The Absence of Truth | S. Stilinski

XXX. | the end

XXX. | the end

                  I FOUND PRESLEY at the dining room table when I got home from the school. He was halfheartedly picking at leftover chicken with a fork, and he hadn't showered yet. Even though he was out of his lacrosse uniform, I could smell him from the doorstep.

"Ew," I commented, taking off my jacket and hanging it by the door. He didn't look up from his measly meal, so I sauntered closer. "Hey. Is everything okay?"

Presley heaved a long, slow breath. "He was such an asshole, you know? Danny always told me to give him a shot, but he just sucked so much. Every chance he got, he brought someone down. I didn't like him, but I didn't want him dead."

A chill ran down my spine. I pulled out a chair and sat down on Presley's left. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who died?"

He looked up with tears pooled in his blue eyes. Those blue eyes that looked so much like Dad's. "Jackson," he said to me, "Jackson died on the field."

Without thinking, I placed a hand over his. "Jackson's dead? How? Who killed him?"

I tried my best to keep a straight face, but inside I was frantic. Jackson was dead? Did that mean the kanima was done? Had Allison finally lost it and shot the team captain in front of everyone. I was seething internally, wishing Gerard's scare tactic had waited just a few more minutes so I could have known about the murder.

"Who?" Presley asked. "More like what. He had these awful scratches all over his chest. Like some wild animal got him as soon as the field lights went out." Nervously, he furrowed his brows at me. "You didn't see it?"

I spun a lie without too much thought. "I got mixed up in the chaos. I went to the car the minute the lights went out."

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, exhausted after the game and the mental toll of Jackson's death. Silently, I thanked the heavens that he wasn't in a questioning mood. It wouldn't have taken a genius to recognize my lie. Once again, I got a whiff of that post-game stench from my brother. It made my nose wrinkle. If I was going to figure out this whole death situation, Presley couldn't be here to witness it.

Quickly, I ran into the kitchen and rummaged through the medicine cabinet before finding pain killers and a sleep aid. Usually, Presley didn't need anything to help him sleep. I knew from experience that seeing a body ripped to shreds by a monster would keep him up without assistance.

When I got back to the table, he didn't look at the pills before swallowing them dry. I rubbed his back. "Why don't you go take a shower and get to bed, yeah?"

He was too tired to resist. He trudged up the stairs slowly while I threw away his uneaten food. He'd poked so many holes in the chicken that it wasn't worth saving anymore. When I heard the bathroom door shut upstairs, I made my way to my own room, where I changed out of my clothes. What I was wearing wasn't dirty, but it wasn't as comfortable as a pair of leggings.

As quickly as I could, I washed my face of any runny makeup. My cheeks and eyes were swollen and red from crying. Presley was still in the shower when I made my way downstairs again. With nothing to do except think, I let my mind wander. Part of me wanted to call Scott and see if Jackson was truly dead, but another piece of me wanted to curl up under a blanket and hide away from all of my problems.

With this free time, I mulled over Jackson's death. The claw marks Presley saw were undeniably from the kanima, but why would Jackson have killed himself? I ran over the obvious. If he was dead, then the kanima problem was solved. But why would Gerard want to kill his most valuable weapon? Without the kanima, the Argents were back to their primitive guns and crossbows.