Page 45 of Twisted Truths

He freezes, patting my back awkwardly, then heads back to his seat while I follow Levi and Paige to the front pew.

As we take our seats, Father Malachi steps forward and begins the service, his voice soft and heavy with practised sympathy. The words drift around me—something about peace, eternal rest, divine will—but they scatter into static.Divine will. How can this be brushed aside as the plan for my family’s life? It was murder, plain and simple, and while the town thinks Ziggy is to blame, it only makes me more determined to clear her name.

I sit still, stiff, my body vibrating with an abundance of emotions. Grief. Anger. Pain. Sadness. Fear.

I’m alone. They’re all gone.

I’ll never hear Mum scolding me for bouncing the basketball in the house. I’ll never talk to Paul about sport. I’ll never hear Ziggy singing god-awful Taylor Swift ballads off-key. I’ll never get to play ball with Rylan.

They were all wiped out in one horrific night, leaving me shattered.

When Father Malachi calls my name, it takes a second toregister. I blink, startled, when Paige reaches over and squeezes my hand.

I rise to my shaky feet, feeling like I’ve polished off a bottle of Jack all to myself. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as they carry me up the steps of the altar. I keep my gaze focused on the lectern, unable to look at the wooden boxes holding my family members.

My chest constricts as I stand in front of my hometown.

The pews are full to the point of overflowing, and people stand along the side aisles and crowd at the back of the church, spilling out into the atrium. I clear my throat, the sound echoing through the expansive space. Quiet sobs and sniffles sound in the background. Someone coughs. None of it registers when I glance up and see the unmistakable auburn hair, fiery against a sea of black.

Hadley.

She’s sitting at the end of the final pew, her hands folded primly in her lap. While everyone around her has their heads bowed, her gaze is locked firmly on me. For a beat, I can breathe again.

She’s here.

I open my mouth to speak, but then I glance to her right and the words get stuck in my throat. My hands grip the wooden lectern to stop from shaking. Not from grief, but anger.

Sitting beside her like he belongs there, is Gabriel fucking Solomon. My stomach lurches. Fury floods in so fast it’s almost a relief. At least the anger makes me feel something.

My eyes drift back to Hadley. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth as she stares up at me, her green eyes rimmed in red. Clearing my throat again, I adjust the microphone before speaking.

“This should never have happened,” I begin, my voice rough, uneven. “They were … they were good people.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink furiously, swallowing down the lump forming in my throat. I stare down at the notes I wrote last night, all the letters blurring into an inky mess.

“Mum would hum along to Robbie Williams as she worked in the garden. It drove us nuts. Ziggy and I would hide the CD on her, but she would continue on without it. Paul would encourage her. I’ve never seen two people more in love.” My voice hitches, and I force my gaze away from Hadley.

She’s not good for me; I need to forget her.

Instead, I stare down at the jumble of words in front of me, even though I can’t read them. “Mum used to tell me, love’s not about finding the perfect person, it’s about finding someone who sees your mess and stays anyway. Paul was that person for her. He willingly took on a grumpy teenage boy with a chip on his shoulder, and a cheeky pre-teen girl who asked a million questions before breakfast. Nothing was ever forced with Paul. He showed up day after day, until we became a family.”

The words fall from my lips, raw and unfiltered.

“Then Rylan came along. He was eleven years younger than Zig, twelve years younger than me, but man, we loved the shit out of that kid. Ry was the missing piece who completed our family.” I close my eyes, taking a couple of steadying breaths.

This is fucking torture.

This is so fucking wrong.

I should not be standing here giving a eulogy for my little brother.

It takes me a few minutes to compose myself, my heavy breathing magnified by the damn microphone.

But I have to do this.

I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.

For them.