Page 30 of Sharing Silence

“Tell me everything you know about Ryker Blake.”

Grant sniffs. “I told you. I never met the guy. We spoke a few times on the phone, but that’s it.”

“And what did you tell him about Silence?”

He chews his lip, a fidgety, jerky action. “If you’re going to kill me anyway, why should I tell you anything? You haven’t even given me a chance, Z. Years of friendship and you won’t even let me explain.” He looks at Yale, eyes pleading. “You know me, Y. If I did this, you know I was desperate.”

It makes sense for him to appeal to Yale. He’s the kindest of all of us, the man with more patience and forgiveness than most. I also value his opinion, so I’ll follow his lead.

“I could forgive you for a lot, Grant,” Yale says quietly, his voice seeming to crawl from the shadowed corner of the basement where he stands. “But not hurting Silence.”

Grant lets out a cry. “I didn’t know he was going to hurt her!”

“The moment that fucker said her name, you should’ve come to us,” Yale hits back. “You put yourself before family. That’s unforgiveable.”

No forgiveness from Yale is a stamp of approval for me.

“Tell us everything you know, and I’ll kill you quick,” I say. “Make me beat it out of you and I’ll keep you down here for weeks.”

Grant vibrates with understandable fear, sweat shining across his forehead as he stares at me. “If I tell you, you’ll hate me.”

My jaw aches, teeth grinding as I search for patience I’m running out of. The last thing I want to do is torture my friend, regardless of what he’s done, but he’s leaving me no option.

“Z.” Yale’s voice is cautious, and when I meet his eye, there’s a rage in him. Grant’s phone is in his hand, and he holds it out. “Look at this.”

Grant shakes his head. “Z, please don’t hate me.”

Ignoring him, I go to my brother and take the phone. It’s open on a folder—a mix of spreadsheets. I tap it, and locations come up. The times are specific to the minute, and addresses are listed too, all dedicated to Silence—who she’s with, what she’s doing, down to the outfit she’s wearing. It’s meticulous, pages upon pages, dating back months.

My heart pounds with the kind of fury I reserve for enemies, and as I close the spreadsheet, I see another folder.

This one is filled with photographs.

The first few are dated from months ago. Silence is in her scrubs, takeout coffee in hand, phone against her ear as she walks into the hospital. She’s smiling, ponytail swinging, and different shots show her checking her watch, then disappearing inside the ER. As I scroll, the photos go from a few a day to ten. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred.

Per. Fucking. Day.

My breathing picks up as I come across photos that aren’t even of her. They’re of our house, of our bedroom window.

Then panties.

Used. The crotch spread out for the photo to capture every detail.

Then tampons, stained with blood.

I lift my gaze to Grant and he’s sobbing. “Please, Z⁠—”

The room descends into darkness. A violent drum bangs against my ears as time seems to fold in on itself, my entire being slipping away like water through my fingers. I’m weightless, I’m nothing, and then I’m back.

Pain thuds in time with my heart as Yale pulls me to the other side of the basement. Grant’s face is doused in blood, lip split, nose broken, head lolling back as drool dribbles from his lip to his shirt. My knuckles are covered in pieces of his flesh, and the drumming fades.

Yale is gripping the back of my neck. “Z, come back to me.” That’s easier said than done when wherever I was meant I was causing this fucker significant pain. But I breathe, I close my eyes, and I feel my brother rest his forehead to mine. “You’re here. With me.”

Each breath shudders, but I focus on his hand on my neck, his voice, anything to keep me from floating away from myself and killing Grant.

“I’m sorry, Z,” Grant sobs through swollen lips and broken teeth. “I … I’m so sorry⁠—”

As the rage threatens to simmer to the surface, Yale ushers me up the basement steps and into the house again, closing the door behind him. He guides me to my office, and I’m numb for the next few minutes as I sit behind my desk. My brother presses a whiskey into my hand, the crystal glass chilled against my palm.