Page 84 of Fragile Lives

“I want you to know that I forgive you without this story. You are my brother, and no matter what you say, that fact won’t change. But if you decide to tell me your story, I’ll dig out the truth. I don’t know what I’ll find, but I strongly suspect that you both were wrong to blame yourselves all these years.”

He clears his throat. “How do you know?” he rasps.

“From what I’ve found so far, there was a sudden change in commanding officers during the period you got injured and were in the hospital. A whole lot of them. Every time stuff like that happens, they’re cleaning something up. But I have a few pieces I can’t put together, and that’s what I need to know. I just hope one day you’ll be able to talk to me about it. I know how to listen.”

His eyes are guarded. His throat moves in a rough, loud swallow before he speaks. “I can’t, Leila. I can’t talk about that.”

He turns around and walks away.

“I still love you,” I say to his back.

He pauses, his shoulders hunch, but he pulls the doorknob and walks out.

A sense of strong déjà vu washes over me. The second person to walk out of my house with their back turned to me in the past week. I must be breaking some unspoken record.

I sigh to myself because no one else is here to listen, lock the door behind him, and go back to my research.

A few hours later, a loud knock on the door startles me, and I jump from the couch. I must have dozed off while reading this god-awful article. Another knock, louder this time. I look at the clock—it’s twenty minutes past ten. Who would be here this late in our small town unless someone is dying?

I quietly tippytoe to the door and look through the peephole. Alex stands there, eyes crazed. I unlock the door and open it.

“What happened?” I ask.

He looks around, pointing at the fresh footsteps. “Have you had a guest over?”

“No.” A chill runs through my body.

“Did you get any deliveries?”

“No.”

“Lock the door,” he orders and takes off, following the prints in the fresh snow.

It’s not the first time in the past week I’ve noticed it. It’s the same shoe print and the same size. They always come from the road, stand on my porch, and leave the same way. I was seriously considering installing the security camera. I know it’ll look ridiculous in this neighborhood, but I feel uneasy more and more every day. At this point, I must drop the idea of it just being a stupid prank.

“Leila, it’s me,” Alex’s voice sounds through the door a few minutes later.

I unlock it and let him inside.

“Did you find anything?” I ask.

“No.” He glances at me. “It’s not the first time it happened?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Do you know who it might be?”

“Not really.” I had my suspicions, but they turned out to be false when I texted the person who knows everything again and who was one of the reasons I’m in this situation right now, and he confirmed that the subject is still in prison.

“Okay. I’ll get you a camera tomorrow morning.” He nods to himself.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He bends over and starts unlacing his boots.

“Are you staying over?” I ask with a raised brow.

“I came here to give you an interview.”