Page 82 of Inheritance

“I…”

His mouth sagged open, his face going slack and neutral.

Sophia

Gabriel didn’t move.

The noise around us blurred, then dulled, then vanished altogether. No more shouting. No more footsteps. Just the distant ringing of a horror.

His hand still cradled the back of his father’s head, but his eyes had gone empty. Not glassy. Not tearful. Just… blank.

He was breathing, but wrong. Too controlled. Too tight. Like his chest had forgotten how to expand. Like he thought letting anything in—air, grief—might let it all out. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Didn’t react.

I touched his arm.

Nothing.

“Gabriel,” I whispered.

Nothing.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hugging him.

Still nothing.

I felt his jaw move, a tight, grinding motion. Like he was trying to contain something with his teeth—pain, guilt, fury. I couldn’t tell.

Then, slowly, he eased his hand out from beneath his father’s head. Gently.

He stood, slipping out of my arms.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Just turned and started walking.

I followed him.

He didn’t tell me to. Didn’t tell me not to. He just walked—away from everything.

My voice barely sounded like mine. “Don’t.”

He kept walking.

Up the stairs, down the hallway. His movements were precise. Purposeful. Like muscle memory was guiding him, not thought. His eyes didn’t see the walls, the paintings, the rugs beneath his feet. He wasn’t here. Not really.

I followed him.

He reached our bedroom, shoved the door open with his shoulder, crossed straight to the liquor shelf, ripping the decorative cupboard door off its hinges. He twisted the cap off the bottle, tipped it to his mouth, and drank.

And drank.

Not a gulp. Not a reflex. Just one long, dragging pull like it would never be enough. His throat moved, jaw tight, eyes distant. He didn’t pause for breath.

I almost stepped into the room.

And then I saw it at my feet.

Blood. A trail of blood.

Leading down the hallway.