Page 141 of Burn Bright

I send her a quick reply.

Ben Cobalt

Definitely.

Slipping my phone in my pocket, I feel worse. I wish I could speak to her tonight. Tell her I don’t hate her. Maybe she could explain more aboutwhatshe’s doing. Maybe it does tear her up inside. Maybe it doesn’t. I think, at this point, I don’t worry about the answer. I just want to know.

It’s another ten minutes to the apartment, and neither Charlie nor I talk as we trek through the lobby and ride the elevator. Our bodyguards slip past us down the hall to their rooms on the same floor.

Once inside, I shower. Brush my teeth. Say “I’m okay, just tired” to Beckett, Eliot, and Tom when they show up. I’m mentally drained and wish I could just pass out. Except, I find myself lying under the sheets on the pull-out, staring up at the ceiling in the darkened living room.

For at least an hour.

It’s too late to call Harriet. I’d rather she get the sleep I’m longing for. So I scroll through my texts. Earlier tonight, I wished my uncle a happy birthday, and I reread his reply now.

Uncle Ryke

Nothing beats getting old. Being alive. Really fucking miss you, Ben. When you’re free, let’s go hiking. I found a new trail I know you’ll love.

I breathe a deeper breath through my nose. Ryke Meadows is one of the world’s greatest free-solo rock climbers, and he’s risked death ascending thousands of feet. No harness, no rope. Just his body and bare hands. He has an appreciation for life in a different way than my dad does. Uncle Ryke isn’t weighing costsand benefits and always doing what’s in his best interest. He’s heart-over-head. All the time.

I’d already sent a reply that I’d let him know when there’s a good day.

Placing my phone aside, I close my eyes.Sleep.Sleep. Breathe. My body untightens, and I slowly begin to fade into a weighted slumber.

I’m out for minutes or maybe hours when the sound of rushing water and rustling stirs me awake. Rolling over, I squint out at the kitchen. Lights off, Beckett is drowned in a fuzzy darkness as he washes his hands at the sink.

He doesn’t notice me.

I prop up on my forearm, realizing all the cupboards are opened. Dishes, glassware, pots, pans—all pulled out of the cabinets. Gone.

Bar stools have been moved, made room for the massive black trash bags lined up symmetrically on the floor, each one spaced about three inches apart from the next. My pulse thunders in my ears.

“Beckett?” I call out in a whisper.

I barely see his eyes flit up to mine in the dark. His bare chest rises and falls in quick, heavy succession. “Go back to bed,” he whispers. “I’m almost done.”

The pull-out creaks as I stand up and go to my brother. As I near, absolute dread slams against me. He’s not just washing his hands. He’sscrubbingthem with the rough side of a sponge.

“Beck—”

“Just another second.” His smooth voice sounds like a taut wire in threat of snapping, but he’s unable to reach that relief. He’s scrubbing more vigorously, more hurriedly, and I’m afraid to touch him. When he rinses the soap off his forearms, shuts off the faucet with his elbow, I almost let out a breath, until he turns on the sink with the hand-free sensor, then off, then backon. Three times. And he resumes the entire fucking scrubbing all over again.

I bolt for Charlie.

Half-expecting Beckett to chase after me and stop me, but he never leaves the sink.

Once at Charlie’s room, I just open the door, grateful it’s unlocked, but I crash to a halt in the doorway. I’ve never been in here before, even if he gave me permission, and the warmth of his room throws me back—the wood paneling, the intricate beams, the green English ivy spindling down bookcases. It’s unlike all the other bedrooms. The architecture of the domed ceiling unhinges my jaw.

It resembles the Oxford library. I’d bet all my bartending tips that was the inspiration. It’s so far from dank or decrepit, but I don’t waste fucking time gawking. Thankfully Charlie is here and not at the airport for some spontaneous trip.

His king-sized bed is framed between bookcases, and he’s under a white comforter. I don’t need to jostle him awake. He hears me barge inside and immediately sits up and squints. “What the hell do you want?—”

“It’s Beckett.”

Like he’s on fire, he surges out of bed and pushes past me in a frantic hurry, knocking into my shoulder since I’m frozen in shock. He sprints to the kitchen, and I’m right behind.

Charlie slows as soon as he sees the cupboards, the trash bags, the sink, our brother. Quietly but urgently, he goes around the counter to reach Beckett.