Page 40 of Twisted Truths (The Sunburnt Hearts #4)

Chapter Thirty-One

HADLEY

A fter clearing Zara’s bedroom, Nash escapes to the makeshift gym in the barn. Knowing he needs to be alone, I take some boxes into the sitting room and pack away the books and photo frames, carefully wrapping them with old newspapers I found stacked by the back door.

An hour later, he brings me lunch. He sits behind me on the floor, leaning against the couch, and I lean into him as I eat my toasted sandwich. We don’t say anything, simply content to be in each other’s presence after the emotional morning we’ve had.

Nash rests his chin on my shoulder, his fingers tracing patterns on my hip.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I reply, tilting my head to press a kiss to his jaw.

He nuzzles his cheek against mine. “Yeah, I do. I know I haven’t always treated you?—”

“Stop,” I interrupt, twisting to face him. “You’ve been through the worst couple of weeks of your life. You lost your family.”

He grimaces. “You don’t need to make excuses for me, Hadley. You deserve better.”

My chest tightens, but I refuse to look away from him. “I don’t want better,” I whisper. “I want you. Even the messy, grieving, complicated version.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something. Instead, he kisses me, soft at first, his hand cupping the back of my neck like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

Just as the moment deepens, there’s a sharp rap at the front door.

We freeze.

Another knock. More insistent this time.

“Nash? You in there? It’s important.”

The voice is unfamiliar. Male. Urgent.

Nash mutters a curse and rises to his feet in one smooth motion, his warmth leaving me too quickly. He shoots me a look that’s equal parts apology and warning.

“Stay here.”

Fear lances through me, but I hurry over to listen at the open doorway.

“Shane,” Nash greets the visitor. “What’s up?”

“Can I come in?”

“The place is a bit of a mess.”

There’s a pause, followed by a deep sigh. “I’m here on official police business, Nash.”

“Did you find evidence to prove Zara’s innocence?” My heart aches at the hope in his voice.

Shane clears his throat. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts for the last twenty-four hours?”

“What’s this about?” The disbelief is clear in Nash’s tone .

“Just answer the question, mate.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Tanner Crawley is in a coma. So, can you answer the question, Nash? Please tell me you’ve been with Levi or Paige, or someone has seen you in the past twenty-four hours.”

My stomach bottoms out when Nash answers. “I’ve been here. Alone.”

The police officer truly sounds apologetic when he sighs and says, “You understand why I’ve got to take you in for questioning, yeah? I don’t want to do this, but it’s protocol, especially after the scene you caused at the gym.”

I don’t know what he’s referring to, but I can’t let him arrest Nash for something he didn’t do.

“Wait!” I shout, stepping into the hallway. “He didn’t do it. I can vouch for him. He’s been here with me the whole time.”

The look on the police officer’s face would be comical if he wasn’t halfway through the act of arresting Nash. His eyes widen and his head swivels from Nash to me and back again.

Nash’s expression is completely unreadable, causing my chest to tighten because I don’t know if he’s mad I didn’t stay hidden, or relieved I’m standing up for him.

“Who are you?” the officer asks.

Nash steps between us, and I shrink back, suddenly terrified I made matters worse.

“Leave her out of this,” he mutters to Shane. “Look, I’m not sorry the arsehole is in a coma, but I didn’t do it. I haven’t seen him since the run in at the gym. I took Levi’s advice and stayed away.”

“Crawley’s parents won’t let this go,” the other man warns. “His old man plays golf with the chief.”

“You heard her,” Nash says with a shrug. “I have an alibi. I’m sure you have a list a mile long of people with beef against Crawley. Why don’t you go hassle them? ”

“I’m not the enemy here,” Shane says in an exasperated tone.

“I know,” Nash says calmly. “But I can’t help you.”

Shane casts a curious glance in my direction before nodding and stepping back from the door. “Don’t go anywhere. We might have more questions.”

“I’m not going anywhere until the bastards who killed my family are caught.” He closes the door in the police officer’s face and his body sags against the wood.

I want to go to him, but I’m frozen to the spot. “Do you think it was the Circle?”

He exhales a heavy breath. “Who else would it be?”

My teeth worry my bottom lip. “Do you think they’ll come for us next?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, opening his arms. I rush into them, burying my head in his chest and breathing in his strong, masculine scent of citrus and amber. “But I won’t let them hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

“Have you heard from Gabriel?” I ask, my voice muffled in his shirt.

“Not yet,” he says with a sigh.

My stomach twists as a thought occurs to me. “You don’t think he came back early and took matters into his own hands?”

Nash tenses for a moment before relaxing. “Even if he did, Crawley deserves everything coming to him.” He kisses the top of my head. “Come on. We have thirteen years’ worth of stuff to pack up. Let’s get it done, so the second we get Franklin back, we can leave.”

I thought packing up Zara’s room was hard, but it had nothing compared to packing up Rylan’s.

The reminder of the innocence that has been lost is overwhelming.

His room reminds me of Brayden’s when he was younger.

There are sketches tacked to the wall—Pokémon, superheroes, mythical creatures.

Nash’s little brother was a talented artist.

There are Pokémon figurines littered throughout the room, lining his desk, his windowsill, his bookshelves. A large clear Tupperware container sits on his desk, filled to the brim with NBA player cards, and beside it, a scrapbook.

Nash opens it and flips through. Clearing his throat, he slams the scrapbook shut again, dropping his head.

I walk over and pick it up. Each page is filled with stats and cut outs from articles of what looks to be Nash’s basketball games. One article calls him The Barrenridge Bullet. Another headline reads Clutch King Nash Stone Hits Buzzer-Beater for the Win.

In the corners of nearly every single page is Rylan’s handwriting. Little notes in bright blue pen that stands out against the greyscale clippings.

Nash = GOAT.

When I’m tall enough, I’m going to dunk like you.

My brother is going to make it to the NBA.

My chest tightens.

I keep flipping. There are articles from Nash’s college games. His rookie season in Boston. It’s clear his little brother idolised him.

Going to Nash, I wrap my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his chest and looking up at him. “He was so proud of you.”

Nash blows out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw them all?” I ask.

“Mum, Paul, and Rylan came to the States eighteen months ago to watch me play as an early birthday surprise for Rylan.” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the effort.

“I haven’t seen Zara in four years. She came over the year after she graduated high school.

We spoke every other day on the phone, though. At least, until six months ago.”

“She loved you,” I tell him, my eyes shining from the devastation reflecting back at me in his. “They all did.”

“I was so fucking selfish, taking off and never coming back.” The pain in his voice makes my heart ache for him.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You were chasing your dream, and they were happy for you. Zara was so proud. I could hear it in her voice every time she talked about you.”

“Yeah,” he says on a sigh. Glancing around his brother’s bedroom with a pained expression, he finally brings his gaze back to meet mine. “I fucking hate this.”

Whether he means the responsibility of having to pack up his family’s possessions, or simply the fact that they’re gone, I reach up on my tiptoes and brush my lips over his. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He squeezes my waist. “Thank you.”

Releasing another heavy exhale, he steps away and starts packing his brother’s belongings into boxes, with mechanical precision. He quietly moves from one corner of the room to the next, his expression unreadable.

I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s going through.

When our mother died, Madeline and I left with our backpacks filled with whatever we could carry, and we never went back.

By the time I got to the Circle there was nothing left of Madeline’s to sort through.

It was all gone. The only thing I have left of her is the locket she—or Gabriel—sent me.

Every now and then, Nash pauses his efforts, caught up in a memory. I don’t interrupt, letting him have those moments, letting him keep them for himself.

I’m trying not to break. I can’t. Not yet. I need to be strong for Nash.

But the longer I stay in this room, the more I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of the lost potential, all the things that will never happen.

Rylan won’t grow up to be a teenager. He won’t make mistakes or chase his dreams. He won’t have a first love, or argue with his brother over stupid things, or stand up for himself when the world gets too tough.

I set a stuffed axolotl in a box on the bed and turn away, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over.

Nash is across the room, head bowed, and his hands grip Rylan’s dresser, his knuckles white.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat.

I don’t know how to make this easier, or how to fix any of it.

Thick tension hangs in the air, heavy like a storm cloud about to break.

Nash’s phone rings, cutting through the silence like a knife. He pulls it out and stares at the screen for a moment before answering it.

“Lev,” he says solemnly.