Split(73)

I pluck my bottom lip, thinking. “Yeah, it seems familiar to me. I just can’t figure out why.”

“Ooooh, you’re probably thinking of the Menzano Massacre. We were kids when it happened, but remember we studied it in Com Ethics?”

Menzano Massacre.

Yes, that’s where I’d heard the name.

I stare at my desk, trying to remember the details of the case study.

“. . . professor that would fart every time he coughed.” Trevor laughs.

“What was it again? The story?”

“It was about ethical decisions regarding minors who commit lethal crimes, felonies, shit like that. Fuck, Shy, did you sleep through that lecture?”

“Can you just remind me?”

He huffs out a frustrated breath. “The kid was a minor, thirteen or fourteen. I don’t remember. We talked about how they released his photo but not his name to the public and then debated whether or not it was ethical to do so. Ring a bell?”

My breathing speeds; my heart pounds in my chest and it’s hard to swallow. “Yeah, the kid he . . .”

“He killed his entire family, Shy. The guy was a f*cking murderer. He shot his brothers and sister and his mom. Then the psycho killed himself, or tried to but he lived. I can’t believe you don’t remember this.”

I lick my lips. My eyes feel like they’re being held to open flame.

“The kid ended up getting off, some stupid technicality, f*cking scary as shit to think he’s somewhere out there, ya know? Our legal system failed big-time.”

My hand shakes and I’m dizzy. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I have to go, Trevor. I’ll talk to you—”

“Wait . . . you said there’s someone in town with that name? Someone who works for your dad. You think he’s related?”

Fear lances through me, the urge to protect Lucas overwhelming. “Nah . . . this guy is . . . um . . . it’s not—”

“Shy? You’re stuttering.”

Fuck! He thinks I’m lying. I am lying! “This guy is older. He’s a friend of my . . . dad’s.”

I chew my lip, hoping Trevor buys my casual, if not too casual, tone.

“Okaaay . . . well, I should probably go. I’ve got a lot of work to do if I want to snag this LA job. Wish me luck.”

“Right, good luck. California here we come.” My heart squeezes painfully at the thought.

I don’t question my reaction, just hang up the phone and pull up the Internet.

Using a search engine, I type in Menzano Massacre and hover the arrow over the search button.

With a deep, fortifying breath, I hit SEARCH.

My screen fills with lines on top of lines, all news stories from ten years ago.

I don’t click on any of the links, but rather on the button that searches images related to the story.

With only a second to prepare myself, my screen fills with photos. One draws my attention immediately. There he is.

A teenaged Lucas.

His cheeks hollow, dark circles under his eyes, his thin, gangly body wrapped in a navy blue suit that looks four sizes too big, and a large patch of white gauze on his neck.

Right where his scar is.

I can’t blink, can’t look away as I take in the page of images before me.

Mug shot.

Him in a faded blue juvenile detention shirt.

Him following a woman in a red suit into the courthouse.

It isn’t until a cool wind blows through the window by my desk that I feel the dry of my strung out eyes.

“Gage . . . what did you do?”





TWENTY-FIVE



LUCAS


I can’t take any more of this distance.

It’s eating at my skin and shredding me apart.

Why won’t she talk to me?

It’s been days since I dropped off the mantelpiece at the McKinstry place with Shyann. I can’t imagine what happened between then and now, but we haven’t spoken since. She left the job site that day a little preoccupied but still waved and flashed me that same Shyann smile.

Since then . . . nothing.

I cast out downriver, the gentle tug on my line and the racing water keeping me from pacing. Keeping me still. After Nash approved the mantel, I stained and installed it, but with the carving completed I have nothing to occupy my time. Silence and loneliness free my thoughts to fill with Shy.

I’ve gone by the office, but every time I do she’s on the phone—or else she’s pretending to be. She hasn’t stepped foot on a single job site. And she hasn’t been by to see me at home.

I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong, what I said to push her away, and I come to the same conclusion. Gage. He hurt her before and she’s finally come to her senses; it’s what I asked her to do, so I can’t be upset. We’re not safe, and even though I’d love to have Shyann in my life, she may never be able to trust me. Not that I blame her. I don’t trust me.

Life before Shyann was easy. I never knew what I was missing, so I didn’t begrudge my lack of friends. But she spoiled me with her attention, gave me a taste of what it would be like to share my life with someone else. She looked at me like I was important, breathed new life into mine, and now she’s taken it away.

My line tugs. I jerk back to hook the fish and reel in a trout. It flops around on the end of my line, its mouth gaping. Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention and Buddy inches out from beneath the deck.