Page 29 of Word to the Wise

Reed

Mason Richard Zane, twenty-seven.

Only son of Richard and Bethany Zane.

One sister: Sienna Zane. Died two years ago this coming March after jumping from the roof of their father’s hotel.

It doesn’t matter how many times I read the facts, they hurt.

Mason’s sister killed herself.

The darkness I’ve sensed Mason carrying around since I met him makes more sense now. He doesn’t allow anyone to really get to know him, and he avoids commitments. It’s probably rooted in a fear of letting people get too close.

He’s been standing in front of me, silently struggling. And I’ve been too self-absorbed to see the depth of it. I’m not the only broken person barely making it through the day in this apartment. We’re two haunted people living side by side.

I can’t imagine the pain Mason carries with him. Sienna’s death must have irreversibly shattered him inside.

Clicking on the next article, I keep reading, feeling wrong about it even if Mason has encouraged me to continue.

Mason’s family built their empire from the ground up. His grandfather started with a single hotel on the outskirts of Vegas, and slowly over the years, the Zane family took over the nicest parts of the Las Vegas Strip.

After his grandfather passed away, his father took over. There’s not much mention of Mason’s mother, but what little I can find, she’s usually at Mason’s father’s side.

Mason’s dad gives me a bad feeling. It might be how he’s never actually smiling, or it might be the dark gleam in his eyes. But every photo has a chill running through me.

The local Vegas papers paint a lovely picture of Rick Zane. They praise him for helping clean up certain areas, which in turn, reduced crime. But I’m not naïve. There’s always more to the story. And I don’t think for a second that he did it out of the kindness of his heart.

Men like Rick Zane only care about two things: themselves and their wealth. And they generally have so much of the latter, they can guarantee no one airs out their dirty laundry.

So I dig.

I search.

I research.

It’s a nice distraction from Carter—replacing one puzzle with another.

If I can’t fix what’s wrong in my life, I’ll focus on someone else’s. It’s why I’m so goodat what I do.

My chest tightens every time I think about the fact that Mason believes in me enough to want me to write about his family. He made it clear he’s not close with his parents, and I can tell he’s still torn up about what happened to his sister. Still, he wants me to keep digging. And every time I come to him with what I’ve found, he says I’m on the right track.

The right track.

It makes me wonder what he’s waiting for me to find.

I’m sure he could just tell me, and maybe he would if I asked him.

I get the impression Mason would rather me uncover his secrets on my own. Like he isn’t ready to face them but will once the moment is right. He wants me to dig until I find blood in the dirt.

Mason’s intentions are the opposite of Carter’s. And it’s one more reason on a never-ending list that reveals how different they are.

I’ve been avoiding my email for the past couple of weeks because I know there are messages from Carter in there, and I’m not brave enough to look. He’s still calling Sage every day, which means he hasn’t given up. And I might have withstood his manipulation once, but he’ll try other tactics until something works.

At least there’s been no hint of Carter in LA. I haven’t seen him once in the past month, and every day he doesn’t show up, I detox just a little bit more. I chip away at the lies he would have told me if I’d stuck around. I get stronger.

Watching the bruises disappear.

Watching the blood drain from the whites of my eyes.