Page 71 of Burn Bright

“This is pointing to the sconces on the wall,” Beckett draws his finger over the inky line. “We probably need to reposition the lights.”

Tom leaps off the chair to rotate the lights toward the ceiling, which illuminates a code for the antique desk.

Beckett and I share a grin as we roll the numbers into the steel padlock. It clicks, and we find a key to the third drawer. Inside, we discover the second piece to the riddle. Eliot tries to read the creased paper in my hand, but his brows scrunch in a way I’ve seen a thousand times growing up.

“Here.” I hand it to him, thinking maybe he just needs a closer look and extra time to process the written scrawl. On occasion that’s all it takes, or maybe he fakes it really well, making me believe he can comprehend it when he still can’t. This time, though, he passes the paper back.

“Read it to me.”

“‘With piercing force I crunch out fate,’” I tell Eliot, and I hope he knows I think he’s one of the most impressive peoplein our family. More so than Charlie. He has such a severe case of dyslexia, but it never stopped him from having a passion for literature or pursuing a career in the arts. He could’ve so easily been the jock of the Cobalt Empire, outperforming me in hockey, but he never did what came easy. He did what he loved. Above all else.

I should tell him before I go.

The sudden thought overturns my stomach. Reminding me this is finite. My time with them isn’t forever.

All that’s left is the key to the tin box for the last section of the riddle. It stumps us for the next ten minutes. Like Charlie said, Tom’s theory about the color of the hardbacks comes to a dead end.

Harriet and I are on the floor flipping through books for a clue. Tom has dumped the drawers and broken half the vials. Glass litters the rug and hardwood. Eliot wrenches the paintings off the wall, tearing the canvas out of its frame. He checks for hidden messages but finds nothing.

It looks like a violent storm swept through the room. There is shiteverywhere.The mess isn’t bothering me, but I notice how Beckett is back on the sofa. He smokes while rereading the one-sentence riddles on both slips of paper. I’m betting he’s trying to block out the demolition around him.

Charlie seems more in tune with Beckett. He slams his book closed, then catches me staring at him.

My joints solidify to concrete. Charlie has a way of making me feel like a lightning bug trapped in a glass jar. I’m about to avert my attention when he suddenly asks me, “Why her?”

Harriet freezes.

I tighten my gaze on him. “What do you mean?”

“Whybringher?” he clarifies with aggravation. Being stuck in this room is making him more of an asshole. He rakes a hand through his golden-brown hair, tugging at the strands, especiallywhen Tom shattersanothervial. Beckett snuffs out his cigarette on a marble ashtray.

Charlie stands.

“I’m fine,” Beckett says smoothly. “Charlie. S’il te plaît.”Please.

“He’s fine,” Eliot pipes in.

Charlie changes direction to Tom, and I hope his glare remains there. “Stop breaking shit. You’re so far off, it’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not trying to amaze you, Charlie Keating.” Tom frisbees a top hat to Eliot, who catches it and flips it on his head. Then Eliot opens a black umbrella indoors, not superstitious at all. He takes after our dad in that way, but Tom is cringing like he now eternally cursed himself. “Dude, no.”

“Ben,” Charlie recaptures my attention, unfortunately. “Why her?”

Harriet busies herself with the stack of books, but tension cinches the air.

“She’s my friend,” I defend.

He sets his ass against the armrest. “I’ve seen your phone contacts. You have a million numbers, but why haven’t we met any of your so-called friends besides her?”

“Dealing drugs, baby brother?” Eliot quips, but there is concern behind the joke. Because he’s not sure if it’s untrue.

They don’t know about the Adderall. Just that I beat the shit out of Tate Townsend for what he did to Winona. Yeah, the asshole has a name. I just don’t like remembering it.

“You’ve met my teammates from prep school?—”

“That’s not the same as this,” Charlie cuts me off. “You know this is different. Why her?”

“What’s with the inquisition?”