Broken Hands

59. False truth

Damien took the turn sharply, his hands steady on the wheel as the tires screeched against the asphalt. He narrowly avoided a speeding car, the other driver leaning out of their window to yell a string of profanities. Damien barely acknowledged it. His focus was singular. Grayson's safety was all that mattered right now.

Pulling into the Durham school parking lot with a hard stop, Damien exhaled sharply. The car's abrupt halt matched the pounding in his chest. He stepped out, his mind racing with frustration and worry. Grayson had always been reckless—biking down dangerous trails the moment his grounding lifted, climbing structures that had no business being climbed. Damien had spent countless hours trying to drill safety into him, but it never seemed to stick.

This latest stunt, though—it was too much. Grayson had been arrested. Damien couldn't shake the image of him from the previous night, standing against the wall, his posture stiff and his expression guarded. Sure, Grayson had looked guilty, but Damien wished it were the guilt of someone innocent—someone he could trust. Instead, Grayson was a puzzle, a constantly shifting enigma Damien couldn't quite solve. And that unpredictability? It was maddening.

The school halls felt oddly familiar as Damien strode through them, the sharp smell of disinfectant mingling with faint echoes of students' chatter. A young man at the reception greeted him with a bright smile, offering directions to the infirmary. Damien gave a curt nod, his long strides making quick work of the distance.

When he stepped inside, his gaze landed immediately on Grayson. The boy was perched on the edge of a bed, pale and fragile, but with his nose buried in a book—a class novel, judging by the well-worn cover.

Grayson didn't notice him at first. Damien exchanged a firm handshake with Dr. Andrew, and it wasn't until the nurse spoke that Grayson's eyes flicked up. Their gazes locked for a moment, Grayson's expression unreadable, before the boy quickly looked away.

The reaction wasn't surprising—an innocent person has nothing to hide, after all. But Damien couldn't help wishing, just for once, that Grayson would meet his gaze without walls, without evasion.

"Mr. Smith," Dr. Andrew began, his handshake firm, his expression calm but serious, "thank you for coming on such short notice."

Damien nodded curtly, his gaze flickering to Grayson, who had returned his focus to the book in his hands. His pale complexion, the sweat still visible on his brow, and the slight tremor in his fingers all painted a worrying picture.

"What happened?" Damien asked, his tone even, though the tension in his posture betrayed his unease.

Dr. Andrew straightened, his clipboard tucked under his arm. "Grayson collapsed during class. He's showing signs of dehydration and significant stress. His vitals were erratic when he was brought in, though they've stabilized now.

Damien crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. "What caused it?"

Dr. Andrew's eyes flicked toward Grayson before returning to Damien. "I have my suspicions, but I'll need more information to confirm. It's Grayson on medication?"

Damien felt disturbed. He hadn't expected the question, but it hit like a gut punch. "Yes, some pills—Lexapro," Damien replied carefully. "Is there a problem with it?"

Dr. Andrew's gaze faltered slightly. "That's something we'll need to discuss. It's clear something isn't aligning here—either the dosage is off, or he's not taking the right medication. His symptoms suggest he's on something more potent."

Grayson stiffened slightly on the bed, but he didn't look up. Damien's sharp eyes didn't miss the subtle movement, nor the way Grayson's hands tightened around the book.