Chasing Innocence | ✓

47 | unforetold stories

A week later I'm knocking on Xavier's car. He's slumped in his seat, mouth open as he snores. I can hear him through the glass separating us.

I slam my palm against the window and he jerks awake, startled. He looks around, like he isn't sure where he is. Then he turns towards me, frowning.

He cracks the window open, eyeing me sceptically. "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Other than the fact you're supposed to be watching the apartment instead of passing out? No, nothing," I deadpan, asking him to unlock the passenger door.

I step into the car and the world falls silent. "Surprised you're out of the apartment," he yawns. "Haven't seen you since...before," he finishes in a whisper.

He doesn't need to expand on what before means. My stomach drops and I draw my arms around myself, turning away from him. "That's because I haven't left. Today's the first time I've been outside in weeks."

Xavier stretches, frowning softly as he sighs. "I haven't slept in days. Thanks for waking me up."

"That's my problem?" I snap. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for—"

I stop, clenching my teeth when tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I don't know if I'll ever be able to think about Casey without feeling a tremendous amount of grief.

"And we did?" he growls. "He was my fucking brother, Rhea. You knew him for, what, six months? Get over yourself."

I hear the anger in his voice, the way that sadness cracks his tone at the edges. "He was my brother," he whispers again, the message clearer this time.

"You blame yourself," I acknowledge, knowing he's hurting.

"We all blame ourselves," he states. "It's just a given."

"Yeah," I whisper, nodding my head as I gaze at my lap. "I'm sure you blame me the most, though. For taking him away from the house that day."

"I blame the man who killed him the most," he snarls. "Who took his life away within a second. The police still haven't found him, either."

A women walking her dog passes by, laughing as the pug twirls itself around the lead. She picks it up as it licks at her face. Just a simple moment. Something I don't know if I'll ever have again.

"I spoke to the police," I say. "The day before... the funeral. The waitress who was working did, too. I'm sure there was cameras in the diner that would have caught what he looked like better than my description."

"That's if the police got to it fast enough," his hands tighten around the steering wheel. "I'd know all about that. It's why the footage was missing after— after what happened to Dylan. I was able to delete it."

I'd completely forgotten about that aspect of Brax's case. How much of it had focused on what was in that footage.

"I'd rather the waitress hadn't talked to the cops," Xavier says. "What was the guy saying? When he attacked you?"

"I can't really remember," I whisper. "Stuff about working for you. Asking me who killed Dylan. But I know she wouldn't have heard anything. She was lying on the floor completely freaked out of her mind."

He turns to me, like he's waiting for more details. I dig my nails into my palms, feeling that lump in my throat. "I don't really want to talk about this," I say. "I'm not— it was hard enough with the police. I wrote it all down instead of verbalising it. It was easier."