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CHAPTER TWO

RHYS

The car ride feels like struggling underwater, each moment submerged in a silence that crushes you rather than rescues you.

It’s not the kind of quiet that can be chased away by cranking up the radio or mindlessly tapping at your phone screen.

This silence is a heavy, oppressive fog that wraps around my chest with every pulse of the engine and every turn of the wheels, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Arden has been mute since we first pulled away from the curb. He sits rigid, arms tightly folded over his broad chest, and his jaw is so set that every clench hints at a potential snap.

His eyes flash with the tension of a man battling an inner fury—one look that screams if you say a single careless word, you’ll unleash a storm . And so, I hold my tongue.

Dominic navigates through the night as if it were any other Thursday. It feels too casual, too routine, despite the gravity of our task: escorting one of our closest mates to the station for Tony Slade’s murder—a murder that someone has slyly pinned on Arden. The whole situation teeters on absurdity.

Arden?

A murderer? In any sane story, that would be impossible.

But here in New Hope, cold, hard facts lose their meaning as soon as a man like Tony Slade dies. What counts in this twisted reality is who can be painted as guilty enough to cover the actual truth. And in Arden’s case, his larger-than-life, rule-breaking persona, his loud swagger and dramatic defiance make him an effortless target—a scapegoat.

When we finally pull up to the station, a heavy pressure settles over me—a dull ache, like an old bruise being prodded into pain. I haven’t returned here in months, not since the night Hayden was arrested for knocking out a guy who had dared to insult Millie at a party.

I had paced the sterile, humming waiting room then, anger and fear mingling inside me as I fought to keep from drowning in the thought of how young Hayden was and how desperately I was trying to protect him.

Tonight, the weight feels even more crushing.

Because Arden is one of the few souls who has seen right through me without flinching and watching him march towards the front doors of the station like a condemned criminal, his shoulders squared and eyes downcast, shreds a part of me I never knew existed.

Inside, the congestion of disinfectant and the musty aroma of old records of paperwork fill the air. The harsh buzz of fluorescent lights overhead is severe, almost hostile, against the backdrop of the misfortune of the night.

They shuttle us into one of the cramped interview rooms. Arden is given the metal chair with legs bolted fast to the floor—a hard seat that seems to reflect the gravity of the situation—while I settle into the chair opposite him.

Even though I’m technically not his lawyer, still a floundering law student stumbling through the rigours of a crippling academic load, I know Arden would prefer to have me here, especially because he has a habit of pushing the boundaries, as his money usually makes him untouchable.

I watch the detectives circle around us, their questions thinly veiled in probing and uncertainty. Their eyes dart and linger, desperate to find something solid—a shred of evidence, a witness, even a murder weapon. Instead, they have only whispers of information: a body discarded in an abandoned industrial lot and a name that someone conveniently fed into their files.

Tony Slade.

Gone.

And Arden Blakely, now wrapped in suspicion.

It’s insane.

But this town? New Hope doesn’t run on justice. It runs on power. And when men like Tony fall, someone always gets buried in the rubble.

The worst part? I know who’s about to take Tony’s place.

Jasper. Ashley’s older brother.

He’s nineteen, but no one in their right mind underestimates him. He’s colder than Tony ever was. Smarter too. And ruthless in a way that doesn’t need volume—he lets his reputation do the talking. He’s been his father’s enforcer since he was sixteen. That kind of life burns through your soul fast.

I catch a brief glance from Dominic; his jaw is set in a silent protest. He knows, deep down, that the whole charge is a charade—a farce. But knowing the truth and proving it are separated by worlds.

After what feels like hours of relentless questioning, they finally let us leave. No formal arrests, no redress or apologies—only a murmur of a warning, barely audible, that “this isn’t over.”

Stepping back into the chilly night air, I draw a deep, shuddering breath as if the icy wind might wash away the grim residue clinging to me from the station. Ralph waits by the car, the engine idling like a low purr of anxious anticipation.

“Are you okay?” I murmur to Arden as we sink into the backseat.

He lets out a bitter scoff. “Fucking peachy,” he replies, the sarcasm thick in his tone.

Silence falls again as we drive home, the only sound the hum of tires on wet pavement.

“I've got people digging,” Ralph announces eventually, his voice a blend of resolve and fatigue. “We’ll find out who set up this whole scene.”

Arden stares out the window, lost in spiralling thoughts. “Could’ve been worse,” he mumbles, eyes distant. “They could’ve hauled Rhys in instead. He’s got more reason to despise Tony than I ever did.” Even in his monotone, there’s a bitter logic to it, though the words slice through me with painful clarity.

Inside me, the guilt churns. I know deep down that tonight; I should have been the one stuck inside that station room. I should have taken the brunt of this investigation, not him.

“I just can’t believe they’d ever think you’d be that reckless,” I say, trying to break through the tension. “If you intended to kill someone, you’d be the kind of person who meticulously erases every trace.”

He lets out a short, acoustically jagged laugh. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

By the time our car pulls into the driveway dimly lit by street lamps, our house stands half in shadow, its exterior mostly dark except for a soft amber glow seeping from the living room. That light tells me everything—the truth. I already feel that Ashley is awake and waiting.

Arden unbuckles and leans towards the open door. Pausing, he turns his head slightly. “Go to her,” he instructs.

I start, confused. “What?”

“She needs you more than I do right now,” he utters in a low, raspy tone. “She won’t sleep until you’re there. I’m going inside to find my wife.”

I want to protest, to stay with my best friend and support him, but deep down, I know he’s right. Ashley’s world has shattered, and I’m the only one who might be able to gather the pieces.

“Thanks,” I murmur, stepping out of the car as Arden walks towards the back door, heading inside to find Ella.

The cool night air greets me like a quiet friend as I make my way to the front door, every movement heavy with the kind of exhaustion that sinks deep into your bones. I push open the door, and the house welcomes me with mixed scents—warm vanilla and an undercurrent of something sharper…perhaps guilt or maybe grief.

In the living room, Ashley is nested on the corner of a timeworn couch, wrapped in one of Ally’s soft, hand-me-down throw blankets. The television hums softly in the background with a true crime documentary playing, its whispered narration meant merely as filler.

Her eyes do not meet mine as I cross the room; there’s nothing that needs saying. With a flat voice weighted by resignation, she states, “He’s really dead.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledge quietly.

I move to the bar, retrieving two glasses and the bottle of whiskey that Arden, in his own peculiar way, seems to always keep stocked. I pause for a moment before pouring a drink for her and one for me, the amber liquid catching a sliver of light as it tumbles into the glasses. She takes hers without a glance, downing it in one swift, unthinking gulp. When I sip mine, the burn of the alcohol becomes a small comfort amidst the turmoil.

Ashley reclines further into the couch, lost in thought as she speaks. “I should feel more, shouldn’t I?”

“There’s no manual for this kind of pain,” I say softly, trying to wrap her emotions in a few comforting words.

“I hated him. He ruined the last of the good things in my life. And now that he’s gone…” She swallows hard, her voice cracking ever so slightly. “I feel… relieved. And that makes me feel like the worst kind of daughter.”

“You’re not,” I insist, my tone steady even as I feel the weight of every unsaid moment. “You’re just human. He hurt you over and over. You don’t owe him your grief.”

She slowly looks up, her eyes meeting mine—a mix of hope and sadness in their depths. “So it’s really over?” she murmurs, referring to the arrangement that’s shadowed our lives for so long.

“The arrangement? Yeah,” I reply, aware that those words carry the weight of years of hidden agreements and unspoken pains.

For a fleeting heartbeat, her expression softens—a blend of hope and deep melancholy—and then she drops the final clause that I wasn’t prepared for, “So now you can be with Ally.”

My heart stumbles. It feels as if she has reached inside me and torn out the secret that I’ve so long tried to bury. Ally—the girl who burst into my life when I was the new kid, the one I loved in ways that defied every rule and expectation while I was still chained to another. Of course, Ashley knew. She always did.

“I never meant to hurt you,” I say, my voice raw with honesty.

“You didn’t,” she answers, a soft, weary smile playing at the corner of her lips. “You protected me. You were the only one who ever truly did.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“I still will,” I add determinedly because protecting her feels like the only remnant of a life we once knew—a shield against the relentless betrayal and the dark plots spun by those who played us like pawns.

“You don’t have to anymore,” she mumbles.

I shake my head, meeting her gaze with a mix of defiance and tenderness. “I want to, Ash. Just because this chapter is closing doesn’t mean you’ll fade out of my life.”

We let silence settle between us—an honest, unforced quiet that doesn’t feel empty but charged with unspoken promises.

“You can stay here,” I offer, nodding towards the familiar, comforting space. “As long as you need.” In the past, my friends had shunned Ashley, and my own silence allowed them to believe a version of our story that wasn’t entirely true. But after I finally came clean, even though she never fully integrated with our tight-knit circle, she remained one of our crew—a friend we’d always stand by, no matter how turbulent the truth might be.

She nods slowly, her voice barely audible, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not. We’re all here for you,” I assure her.

A pause stretches out until she timidly asks, “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

I look her straight in the eyes and, with a heavy honesty, say, “No idea. Whoever it was, they purposely wanted the pressure on Arden, though.”

Her breath shudders out in a shaky exhale. “So we’re not safe.”

“We never were,” I reply quietly, a grim acceptance in my tone. “But we’ll face it—together.”

Later, once the soft hum of conversation has died, and Ashley is finally asleep on the couch, curled beneath her throw blanket, I gather extra blankets and pillows from the hall closet, arranging them carefully near her. I know I should retreat to my own room, lock my door, and shut out this unravelling world for just a few precious hours.

But my feet betray me, leading me down the hall instead.

Ally’s door is left slightly ajar—a narrow crack that hints at intimacy. I can make out the peaceful rhythm of her soft breathing, and the warm spill of lamplight across her comforter sketches a quiet portrait of solace.

I hesitate at the threshold, standing like a lost fool, staring at the scene, aching in ways I can neither name nor deny. I wonder, heart heavy, what the future holds now that every hidden truth has come to light, now that I am free to love her without reservation.

Because the undeniable truth is... I’ve always been hers. And speaking that love out loud, in full view of the world, might be the most terrifying risk I've ever chosen to take.