Misconduct(94)

I shook my head. No. I am not going through this again.

I charged up to the door, pushing it open with my hand.

“Who’s here?” I shot out, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice.

Air rushed in and out of my lungs as I quickly scanned the room, looking for any movement. The interior was dark. I’d turned off all the lights before I’d left, but the day’s last light was coming through the windows.

“Who’s here?” I shouted again, dropping the bag to my feet. “Come out right now!” I dared.

The cabinets, the window, the shower curtain… They weren’t my imagination or lapses in concentration.

Someone had been coming into my house.

I forced down the lump in my throat and inched into the foyer, searching the area for anything out of place.

And then I widened my eyes, seeing the pile of wreckage in the center of the living room.

I rushed for the debris and fell to the floor, the skin of my knees burning on the area rug.

“No,” I gasped.

Someone had broken into my house, and they’d known right where to go.

My shoulders shook as I cried silently.

My treasure box – the one Jack worried about – lay shattered on the floor, its contents scattered about and ripped to pieces.

I squeezed the scraps of papers in my hands, feeling the agony that I’d felt all those years ago when I’d locked them inside the box.

Chase.

All of his letters. His threats. Everything he’d sent me after my parents fired him as my coach. Everything they’d hidden from me.

After they died, I’d found the file in their home office with his “love” letters to me. From the dates, he’d been mailing them since he was fired.

I’d found them and read them, and my instant reaction was to want to self-destruct. They made my skin crawl and made me hate my parents for never pressing charges. They’d confiscated my phone not long after the stalking began, and also cut off my e-mail, so these letters were the only proof of what he was doing. Hard proof to give to the police. Why keep this from me instead of using it to protect me?

How could they have read these letters – some of them disgusting and perverted – and not done anything?

And then I remembered that they were dead because of me – because of what I’d done that night – and I didn’t want to be rid of the evidence.

Jack would’ve burned them, but I kept them locked in this box, never opening it and yet keeping it in plain sight, as a constant reminder of what losing control of your own life does to you.

Never again.

“Easton?” I heard a voice come from behind me.

I forced a deep breath.

“Easton,” Jack’s voice repeated. “What the hell happened?”

“You need to leave,” I demanded, hurriedly taking the handfuls of paper and stuffing them into my arms.

“Easton, what are you doing?” He stopped next to me, but I ignored him.

Dropping to his knees, he grabbed a piece of paper and studied it as I took my armful to the kitchen to find a gallon bag to keep them in for now. This pile of trash had kept me on a straight track for five years.

“Easton, stop!” Jack called. “How did you get these?”

I charged back into the living room, grabbing more scraps from the floor, pushing the pieces of wood out of the way to get every bit of paper.

“Easton.” Jack grabbed my arm. “You can’t keep them!”

I pulled away, gritting my teeth as I marched back into the kitchen and stuffed everything in bags.

But Jack dove around me, taking the bags out of my hands.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted.

“Like hell!” he bellowed. “You’re not keeping all of this. It’s sick!”

My whole body felt tight, and I growled, shoving at his chest.

But he just dropped the bags and pulled me into his arms, wrapping them around me.

I instantly closed my eyes and shattered.

My chest shook, and I collapsed against him, sobbing. “Jack, please,” I begged.

“I’m sorry, Easton,” he nearly whispered, and I could feel his short breaths as his chest shook. “I’m so sorry.”

I hated this. My brother had suffered enough. Suffering he shouldn’t have had to go through if it weren’t for me, and here I was again, center stage with the drama.

No more.

I pulled away, pushing at his chest to distance myself. “I don’t need to be taken care of.”

I stared up into his eyes and narrowed my own, forcing my tough outer shell into place. “Stop worrying about me and stop interfering,” I demanded.

And I circled around him, picked up the ziplock bags, and ran upstairs.





On Monday I left school after the bell, having changed into my workout clothes, and crossed into Audubon Park for a jog. It was something I did every Monday and Wednesday, but instead of hanging around school a few extra minutes like I’d done the last week in some pathetic hope that Tyler would seek me out, I just left.

I’d spent the entire day yesterday filing a police report about the break-in, and then I’d cleaned the house from top to bottom, removing any trace that someone had been in my home.

This morning, before I’d left for school, I’d remade my bed twice, checking the corners, and then checked to make sure the windows were locked and all of the cabinets were closed.