Page 202 of Fatality

“Remember!” I shout at myself. At my own fucking brain.

I breathe heavily and slide down to my knees.

Did they have someone on the inside? Were my parents involved? Did they put cameras in the penthouse?

My eyes widen.

They could have.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the asphalt floor over and over.

The Lower Layers.

What was Kyle doing there? What could an eighteen-year-old possibly have been doing in the Lower Layers? Was he being blackmailed for money? Was he buying drugs?

Everything is possible now.

I need to find who did it. I need to find out what happened to my brother, and what he was doing.

But how? How the hell am I supposed to do that?

I push myself back to my feet and start pacing again.

I keep walking in circles around the kitchen island and the couch.

An endless loop.

Then it hits me.

Evren.

Evren is a gang leader, he might know something but just the thought of seeing him again makes me want to pluck my own eyes out.

Or touch myself.

Two weeks later, and I still don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to feel—or do—about that man.

I either need therapy or someone to punch me in the face first so I can finally let all this shit out.

I'm so frustrated with myself, I might explode over something as stupid as a sock that doesn't want to be picked up.

I grab my comm, my thumb hovering over the unknown number—Evren's number.

Calling him would be weird, texting him would be even worse.

What would I say ‘Hey it’s the girl you almost killed a man for, and told you to get the fuck out but I need you to find what happened to my brother, let’s meet!’

That would be completely fucked up and he would absolutely love it.

Scratch that.

I start pacing again, rubbing my face in frustration.

‘Hey, Evren. It's Troublemaker.’

Scratch that shit.

That gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies, I shake my whole body in disgust.