, pressing my ear to the door. I know for a fact that Brogan isn’t in there, but it sounds like someone is.

Callan stands beside me, hands in his pockets. “I don’t hear anything.”

He doesn’t seem concerned, and maybe I’m just overthinking because I’m the one who brought him up here. We called a truce, and things feel better now, but part of me still wonders if this is all just another move in his game. Is he doing this just to break my heart the way I broke his?

I listen again, one hand digging into my purse for my keys, but the sound doesn’t come back.

I could’ve sworn I heard faint music coming from inside my room.

Weird.

I go to slide my key into the lock, but the door opens before I can even turn the key.

“What the hell,” I breathe, panic rising. “We never leave this door unlocked.”

Callan shrugs beside me. “My sister can be forgetful sometimes.”

My head shakes no because I don’t think that’s it. My gut tells me it’s not that simple. Callan only thinks that way because he’s a guy. They don’t have to worry about someone coming in while they’re sleeping, stealing their things, or taking advantage of them.

Brogan would never forget to lock the door. Besides, I was the last one to leave for the game.

I step into the room, cautious and on high alert, like I’m expecting someone to jump out and grab me. But then I feel Callan by my side, and my nerves settle slightly.

Then I hear it again. And this time, there’s no way Callan doesn’t hear it too.

His wide eyes scan the room. But the moment I recognize the melody, my world shifts on its axis.

Music. Not just any music, and not just any sound. It’s soft, haunting, and all too familiar.

Without hesitation, I flip the light on and the sight that greets me has me wanting to vomit and cry in equal parts.

There, sitting in the center of my bed, muddy and worn, is my music box.

The lid is flipped open and the tiny ballerina twirls slowly to the mechanical tune. It’s covered in ash and there’s already dirt flaking off of it onto my comforter.

My breath catches and my limbs go stiff. I try to move and reach for it, to slap it shut, but it’s like I’m locked in place by something I can’t see.

Callan takes two long strides and in a swift motion, heslams it shut, snapping me out of my panic-induced state.

“Who…” I choke on the word, pointing at the box on my bed like it might spring to life and attack me. “Who put that there?”

Callan stares at it for a beat, his fingers dragging through his hair like he's trying to piece something together.

But is he?

“Did you do this?” I snap, the question bursting out of me, rage and panic clawing their way up my throat. “Was this you?”

“No!” he barks, eyes flaring. “Why the hell would I have that box? I thought you burned and buried it.” His gaze whips back to me. “You did burn the box, right?”

“Does it look like I fucking burned it?” I shout, motioning wildly to the very real, very not destroyed music box on my bed.

“You knew I didn’t burn it,” I breathe, the words cracking. “The video…the one Sebastian recorded. You saw it. You knew.”

Callan presses a hand on my shoulder, sincerity in his gaze. “I never watched the video.”

He backs away from me, going to my bed and looking over the box without touching it. “I didn’t even know the video existed until you told me down in The Chamber. And I never asked the guys for it because they never gave me a reason to think you didn’t follow through with your fucking assignment.”

“I did follow through with it,” I snap, my voice shaking with force.

“Obviously not!” he shouts back, hand slicing through the air as he gestures to the music box like it’s exhibit A in a case against me. “It’s right there, Avery!”

“I did what I was supposed to,” I say. “I followed the map. I found the post with the ribbon. I dug a hole, and I burned…” My words trail off, because this right here is where I incriminate myself.

“Burned what, dammit?” Callan demands, his posture rigid.

“I burned what was in the box.” I swallow hard. “I burned the dismembered tongue.”

Just saying it makes my stomach twist.Even worse, that box that was holding it is here, sitting on the bed where I sleep.

“I couldn’t do it,” I admit, and the words rip through me. My knees hit the floor as I crumble under the weight of them. Being forced to burn that flesh, the scent of it, the tune in the box out there with me on that cold and dark forest floor. I try to take a breath, but my lungs refuse to let it all in.

“I couldn’t bring myself to burn something that meant so much to me. Even if now it’s just a casket for cut-off body parts.”

I glance at the bed, but I can’t truly look at it. My vision blurs, tears burning my eyes. I’ll never look at that music box the same again. That memory with my mother is tainted.

Callan steps closer, crouching beside me. His hand rests gently on my back as I fight to breathe through the tightness in my chest.

“I buried it,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I buried it. So I have no idea how or why it’s here now.”

“We need to think this through, Avery. You’ve got to pull yourself together.” He holds the back of my neck but I squeeze my eyes shut tight, letting the tears flow.

“I can’t,” I choke out.

“You can. And you will,” he says, his voice sharp and commanding.

He controls my head and when my eyes flutter open, his face is inches from mine.

“Stand the fuck up,” he growls. “And face this shit head-on. Don’t let it break you down because that’s exactly what whoever did this wants.”

I flinch at his tone. We were just starting to make up and now he’s angry with me. “Why are you being so mean?”

“I’m not being mean,” he snaps. His grip on the back of my neck loosens a little and I feel slightly more centered with him forcing my attention onto him. “I’m being realistic.”

His voice rises, harsh and unrelenting, but his grip stays soft, like it’s an anchor, keeping me here and forcing me to listen to him. “Do you think sitting on your knees crying is going to fix this? No! You’re letting your emotions take over, and in this world, that’s weakness.”

“I’m only human, Callan,” I fire back, looking up at him through blurry eyes. “ You’re only human. We cry. We hurt. We bleed.”

It’s like he’s been trained not to react. Not to feel. Or maybe he’s been taught to twist fear into fuel, to use it as a weapon.

“I never said you couldn’t cry, Avery. Bleed all you need to, but stand the fuck up and let’s get this figured out. We can still problem-solve while you process this fucked-up shit. But you can’t give in to it. You can’t let it be the thing that breaks you.”

I feel my shoulders relax as I finally take in a full breath. He may be an asshole sometimes, but maybe this isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had. Whatever it is, it’s working. Because I’m suddenly on my feet, swiping the tears from my cheeks like they have no business being there.

“You swear on everything it wasn’t you?” I ask, eyes narrowing as I study his face.

He nods, firm. “It wasn’t me.”

“And the guys?”

He shrugs. “Doubtful. But I can’t be sure.”

That’s enough for now. While it’s clear they don’t communicate the best, it wouldn’t make sense for them to do this. Sebastian already has the video and this would only make it easier for the detective to get more evidence. I don’t think either of them are that dumb.

I march over to my nightstand, yank open the top drawer, and grab a notepad and pen. Without hesitation, I slam them against his chest.

“Put them on the list.”

His brow furrows. “What list?”

“The list we’re making.” My voice is steady now, a plan forming in my head as I take back control here. Someone wants to play, but they forget my major is in studying the brain and human behaviors. If they want to test me, I’ll show them who the smarter one is.

“We’re figuring this out, Callan.”

I cross the room to the bed, bile threatening to rise again as I stare down at the music box. Swallowing hard, I grab it with both hands, keeping my arms locked straight because even the smell makes me nauseous.

“First,” I mutter. “I’m getting rid of this damn thing.”

“How?” Callan asks from somewhere behind me.

I didn’t think that far ahead. So I do the only thing that comes to mind. I go to the window and shove the sill up with one hand. Cold air rushes in immediately, whipping my hair across my face. But before I can even push it away, I launch the box out the window with zero hesitation.

It disappears into the darkness below and I listen, waiting for the crash. Once I hear it, I slam the window shut and brush off my hands like I’ve just taken out the trash.

I shrug. “I think that takes care of the first problem.”

Callan quirks a brow. “We could’ve dusted that for prints, ran them through a database, collected samples…”

I spin to face him. “What? Are you serious?”

He laughs, waving a hand through the air. “Nah. I’m just fucking with you.”

I exhale a sharp breath and shake my head at him.

Callan drops down, back against the wall, and opens the notebook in his lap. He presses the pen to the paper without looking up.

Meanwhile, I start stripping my bed. The sight of that box on my comforter is going tostay in the back of my mind for a while. Luckily, I’ve got another sheet set in the closet so washing this one can wait until morning.

“Thanks,” I say softly as I peel off a pillowcase.

His eyes lift. “For what?”

“For talking me down…again.” I pause, offering the smallest smile. “Your method might be intense, but somehow, it works.”

He moves the pen steadily across the notepad, focused on something, though I have no idea what he’s writing.

“It’s a trick I learned in rehab,” he says after a beat. “I was a goddamn mess when I got there. Panic attacks all day, every day. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.”

He pauses, eyes still on the page.

“My roommate used to pull me out of them with the harsh truth. He’d stand over me and shout, practically scaring the panic out of my chest. At first, I just thought he was a mean motherfucker.” A slight smile tugs at his lips. “But when it worked, I started to get it.”

“That’s good to know.” I chuckle. “Because I was starting to think you were just a mean motherfucker, too.”

He smirks. “And now?”

“Now…” I pause, letting the word hang between us. “I’m not so sure.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look at me. He just smiles and turns his attention back to the paper in front of him.

Callan Cromwell is sitting cross-legged on the floor of my dorm room with no shoes, scribbling in my rainbow-swirled notebook like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He seems comfortable, present, and happy.

And my God, he’s fucking gorgeous.

I’ve always known it.But for a while, it was buried by his bitterness and ugly personality. Now, with those walls slowly coming down, I see it clearer than ever.

It’s scary how easy it is to want him like I did back then.

“All right,” he says, blowing out a breath as he holds the notebook toward me. “I think this is a good start.”

I close the space between us and take the notebook from his hand.

Our fingers brush, and for a second, neither of us moves.

Then I sit down beside him and look at his list.

Benson

Liam

Hayes

I look up from the notebook, scowling. “Hayes?”

He just shrugs, rolling his shoulders with that infuriatingly casual grin. “Hey, you never know.”

I smirk, clicking the pen dramatically before crossing his name off the list.

Benson

Liam

Hayes

“Well, I can tell you right now, it’s definitely not Benson,” I say, tapping the pen against the page. “He doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body.” I glance up. “Except toward you.”

“I do inspire strong feelings.” He nods like that is just a normal thing for him and I guess as a brutal hockey player, it probably is.

I chuckle as I cross Benson’s name off.Then a thought occurs to me and I add a name that shocks Callan.

Benson

Liam

Hayes

Detective Klein

“Think about it,” I say. “You said he’s been after you guys for a while, and he just so happened to show up right after I came back from burying that box with the rock in my hand. What if he’s getting desperate and starting to play dirty?”

Callan looks angry, a red tint rising in his cheeks. “He won’t get away with this shit if it is him.”

“How would we even prove it?” I wonder out loud.

“If it is him, we have contacts who’ll take care of it. But I don’t think it was. Klein knows this goes deeper than whatever he was sniffing for with the rock.”

“And what’s that?”

Callan bites his lip. “Another time. But for now, let’s just assume it’s not him.” He crosses his name off, but I’m not ruling him out.

“That leaves us with just Liam,” I murmur. “But…I don’t think so. Liam might be a little pushy, but he’s harmless.”

Callan leans back, arms folding behind his head, that knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “We all have secrets. Maybe he’s pissed at you and thinks you had something to do with it. Secrets are what make people dangerous.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge, arching a brow. “Tell me one of your secrets.”

He goes quiet for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he reaches for the notebook and pen.

I watch as he scribbles something down, then flips the notebook around and presses it to his chest.

“Can I trust you?” he asks, eyes locked on mine. “Like, really trust you?”

“Probably not,” I say with a smirk, though my pulse is picking up.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. “I think I can. You’ve proven yourself.” His tone shifts, low and serious. “But this stays between us. Aidric and Seb can’t know.”

Something about the weight behind his words twists my chest. He’s about to give me a piece of himself, and I don’t know what to do with that.

Callan finally passes me the notebook.

Benson

Liam

Hayes

Detective Klein

Julian

My eyes lift. “Who’s Julian?”

Callan leans back like we’re just chatting about the weather. “The owner of that tongue you burned and buried,” he says, so casually it makes my stomach flip.

“What?” I gasp, the notebook nearly slipping from my hands. “You’re telling me the guy who's missing a tongue is still alive?”

Callan doesn’t even blink. “Very much so,” he says, calm as ever. “Though I doubt he’s giving any speeches anytime soon.”

I smack the notebook against his chest, trying to hold back a laugh because this isn’t funny. Not even a little.

But judging by the way Callan’s laughing his ass off, he clearly disagrees.

“God, you’re such a psychopath,” I grumble, but the corners of my mouth betray me.

Before I can blink, he’s grabbing me, pulling me into him until I’m practically in his lap. His arms wrap around me, fingers digging into my sides with relentless tickles.

I squirm, fighting him off through a mess of giggles. “Stop!” I shriek, laughter breaking free despite my efforts.

It’s ridiculously wild that we’re laughing over a guy out there with no tongue who may, or may not, have walked out of the shadows, dug up a box, and broke into my room.

Yet, this is the freest I’ve felt in a long, long time.