Corrupted Chaos (Tarnished Empire)(66)

“How could this happen? I was right here the whole night. I was right—”

“He gave you more than you asked for, and you passed out.” He shook his head in disgust. “He’s known for—”

“Don’t you dare talk bad about him right now.”

“He’s been cheating on you this whole time!” his friend bellowed at me. The words cut through me, trying their best to cause damage.

I shook my head in denial. I would ask him when he got up. “He needs our help, Jonny. He’s not fucking breathing, Jonny. Call someone. Call someone, please.”

He pursed his lips, and his chin shook but no tears came. “You gotta get out of here, or he’s going to be charged with statutory rape and dealing to minors before they pronounce him dead. You’ll cause the family a shit storm. Disappear. Don’t come to the funeral, and don’t mention his damn name.”

“But . . .” I glanced down at him, “He’s not dead, Jonny.”

He grumbled “Fuck me,” before he came for me. He didn’t hesitate to swoop me up and carry me to his car kicking and screaming.

“How can you do this? I love him! Don’t you love him? He needs help.”

As he threw me in his pickup and slammed the passenger door, I scrambled for my purse to look for my phone. By the time he rounded the hood and got in, he held his up to his ear and said, “Yeah, my friend OD’d. I’m pretty sure he’s gone, but we need an ambulance.”

Whatever he said after that, I didn’t hear. I was bawling, begging, pleading with God. I needed my first love back, even if he was a secret. Even if I was his dirty little plaything.

At sixteen, everyone would have said I’d been groomed, coerced, pushed into loving him.

They’d have been right. I learned that much later. Jonny called me to say our drugs had been laced with fentanyl. I’d been lucky. Vincent hadn’t.

Yet, it didn’t negate the pain. It didn’t make this any less hard. He’d gave me my first kiss, my first falling in love, my first time letting go of my innocence. He’d also shared my first high, and now I’d shared his last. We were connected. He’d told me I was his forever, that he’d love and take care of me to infinity and beyond.

I crumpled up that paper and stuck it in my pocket. His last communication with the world had been for me. For only me.

That had to mean something, right?

“Get rid of that note, Izzy,” Jonny warned as he dropped me off two blocks from my house. “And here, take a few bars. If you’re feeling down, they’ll pick you up.”

I snatched them, my body already scouring for a way to avoid the sadness, the agony, and the trauma I would have to endure on my own. “Jonny, I don’t think I can do this.”

That first heartbreak, it was like a meteor flew from the sky and landed right on the one thing that pumped love through my veins.

“You can. Do it for him, Izzy. For us. We’re your friends. We can’t have this on our records. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell anyone, or you’ll ruin the memory of him.”

My mother and sister greeted me as I walked in that day. I told them I was sick from my sleepover, that my girlfriend had been the worst kind of friend and I needed space.

They knew something was wrong.

Lilah knocked on my door for much longer than normal. She probably somehow felt my grief. So I covered it up with a pill.

And I did that for days, weeks, months. I did it until juvie, and I read that letter over and over again.

Burying emotions took time, practice, effort, and training.

I buried that emotion so deep I could barely access it.

I hoped I would never have to again.





“Izzy.” She shook the paper in front of the phone again, but this time there were tears in her eyes. “Tell me who wrote this to you right now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered. My therapist told me over and over that I should talk with someone whom I trusted about what I’d been through. The secret was between my therapist and me alone. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, even if Vincent was gone, even if I didn’t talk to any of those people anymore.

Now, I struggled with the embarrassment that I’d been taken advantage of, that I’d fallen for so much when I should have been smarter.

My therapist said I needed to share this with my family. But why? For them to worry even more, to be even more disappointed? My therapist had told me over and over that I’d been young, drugs were involved, I shouldn’t blame myself.

I still did.

“It does matter!” she screamed, and Cade took that moment to stop staring at his laptop.

When I hustled out of the room and down the hall to our bedroom, the man followed. His stupid sharp eyes behind his stupid hot eyeglasses read my every move as he leaned on the doorframe, watching us both like he was ready for the destruction.

The man loved to see people uncomfortable—I knew that about him now. “Get out.” I motioned for him to leave.

He shook his head no, but the look of concern on his face caught me off guard. He should have been smiling, should have relished my sister unearthing my secret.

“Izzy, I’ll make Dante call Cade and have him send you home right now if you don’t tell me. This is . . . this is a suicide note from someone! Izzy, who wrote this?”