Page 158 of The Truths We Burn

Silas continues to pace, muttering incoherently to himself and whoever else it is that he sees inside of this room right now. I walk a little closer, reaching my hand out tentatively.

“It’s over, Silas. It’s over, okay? Frank is gone, see.” I point towards the ground where the re-elected mayor of Ponderosa Springs lies rigidly still. I know he’s unconscious, but Si doesn’t need to.

“We did it. It’s all over, and now we can get you some help,” I say easily. “Just hand me the gun, and I promise you, it will all be okay. I just need you to trust me.”

He looks to be in physical pain, his body trembling and head shaking, and there’s nothing I can do to soothe him from the anguish he is feeling right now.

“No, no, this isn’t right. She was supposed to come back.” He rubs his hand down his face, looking back to the right of me instead of looking at me.“What do you mean?” he says, eyebrows furrowed. “You promise? Yeah, if you promise, I’ll do it.”

My entire world seems to come to a staggering halt as Silas pulls his eyes back to me, and all I see is an emptiness inside. Nothing but a harsh void staring back at me as he raises the barrel of the gun to his head.

I feel my mouth go dry, and my gut twists and churns.

Round, heavy tears leak from the edges of his eyes.

“Don’t do this to me, Silas,” I demand, stepping into his space. “Let me help you.”

Tears fall to the floor as he shakes his head, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. “You can’t help me. The only way you can help me is if I kill myself. You have to understand I have to do this.”

“No,” I choke out, grabbing for his shoulder, “You are not leaving me. I won’t let you. You have to know this isn’t you, that those aren’t real. This is real, Silas. We are real.”

Something inside of him breaks, because as soon as his hand twitches, I remove the gun from his fingers, pulling it into my own grip.

His head drops onto my shoulder, his body nearly falling limp in my arms.

“I’m so tired, Rook,” he whispers.

“I know,” I say, rubbing his back.

Tired of the voices.

Tired of his sickness.

Tired of it all.

At some point, I have to ask myself if we were doing more harm than good to him while hunting down what happened to Rose. We knew that revenge wasn’t going to bring her back, it wouldn’t make any of us miss her any less, and all it seems to be doing right now is breaking Silas even more.

“Son, I’m going to need you to put that gun down, and I need everyone to put their hands in the air.”

You have got to be fucking shitting me.

With the gun still in my possession, I lift it up as I spin around, meeting eyes with Detective Finn Breck holding his own weapon to the side of Thatcher’s head, his arm wrapped around his neck, yanking him into his chest to keep him still.

Thatcher is still slightly taller, making this situation look quite comical if his life wasn’t in danger.

“Why are people always pointing guns at me?” Thatcher sighs, rolling his eyes as if it’s only a minor inconvenience and not a matter of life and death.

They stand in front of the open kitchen, Finn having come from the back door, I’m assuming. Most likely because Frank called him before Silas had subdued him.

I keep the gun pointed at Finn, fully aware that if he makes a move, I’d be more likely to punch.

“You either put it down and come willingly, or I’m going to shoot your friend here. Even stevens for my partner,” he says, eyes flaring maliciously.

I don’t bother to deny it, because only one of us is gonna make it out of this, and I’m not gonna go out a pussy.

“Here I was thinking you were one of the good ones the entire time. Is it something in the water here that makes everyone turn into backstabbing pieces of shit? Or are you all just born into sex slavery and pedophilia?” I ask, tilting my head in question.

I want to be surprised that he was in on this with his more-than-dead partner. The one that had been turned into soup. Sulfuric acid is a miracle worker for a man trying to get rid of a body.