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new leads. But without any evidence that proves your brother’s death was anything but a tragic accident, it will be filed as inactive for now. I’m sorry.”
    My jaw tightens. “So that’s it? Did the investigating officer even ask around campus? Did they inspect all the red cars? Did they talk to everyone—?”
    “Yes,” she says, cutting me off. “I assure you protocol was followed all the way. I wish there was better news to give you, but unfortunately, cases like this, hit-and-runs, often go unsolved. Maybe you should seek some help . . . for you to work through your—”
    Tossing my hands in the air, I turn my back to her and head out of the station. I don’t want to hear yet another cop telling me to “seek help.” I heard it all through high school from them. About how I was a disturbed youth who needed a healthy outlet. Fuck it.
    This isn’t about me. It’s about Tyler, and making sure they only discover what I want them to.
    Looking up into the overcast sky, I release a strained breath, the tension flowing out of my body. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear from them—maybe that some bastard had gotten picked up and questioned, or that they had a suspect in custody. Yeah, that’s what I wanted to hear. But hearing the case has moved out of top priority, I suppose compared to the alternative . . . It’s for the best.
    They can’t ever discover the truth.
    A twinge of guilt stabs my chest, but I shut it down. Sometimes the truth is better left buried. No matter what, nothing will change anything between me and my father. Or me and Sam. There’s nothing here for me now. No reason to stay.
    Opening my truck door, I decide to make one last stop before hitting the road.

    My father’s house is just as pretentious as it was the day I left. A huge, gaudy, two-story plantation house with dark gray stucco exterior, black shutters and doors, two car garage, hot-red Beamer in the driveway.
    He was already showing signs of a mid-life crisis before Mom died. Now he’s full-blown into one. If the car didn’t give it away, the hot little blonde with tits about to topple her over sauntering up the front steps with a Victoria’s Secret bag does.
    It’s the worst cliché I’ve ever seen.
    Still, I’m tempted to knock on the door, see his expression—see if he’ll slam it in my face. To say we didn’t get along as I was growing up is not even a comical understatement. But after I left, the distance actually helped our father/son relationship. If you can fucking call it that.
    As much as he wanted me to go to college, I didn’t want anything from him. And there was nothing in me that wanted to please him. I found an entry-level position at a garage, and someone willing to take me under his wing. The owner was impressed with my skill level, and within my first year in Atlanta, I became a full-time body paint specialist.
    My lowered Toyota two-door proudly displays my most recent work. Two-toned metallic silver, layered under black ghost flames licking the hood and sides. This isn’t exactly the job I’d pictured having growing up—I’d thought I’d be some studio artist—but I’m free to paint what I want. And I support myself. That’s what counts.
    My father was proud of me, even if he didn’t actually say so. When I sent Tyler pics of the cars I’d painted, he saw them and claimed he was jealous that I got to work on badass cars for a living, while he was stuck in a stuffy office.
    Despite everything, I thought we could mend whatever shit was broken. And I even fooled myself into believing we could be a normal family. Almost. Eventually. I was willing to try if it meant things got better for my brother. That is, until I came back for his nineteenth birthday. It was the first time I’d stepped foot on the island since I left, and it was like welcoming home a curse.
    I blow out a heavy breath. Looking around, I decide I’m parked far enough back to chance a walk. I close the truck door behind me