Seagull's Bay - 8. "Saudade"

(11 years earlier)

It was a sunny morning at Seagull's Bay Public School. Twelve-year-old Ledger felt the game's rhythm thrumming through him. His sneakers squeaked against the blacktop as he dribbled, eyes locked on the hoop. He loved these moments, where his worries melted away, lost in the competition and the rush.

"Pass it, Ledger!" Flick called out, his voice sharp and insistent. Ledger pivoted, scanning for the opening, but Flick's attention shifted before he could make the move. The ball bounced away, forgotten as Flick's gaze fixed on something beyond the court.

"Hey, look who it is," Flick sneered, pointing with his chin. Ledger followed his line of sight, his heart sinking as he saw Marcus, just eight years old, his frail frame marked with the telltale signs of a rough night. Bruises mottled his skinny arms and neck, purple and yellow patches glaring against his pale skin. Marcus moved slowly, each step deliberate, as if every inch of his tiny body hurt.

Ledger's grip tightened on the ball, his pulse quickening. He knew those bruises. He had noticed them before, too many times to count. A dark anger simmered beneath his skin, but he fought to keep his expression neutral. He couldn't let Flick or the others see how much he cared. He couldn't afford to show that Marcus mattered to him.

"Yo, Marcus!" Flick's loud and mocking voice rang out. The basketball game was abandoned as the group's focus shifted entirely to the new target. "What's wrong? Did your dad use you for a punching bag again?" the bully added.

Marcus's eyes flickered over the boys for a split second, but he said nothing, his lips set in a hard line as he walked past the court, his small frame almost swallowed by the oversized hoodie he wore. Ledger's stomach twisted. Marcus's silence only made Flick push harder, sensing weakness like a predator with prey. The other boys snickered, their laughter harsh and grating against Ledger's ears.

Ledger could feel his friends' eyes on him, waiting for his lead. He had always been the de facto leader of their group, stronger, quicker, more confident than the rest. They expected him to join in, to laugh and taunt like they did. But all Ledger could see was the pain in the boy's eyes, the quiet resignation of someone used to the world turning against them.

"C'mon, man, let's just play," Ledger muttered, trying to deflect, but Flick was already on the move, jogging after Marcus with the others trailing behind. Ledger hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot. A voice in his head screamed at him to do something, to stop this, but another part of him, the part that had learned how to survive Seagull's Bay by keeping his vulnerabilities hidden, held him back. He couldn't expose himself or risk the fallout of defending Marcus.

Flick caught up to Marcus as he reached the old brick building that housed the bathrooms. He grabbed Marcus's shoulder, spinning him around. Marcus stumbled, nearly falling, but kept his head down, refusing to meet Flick's gaze.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" Flick jeered, pushing Marcus again. The boy staggered but didn't fight back. He didn't even raise his arms to shield himself. The others circled closer, the air thick with anticipation. "Why don't you go home to your drunk-ass dad?" Flick taunted, his voice dripping with malice. "Oh wait, he probably doesn't even want you there. Fruity piece of shit," the bully mocked.

Ledger's breath caught in his throat. Marcus's shoulders tensed, but still, he didn't respond. He turned away, trying to retreat into the bathroom, but Flick and the others followed, their taunts echoing off the walls.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, huh?" Flick called out, his voice bouncing off the graffiti-covered tiles as they cornered Marcus in the narrow bathroom. Ledger lingered at the door, his hands balled into fists, his mind at war with itself. He should step in. He knew that. He should tell Flick to back off and leave Marcus alone. But he didn't move. The fear of losing his place and his friends was a heavy anchor, keeping him rooted to the spot.

Marcus ducked into one of the stalls, slamming the door shut behind him. For a moment, there was silence, just the faint sound of Marcus's labored breathing. Then Flick pounded on the door, his knuckles rapping against the flimsy metal with a hollow clang. The others joined in, laughing as they kicked at the door, their voices loud and cruel in the small space.

"Come on, faggot, you gonna hide in there all day?" Flick yelled. They rattled the door, their taunts growing louder, more vicious. The stall door shuddered with each kick, the rusted lock straining under the assault.

Ledger's heart pounded in his chest, and each bang against the door was a jolt that sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He could hear Marcus's small, frightened gasps, the sound of a boy too young to have already learned what real fear felt like. Ledger's vision blurred with a mix of anger and shame. This was wrong. All of it.

But still, he did nothing.

With a final, violent kick, the stall door burst open. Flick lunged forward, grabbing Marcus and yanking him out. The boy's small frame crumpled to the floor, and the others closed in, kicking at his legs and pushing his head toward the toilet. Marcus struggled, his thin arms flailing as he tried to protect his head, but the others were relentless.

And that's when it happened.

"Stop it!" Ledger's sharp and commanding voice cut through the chaos. He stepped forward, face flushed with fury and something more profound. Something that neared despair. The boys hesitated, their laughter dying in their throats. Flick looked up, startled by the sudden shift in Ledger's demeanor. Ledger glared at them, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. "I said, stop," he repeated, his voice low but edged with steel. He stepped closer, and Flick backed off, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Whatever, man," Flick muttered, casting one last contemptuous glance at Marcus. "He's not worth it anyway," the bully added.

The group slowly dispersed, their jeers fading as they shuffled out of the bathroom. Ledger lingered, watching Marcus curled into himself on the grimy floor, his body trembling. The anger that had spurred Ledger to act drained away, replaced by a pang of heavy, gnawing guilt.

He had let this happen.

Ledger crouched down beside Marcus, his eyes scanning the boy's bruises, the marks of a life that no child should endure. Marcus's breaths came in ragged gasps, his face hidden behind his arms. Ledger reached out, hesitating momentarily before resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. He flinched at the contact, eyes darting to meet Ledger's.

"You...you need to learn how to stand up for yourself," Ledger said quietly, his voice lacking the harshness of earlier. His chest had a strange tightness, a protective instinct that flared up whenever Marcus was near, though he would never dare name it or speak of it. Marcus looked up at him, his eyes wide and wet, a mix of defiance and vulnerability that Ledger had never seen in anyone else.

The boy didn't say anything. He just stared at Ledger with those big, dark, questioning eyes. Ledger withdrew his hand, standing up awkwardly.

"You can't keep letting them do this," he added, more to himself than to Marcus.

Marcus nodded slightly, but Ledger could see the doubt in his eyes, the resignation from knowing the world didn't play fair for kids like him. Ledger turned to leave, pausing at the door to glance back. Marcus was still on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, the shadows of his bruises dark against his pale skin.

Ledger walked away, the echo of his footsteps fusing with Marcus's soft, uneven breaths. Each step felt heavy, a weight that settled in Ledger's stomach, twisting with guilt. He knew, deep down, that he should have done more.

As he rejoined his friends outside, Ledger forced a smirk onto his face, trying to mask the turmoil inside him. Flick clapped him on the back, laughing about something Ledger barely registered. But Ledger's mind was elsewhere, stuck on the image of Marcus alone in that bathroom, the boy's eyes filled with a silent plea that Ledger wasn't sure, even then, that he would ever be able to answer.

Later that day, Ledger sat astride his scooter at the far end of the parking lot, watching with a detached air as kids funneled through the gates. His helmet rested on his handlebars, one foot on the ground, the engine idling softly beneath him. His eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto Marcus, weaving through the mass of students with his beat-up bike, the chain rattling with each uncertain pedal.

Marcus moved with a specific, quiet determination, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone. His slight frame seemed even more fragile under the fading light, the bruises on his arms hidden beneath his sleeves. Ledger tracked him with his gaze, an uneasy feeling stirring in his gut. He couldn't explain his pull towards Marcus, this strange mix of protectiveness and something darker. It was like he was tethered to the kid by an invisible thread that tightened every time Marcus crossed his path.

As the boy mounted his bike and pedaled down the cracked sidewalk, Ledger revved his engine, the scooter's growl breaking the monotonous hum of after-school chatter. He watched Marcus's back, waiting until the boy had gained some distance before easing onto the street, keeping a careful pace. He followed Marcus at a distance, his eyes locked onto the boy's petite figure, the beat of his heart syncing with the rumble of his bike.

The streets of Seagull's Bay were quiet, with the occasional car passing by and a dog barking in the distance. Marcus pedaled with a steady rhythm, oblivious initially to the scooter trailing him. But halfway home, on a stretch of road that cut through a narrow wooded path, Marcus glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Ledger. His eyes widened, a flash of panic spreading across his face. His pace immediately quickened, legs pumping harder as he tried to distance himself from his pursuer.

Ledger felt a strange thrill spike through him as he watched Marcus's reaction, a rush of adrenaline that urged him to press harder, to close the gap. He didn't call out to Marcus, didn't signal his intent. He just kept chasing, his eyes narrowed and focused, the engine's growl echoing in the enclosed space of the trees. Marcus glanced back again, his face contorted with fear. The boy peddled faster, his tiny legs straining as he swerved onto the gravel path that led to his house.

"Shit," Marcus muttered under his breath, the sound lost in the wind. He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, the thud-thud-thud a frantic drumbeat in his ears. Ledger's motorcycle roared behind him, the sound growing louder and closer. Marcus gripped the handlebars tighter, sweat slicking his palms as the bike wobbled slightly on the uneven ground, the loose gravel making it difficult to maintain speed.

Ledger pressed forward, his bike chewing up the distance between them. Marcus's panic was palpable now. It seeped into the air, and a sharp, electric buzz charged the space between them. Ledger could see the fear etched on Marcus's face every time he glanced back, the tension thrumming, a strange mix of power and guilt that twisted inside him. He wasn't sure what he was doing, what he was trying to prove, or why he couldn't just stop and let Marcus go. But something drove him forward, a compulsion he couldn't name, couldn't fight.

Marcus quickly turned onto the dirt path wound toward his shack near the beach. The sudden shift threw him off balance, and his bike skidded, the front wheel catching on a stray root. Marcus yelped as the bike veered wildly, the back tire lifting off the ground. He tried to correct it, but the momentum was too much. The bike pitched sideways, and Marcus went down, his body hitting the dirt with a painful thud.

Ledger's heart jolted, the sound of the crash snapping him out of whatever haze had gripped him. He skidded to a stop, jumping off his scooter. Marcus lay sprawled on the ground, his bike a twisted mess beside him. The boy's breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide and filled with terror as Ledger approached. He scrambled back, dirt caking his palms, his voice high and panicked.

"Stay away from me!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and defiance. "Get back!" he demanded.

Ledger froze momentarily, the boy's words hitting him like a slap. He raised his hands, palms open, trying to appear as non-threatening as a twelve-year-old boy on the verge of being something else could. Marcus's chest heaved with each breath, his eyes darting between Ledger and the path that led to his shack. Ledger's gaze softened, the intensity of his earlier pursuit fading into something gentler, more conflicted.

"Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you," Ledger said, his voice steady but tinged with a rawness he couldn't quite mask. He took a cautious step forward, his eyes locked on Marcus. "I just...wanted to make sure you got home safe," he explained.

Marcus's breathing slowed, his brow furrowing in confusion. He glanced at Ledger's outstretched hand, hesitant, unsure if this was another trick or if Ledger's concern was genuine. They stayed like that for a moment before Ledger's hand extended, Marcus on the ground, caught in the moment's tension. Finally, the boy's resolve cracked, and he reached out, letting Ledger pull him to his feet.

Marcus's hand was small and cold in Ledger's grip, his touch tentative. Ledger helped him up, steadying the boy as he wobbled on his feet. Marcus winced, brushing the dirt from his knees and the raw scrapes on his palms. His bike lay beside him, handlebars twisted, the front wheel bent at an odd angle. He looked at the damaged bike, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

"Great," Marcus muttered, kicking at the ground in frustration. Ledger released Marcus's hand and stepped over to the bike, lifting it quickly and inspecting the damage as the boy watched him, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity still lingering in his eyes.

"I can fix it," Ledger said, propping the bike upright. Marcus looked at him, his gaze searching for any hint of deception. But all he found was Ledger's earnest expression, an awkward sincerity that caught him off guard. Marcus nodded, his guard slowly lowering as Ledger picked up his scooter and rolled it alongside Marcus's beaten-up bike.

Together, they walked the rest of the way to Marcus's house. The path wound through a thicket of overgrown shrubs and twisted trees, leading to a dilapidated shack near the dunes. The ocean was just beyond, its waves crashing softly against the shore, spreading a distant, rhythmic hum across the beach. Ledger pushed the bike up the narrow path, his steps slow and deliberate, while Marcus trailed beside him, the earlier fear now replaced with a quiet resignation.

They reached the shack, its wooden panels warped and weather-beaten, paint peeling off in long strips. Marcus glanced at Ledger, his expression guarded but not hostile. The older boy set the bikes against the side of the house, pausing for a moment to take in the surroundings. The place looked barely livable, the roof sagging, the windows cracked. A pang of something Ledger couldn't quite place twisted in his chest. Pity, maybe, or something deeper, something that felt too personal to name. Marcus shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

"Thanks," he said, his voice low and hesitant. It was the first time Ledger had ever heard Marcus speak directly to him, and the sound of it, exuding shyness and gratitude, stirred something in Ledger's gut. He nodded, unsure what to say.

"Look, you gotta be tougher," Ledger said, his voice softer now, lacking the earlier edge. "People are gonna push you around if you let them," he added.

Marcus looked up at Ledger, his eyes searching for a sign that this wasn't just another empty piece of advice. He nodded, a slight, almost invisible movement, but it was enough for Ledger to see that his words had landed. Ledger stepped back, his fingers twitching at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach out again.

"I'll see you around," he mumbled, leaving. Marcus watched him go, the older boy's silhouette cutting a stark figure against the fading light.

"What's your name?" Marcus asked, the words fleeing his lips before he could even think of them. Ledger paused, turning back.

"You know my name," he replied, brows arching together.

"I mean...you know...your real name," Marcus insisted, his lips struggling to cage the faintest smile. Ledger stumbled, spellbound by it.

"Adrian," Ledger replied, his lips hanging as if he wanted to say something. "Don't talk to me at school," he finally uttered before mounting his motorcycle and riding off. The engine's sound faded into the ocean's background noise, leaving Marcus alone beside his broken-down shack.

He watched until Ledger was out of sight, a strange, conflicted smile settling on his lips. For the first time in a long while, Marcus felt something other than the constant ache of his bruises or the sting of the taunts that followed him everywhere. Ledger's unexpected kindness was small, but it felt monumental in Marcus's world, a sliver of light in an otherwise relentless gray.

He returned to his house, the memory of Ledger's outstretched hand lingering like a whispering oath.

 

*

(Present day)

The world around Nicholas was a blur, the edges of reality softened by the shock that clung to him like a fog. He could still taste the bile at the back of his throat, the bitter sting of vomit mingling with the acrid tang of dread. His knees were pressed into the rough sand, his body trembling as he knelt, helpless and broken. The morning sun cut through the air, but Nicholas felt none of its warmth. All he could feel was the cold, gnawing void where Marcus's laughter, touch, and presence had once been.

The sound of Ledger's sobs tore through the stillness, a raw, guttural keening that echoed off the rocks and cut through Nicholas like a knife. Ledger was hunched over Marcus's body, his hands gripping the boy's limp shoulders, shaking him as if trying to jolt him back to life. His cries were desperate, choked with grief, each one a plea that went unanswered. A sound that spoke of a pain too deep for words, a howl of agony that reverberated through Nicholas's very bones.

Nicholas could barely stand the sight. Marcus's lifeless form, the once vibrant boy now a shell, his skin marked with the cruel evidence of violence. He wanted to move, reach out and pull Ledger away, cradle Marcus in his arms, and make sense of the senseless, but he couldn't. His legs were weak, his breaths shallow and ragged, and all he could do was watch, caught in the liminal space between denial and the harsh reality that Marcus was gone.

He was gone.

Nicholas pushed himself up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated, like he was wading through water. His vision swam, the scene before him dissolving into splotches of color and light. He stumbled, feet dragging through the sand as he made his way toward the patrol car parked nearby, its blue and red lights still flashing in a silent rhythm. They looked surreal, a macabre beacon illuminating his life's darkest moment.

Dawson was there, standing beside Ledger, his posture rigid, his face a mask of grim determination that barely concealed the anguish beneath. As Nicholas neared, their eyes met, and for a moment, neither man moved. Their grief was a tangible force that held them in place, suspended between what had been and what was now irrevocably changed.

Then, in a sudden, desperate motion, as Dawson moved in, Nicholas collapsed into the blonde's arms, his body crumbling against the solid presence of his friend. He clung to Dawson as if he were the only anchor in a sea of despair, his fingers digging into the fabric of Dawson's uniform as he buried his face in his shoulder. The first sob tore from him, rough and strangled, and then another until the floodgates opened, and he was crying in earnest, heaving sobs that wracked his entire frame.

"I..." Nicholas choked out, his voice broken and barely audible, muffled against Dawson's shoulder. "How could this..." he wailed.

Dawson held him tighter, his face contorting as he fought to keep his composure. He rested his chin on Nicholas's head, his hand coming up to cradle the back of his friend's neck. The blonde could feel the shudders that ran through Nicholas's body, the silent screams that tore at his throat but refused to form. Dawson's vision blurred as he whispered soothing sounds that felt empty, even as he voiced them.

"He didn't deserve this," Nicholas gasped, his breath hitching as he pulled back slightly, eyes wild and searching. "He was just a kid...he didn't deserve this," he muttered between sobs.

"I know," Dawson murmured, his voice thick with sorrow. He stroked Nicholas's hair absently, his gaze drifting to where Ledger knelt beside Marcus. His sobs tapered off into soft, broken whimpers.

Nicholas's legs gave out again, and he sank to the ground, hands covering his face as if to block out the world. The grief was relentless, crashing over him in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. His mind raced with memories of Marcus, the way he'd smiled before they said goodbye, that light inside his dark eyes, and how it made Nicholas feel seen and understood in a way he hadn't been in years. And now, all of that was gone, snatched away by some nameless, faceless cruelty.

"This is my fault," Nicholas whispered, his voice cracking as the words tumbled out.

"Don't," Dawson interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. He crouched beside Nicholas, his hand resting on his friend's back. "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault," he continued.

But Nicholas couldn't hear him over the roar of his self-recrimination. He rocked back and forth, his fingers tangled in his hair, tugging as if he could pull the pain from his skull. The image of Marcus, lifeless and alone on the sand, burned behind his eyelids, searing itself into his memory with a vividness that threatened to shatter him.

"Who would do this?" Nicholas questioned, his voice raw, a frayed whisper barely escaping his lips. He looked up at Dawson, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Who the fuck would do something like this to him?" Dawson shook his head, his expression darkening with anger and helplessness.

"I don't know," he said softly, his words hanging in a delicate balance as his emerald eyes glanced around the crowd.

Nicholas pulled away from Dawson, wiping his face with the back of his hand, his movements jerky and unsteady. He turned back toward the water, where the waves lapped gently at the shore, indifferent to the unfolding tragedy.

Then, a voice sliced through the crowd. A familiar, sneering tone sent a chill crawling up Nicholas's spine.

Flick stood at the edge of the mob, his face twisted in a cruel smirk, eyes gleaming with a sick kind of satisfaction as he sneered at the scene. His words were venomous, each dripping with contempt, making Nicholas's stomach churn.

"Guess he finally got what was coming to him," Flick taunted, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd.

Nicholas felt anger spike through his veins, his vision narrowing on Flick's sneering face. He moved to step forward, but Dawson's hand tightened on his shoulder, holding him back. But as they turned back, Nicholas's heart sank.

Ledger was already moving.

His body launched through the air like a coiled spring snapping free, every ounce of his rage and grief propelling him forward. His fist connected with Flick's jaw in a sickening crack, bone on bone. Flick stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock as he crumpled to the ground, but Ledger didn't stop. He was on him instantly, fists flying in a furious barrage, each punch fueled by a deep pain bordering on madness.

The crowd erupted, voices overlapping in a cacophony of shouts and gasps. People surged forward, trying to pull Ledger off, but his arms were a whirlwind of fists and fury, his movements wild and erratic. Nicholas pushed through the chaos as he fought to reach his friend. He could hear Dawson shouting, but the words were lost in the frenzy, drowned out by the roaring in Nicholas's ears.

By the time they managed to reach him, Flick was barely conscious, his face a bloody mess of cuts and bruises. Ledger's knuckles were slick with blood, his breath ragged and uneven as he straddled Flick, eyes blazing with an unhinged fury. Nicholas and Dawson grabbed Ledger by the arms, hauling him back with all their strength, their friend's body thrashing in their grip.

"Ledger, stop!" Dawson's voice was sharp and commanding, but there was an edge of desperation. He shook Ledger, his fingers digging into his shoulders. "Calm down! You're gonna lose your job!" Dawson warned, trying to break through his friend's rage.

Ledger's struggle slowed, the words seeping through the haze of his anger. He blinked, breath still coming in short, harsh bursts, but the wildness in his eyes began to dim. Slowly, he stopped fighting, his body sagging in their hold as the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving only the raw, aching grief in its place. He hung his head, tears streaking down his face.

Nicholas released a shaky breath, the tension in his muscles easing slightly. He exchanged a glance with Dawson, their eyes meeting in a moment of shared understanding. It was then that Nicholas felt the weight of his desperation clawing at his throat, the realization that he might be closer to answers than he had dared to hope.

"What?" Dawson prompted, his eyes already on Nicholas.

"I think...I might know something," Nicholas said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. Dawson turned to him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in confusion and curiosity.

"What do you mean?" the blonde asked, his tone edged with impatience.

"This...black SUV," Nicholas began, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I've seen it around. Outside the hotel, near Marcus's place...The guy driving... I've never seen his face, but...he beat Marcus before," he paused, the pieces clicking together in his mind. "I caught the license plate the last time," he said, pulling out his phone. Dawson's eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from skepticism to intent focus.

"Show me," he said as he walked to the patrol car. Nicholas followed, reciting the numbers, his voice steady as Dawson tapped them in, running the plate through the system. Seconds ticked by, each one a heavy thud in Nicholas's chest. Dawson turned the screen toward Nicholas, the words glaring back at them in stark, undeniable clarity.

It was Tom's address.

Nicholas's breath caught, his mind reeling as the revelation hit him like a sledgehammer. The ground seemed to shift beneath him as the connections became apparent and the suspicions were finally confirmed, all of it crashing down in an overwhelming wave of realization.

*

As the cruiser turned the corner onto Tom's street, a quiet tension filled the air inside the car. Dawson's jaw was set, eyes fixed on the road as he gripped the wheel. Beside him, Nicholas sat in stony silence, the morning events still spinning through his mind like a storm.

The house loomed ahead. The familiar white shutters and pristine garden that had always seemed so normal were now the facade of something far darker. As they pulled up to the curb, Nicholas scanned the property. Nothing seemed out of place. No panic. No hurried movements. It was quiet. Too quiet, he thought. Dawson parked the car, and as they stepped out, Nicholas noticed something strange: Tom was standing on the front porch, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. He didn't look surprised, scared, or defensive. He looked calm.

Almost like he'd been expecting them.

Dawson glanced back at Nicholas before stepping forward. Two other officers joined them, watching Tom closely as they approached.

"Tom Marshall?" Dawson called out, his voice even but sharp. Tom didn't flinch. His eyes were dark, his face set in an almost serene expression.

"Good afternoon, Officer," he said quietly, voice steady. He uncrossed his arms and raised his hands slowly as though already surrendering.

The calmness in his demeanor sent a ripple of unease through Nicholas. Why wasn't he resisting? Why wasn't he afraid? This wasn't the reaction of a man about to be arrested for murder.

Before Dawson could respond, the front door burst open, and Jodie came running out, her face a mask of confusion.

"Tom?" she called. But he didn't look at or acknowledge her frantic voice as she hurried to his side, clutching his arm. "Tom? Why are the police here?" she repeated, her voice rising in panic. Still, Tom said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Dawson, calm, almost cold.

Nicholas watched from the yard, his heart pounding and his mind racing with questions. Why wasn't Tom saying anything? Dawson, maintaining his composure, nodded to the other officers.

"Tom Marshall, we're placing you under arrest in connection with the death of Marcus Hayes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..." Dawson read out. As the officers approached Tom, pulling out their handcuffs, Jodie looked like she might collapse. Her eyes were wide with shock, and her hands trembled as she grabbed Tom's shirt.

"Tom...what is this?" she cried, tears welling in her eyes. But Tom didn't even glance her way, an unnerving silence taking hold. One of the officers gently pulled Jodie aside, trying to calm her as they cuffed Tom's wrists behind his back. She struggled against the officer's hold, tears spilling down her face. "Jesus Christ, say something... what's wrong with you?" she bellowed.

But Tom remained quiet, not a word escaping his lips. He didn't look at Jodie, didn't acknowledge her desperate pleas. His gaze was fixed ahead, unblinking as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. Nicholas stood a few feet back, every instinct in his body on edge. Something wasn't right. Tom acted like he was in control, even as they arrested him. Dawson motioned to the garage.

"Check the garage," he said to the other officers. Nicholas watched them move toward it, his heart hammering in his chest.

Dawson grabbed the garage door handle, pulling it up with a loud clatter. Inside, parked neatly in the corner, was the black Escalade SUV. The same one Nicholas had seen following Marcus. The same one that had eluded him before. He shut his eyes, a wave of nausea rising in his throat.

"Call the forensics team. We'll need a full sweep on this," Dawson muttered. As the officers prepared to take the vehicle into evidence, Dawson turned back to Tom, his face hard. "Take him in," he ordered.

The other officers took Tom by the arms and led him toward the squad car. Nicholas stepped back, watching the scene unfold. Jodie was still sobbing, struggling against the officer trying to console her. But Tom remained impassive, his expression eerily composed, as they led him to the car.

Then, just as they were about to put him inside, he turned his head. His blue eyes found Nicholas standing a few feet away. For the first time since the ordeal began, Tom smiled. It wasn't a smile of fear or regret. It was a smile of pure satisfaction, a knowing, chilling grin. Tom's lips curved into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement as if he were enjoying every moment of their exchange.

Tom wasn't just accepting his arrest but reveling in it.

*

The interrogation room felt oppressive, a sterile box with too heavy air. Tom sat calmly in the metal chair, wrists still handcuffed in front of him. His posture was casual, almost comfortable, his back straight, as if he were waiting for an old friend. His face was devoid of remorse, his usually vibrant blue eyes now pale and unsettlingly cold. Across the table, the detective leaned forward, elbows resting on the surface, his eyes trying to pierce through the walls of arrogance that Tom exuded.

Behind the one-way glass, Nicholas stood, barely breathing. His heart pounded in his chest, each thumping like a hammer to his ribs. Every fiber of Nicholas's being ached to burst through the door to confront Tom himself, but he remained rooted to the spot, forced to watch this nightmare unfold.

Dawson was positioned by the door, arms crossed. His jaw clenched so tightly that it looked like his teeth might crack. He glanced back at the glass, knowing Nicholas was just behind it. His fingers twitched with barely restrained anger.

The detective began, his voice low and measured, though every word had an undercurrent of disdain.

"Tom, we're going to cut through the bullshit. We know about your relationship with Marcus," the detective stated. Tom's eyes flicked toward the detective, and a slow smile curled his lips. He tilted his head as if considering his words carefully, savoring the tension in the room like a predator toying with its prey.

"Relationship?" Tom's voice was smooth, too smooth. "I fucked him," he added. The detective narrowed his eyes.

"You beat him, too," the detective stirred, trying to provoke something out of Tom, which only seemed to fuel him.

"So?" Tom interrupted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms lazily. "Are you trying to paint me as some kind of monster, detective? Because I can assure you he enjoyed every minute of it. The fucking...and the beating," Tom provoked, his eyes darting the glass.

Dawson's fists clenched, his knuckles white. Nicholas could feel the tension rising, the room shrinking as Tom's calm demeanor taunted them all. He was elusive, deliberately playing both sides of the truth, weaving words with just enough truth to keep them on edge. The detective leaned in, his voice growing sharper.

"Do you like being in control, Tom?" the detective asked. Tom's smile faltered for a fraction of a second and then returned colder than before.

"Only if it's...consensual," he taunted. Nicholas's stomach turned. He wanted to scream, to punch through the glass separating them. The word "consensual" twisted inside him like a blade. He could see Marcus's lifeless body on the sand, the bruises, the pain that perpetually resided in his eyes. The boy had been broken long before Nicholas ever met him. Dawson's voice cut through the thick silence.

"You were abusing him, you sick fuck. His fingerprints are all over your car," Dawson's voice cracking at every word, his raw emotions spilling out.

But Tom didn't flinch. He seemed to absorb Dawson's fury, feeding on it. The blonde turned his head slightly as if considering Dawson for the first time, locking eyes with him.

"Abusing him?" Tom said slowly, dragging out the words like a taunt. "No. Marcus liked it rough. And I gave him exactly what he wanted. What he needed," his eyes flicked toward the glass, and for a horrifying second, Nicholas swore Tom was looking directly at him. "But that boy was a slut...and sooner or later..." Tom paused, a grin creeping across his face, his eyes gleaming with malice. "...this was bound to happen," he uttered.

The room exploded.

Dawson lunged forward before the detective could stop him, his fist connecting with Tom's jaw in a sickening crack. Tom's head snapped to the side, but that grin never left his face. It was like he was waiting for it, like he wanted Dawson to hit him, to snap. He thrived on it.

"You son of a bitch!" Dawson roared, grabbing Tom by the collar, his face inches away from Tom's now bruised jaw. "Say that again, I fucking dare you," he hollered. Tom just laughed. It was low, guttural, and filled with a sick satisfaction.

"Is that all you got, Officer Dawson," he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "His fingerprints on my car?" Tom laughed. "Half the cars in this town are covered in his prints," he mocked.

Dawson punched him again, harder this time. The other officers rushed in, pulling Dawson away as he kicked and screamed, desperate to get another shot in. His face twisted with rage, veins popping out of his neck, his eyes wild with fury.

Nicholas stood frozen behind the glass, hands pressed against the cold surface, his mind barely able to process what was happening. He had never seen Dawson lose control like this, but he understood. The pain, the helplessness, it was all too much to hold inside.

And Tom. He just sat there, smug and unscathed, as if everything was playing out exactly as he had envisioned. As Dawson was dragged out of the room, Tom's eyes lingered on the glass. He straightened his collar, wiped a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and smiled again. That same horrifying smile.

Nicholas's knees buckled. The room seemed to tilt around him as his world spun out of control. Tom had done it. He had shattered them. And now, as Tom sat there, alone but victorious, Nicholas realized with cold dread that this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

*

Nicholas pushed open the heavy hospital door slowly, its metallic creak breaking the sterile silence of the corridor. He paused in the doorway, gaze landing on the figure curled up in the farthest corner of the room. Ledger sat on the side of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed low. The pale hospital gown hung loose around his broad frame, making him appear smaller than Nicholas had ever seen. Ledger's shoulders were hunched, his entire body coiled tight like a spring wound to its breaking point.

Nicholas hesitated momentarily, the image of Ledger's vibrant and powerful figure firing inside his mind. But then he stepped inside, letting the door click softly shut behind him. He felt the weight of grief settle into the room like a shroud, and he immediately motioned to leave. But then Ledger's voice cut through the silence, rough and raw.

"No…stay," he mumbled, his words sounding like a lifeline.

Nicholas nodded, inching closer until he stood just a few feet from the bed. He watched Ledger, the younger man's face a mask of pain, the dark circles under his eyes deep enough to look like bruises. He was a shadow of the vibrant, fiery soul he'd been just days ago. Every flicker of light in him seemed to have been snuffed out, replaced by an unbearable weight.

"Ledger..." Nicholas stuttered, struggling to find the right words. But he soon realized there weren't.

"I can't do this…" Ledger whispered, his voice breaking. He finally looked up, unveiling the depth of his anguish. "I feel like...I can't breathe without him, man," Ledger conveyed as his voice cracked.

Nicholas took a step closer, his hands aching to reach out and offer comfort. But he knew. He knew there were no words that could ease this kind of pain. He swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden blur clouding his vision.

"Ledger, I…" he began, but he faltered, lost. What could he possibly say? Everything felt hollow. Pointless. Instead, he took a breath, letting the silence stretch between them until it felt like it would snap.

"He was..." Ledger said quietly, his gaze drifting back to his hands. "Ever since we were kids...I knew, you know? I knew he was different. Special," his voice was soft, laced with a haunting regret. "And I…I loved him. Fuck, I loved him more than I ever thought I could love anyone," he finally admitted.

Nicholas's heart twisted painfully at Ledger's admission. He knew this. Deep down, he'd always known that a different kind of love bound Marcus and Ledger together, a more profound, more complex bond than friendship or brotherhood. But hearing it now, out loud, was like witnessing Ledger tear open his chest to bare his soul.

But what hurt the most was knowing that Marcus would never hear it.

"I should have protected him," Ledger continued, his voice rising with each word, trembling with guilt. "I should've been there, but…now he's gone, and it's all my fault," Ledger rambled, his voice almost lost.

Nicholas stepped forward instinctively and reached out, his hand hovering just inches from Ledger's shoulder, but he hesitated. The truth was, he didn't know if he was allowed to touch this grief, if he could even begin to share its crushing weight.

The silence hung between them, a bitter truth that neither man could swallow. Nicholas felt his chest constrict, the image of Marcus's broken, lifeless body lying on the sand seared into his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to breathe through the suffocating guilt.

"Life failed him, Ledger," Nicholas finally whispered, his voice shaking. "I promised I'd keep him safe, and I didn't. But you…you were there for him when no one else was. The only constant in his life," he added. "And I'm sure he knew...he knew how much you loved him," Nicholas whispered.

But as he delved into Ledger's eyes, Nicholas realized his words were tumbling into an empty vessel. He wanted to argue, to tell Ledger that his love was the one thing that never left Marcus, that even in the darkest moments, Ledger's presence had been the one light Marcus had to hold on to. But the words died in his mouth.

Instead, he watched, heart aching, as Ledger's face twisted in pain. Something was growing in his eyes, dark and dangerous, festering, simmering just below the surface. It was grief, yes, but it was also something else.

"You should go," Ledger said softly, his gaze distant, lost.

Nicholas swallowed hard, a sense of foreboding settling in his chest. This wasn't just grief speaking. This was a vengeance. Wrath.

He nodded slowly and reached out, placing a tentative hand on Ledger's shoulder.

Ledger didn't reply. But he didn't pull away either. And for now, that seemed enough.

*

As Nicholas stepped into the Rusty Anchor, he noticed how eerily barren it was. The typical bustle and chatter were replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to echo the void inside him, with only the faint hum of a flickering neon sign interrupting the quiet. The air reeked of stale beer, its scent sharp and acrid, like disappointment lingering in his nostrils. He spotted Dawson at the bar, slouched over a glass of whiskey that looked more ornamental than something he'd actually drink. As Nicholas neared, Dawson lifted his gaze, eyes weary and bloodshot, boring the weight of many sleepless nights.

"Hey," he murmured, nodding toward the empty stool beside him. "Thought you wouldn't show up," he joked. Nicholas slid onto the stool without a word, weighed down by something more than exhaustion. He glanced at Dawson's untouched glass, then signaled the bartender for one of his own. The man behind the counter looked at him with the pitying eyes of someone who knew too much, but Nicholas didn't care. He needed anything to dull the sharp, unbearable ache inside.

"Autopsy results came in," Dawson said quietly, cutting straight to the point. His voice was flat, detached, and as if he were reciting a report instead of recounting the final moments of someone they both loved. "There were bruises around his neck. His wrists, which may indicate he was pinned down somehow. It had to be a heavy guy. Two broken teeth..." Dawson said, stumbling. Nicholas closed his eyes, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. He gripped the bar's edge until his knuckles turned white, his body trembling with the effort to keep himself together. "But that's not what killed him," Dawson added, his voice strained, barely audible. His gaze dropped to his glass as if he could find some answer in the amber liquid. "They found a blunt force trauma to the back of his head. Something heavy," Dawson finally revealed.

The words knocked the air out of Nicholas's lungs.

"He was just a kid, Dawson. A fucking kid," Nicholas uttered, collapsing into his seat.

Dawson reached out, placing a tentative hand on Nicholas's arm. It was a rare gesture of comfort from a man who was always so guarded, so careful not to let his feelings show. Then the blonde cleared his throat, glancing around to ensure no one else could hear him. "There's something else," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They found his clothes and a few of his belongings…inside the lighthouse," he added. Nicholas's eyes snapped open, his heart stuttering in his chest.

"The lighthouse?" he echoed, his mind racing. He pictured the crumbling structure, its shadow falling across the beach like a grim sentinel. Why there? What did it mean?

"Yeah," Dawson nodded. "They're being processed now for any evidence," he informed.

Nicholas reached up, his fingers brushing the hollow of his throat where the necklace he'd worn for so many years used to hang. And that's when it hit him.

"Dawson…" Nicholas swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Did they… did they find a necklace?... A small wooden cross?" he questioned. Dawson frowned, shaking his head slowly.

"No. It wasn't among the items we recovered. Do you think he could have taken it off?" Dawson asked.

"He wouldn't..." Nicholas muttered, more to himself than to Dawson.

He trailed off, his mind churning with possibilities, each more disturbing than the last. Why would someone take the necklace? Was it a trophy? A message? Or something else entirely?

"Nicholas," Dawson's steady, grounding voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you okay?" the cop probed.

Nicholas nodded absently, his gaze distant. The necklace was a small detail but felt crucial, like a missing piece in a puzzle he couldn't quite assemble.

"I need to talk to him," Nicholas said suddenly, his voice firm with resolve. "To Tom," he added. Dawson's eyes widened slightly.

"Nicholas, that's not a good idea. He's a suspect. You can't just..." Dawson hesitated.

"I need to do this. There's...something I need to know," Nicholas interrupted, his voice rising. He leaned forward, hands clenched into fists. Dawson hesitated, glancing around the bar as if searching for an answer in the worn wood and faded pictures lining the walls. Finally, he sighed, nodding reluctantly.

"Alright," the blonde uttered. Nicholas nodded, a dark determination settling over him like a shroud. Dawson stared at him for a long moment as if weighing his options, then stood up, tossing a few bills on the bar. "Come on," Dawson directed.

Nicholas followed him silently to the car, driving to the police station. But once they pulled up, a hive of chaos erupted. The front entrance was swarming with officers barking orders and babbling, panicked. Flashing red and blue lights bounced off the walls and across the asphalt. Nicholas's heart pounded as he followed Dawson, who was already sprinting up the steps two at a time.

"What the fuck happened?" Dawson demanded, grabbing the arm of a passing officer. The man's face was pale, his eyes wide with shock.

"Ledger," he exclaimed, barely catching his breath. "He broke into the holding cells. Took Marshall. Nobody knows where they are," the officer stammered.

"Jesus Christ," Dawson's hand rubbed at his face, a raw mixture of rage and desperation flickering in his gaze. He turned sharply, scanning the bustling crowd of officers, then back at Nicholas. "They just let him walk out with a suspect?" the blonde commented with frustration.

"Ledger's one of us. Nobody thought he'd..." the officer stammered, looking helpless.

"For fuck sake," Dawson snapped, cutting him off.

The officer opened his mouth to respond, but Dawson was already pushing past him, making a beeline for his car. Nicholas trailed behind. A cold certainty had settled over him when he heard Ledger's name. He wasn't surprised, not really. Not after seeing Ledger's state at the hospital. Not after hearing the pain and rage that bled through every word he'd spoken about Marcus.

It felt inevitable.

Dawson slammed into the driver's seat and started the engine with a roar, his expression grim. Nicholas barely had time to close his door before they were peeling out of the parking lot, the tires screeching against the pavement.

"Where do you think he'd go?" Nicholas asked, his voice tense. He could feel his pulse hammering at the base of his throat, every muscle in his body strung tight.

"There's a place," Dawson muttered, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Near the beach. On the outskirts of town. We used to go there sometimes to blow off steam. Shoot blanks off the cliff," he recalled. Nicholas frowned, confused.

"Why there?" Nicholas drilled. Dawson's jaw tightened.

Dawson didn't respond, but the weight of the blonde's voice settled heavily between them, thickening the silence that followed. Nicholas's breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. He couldn't afford to think about what that meant. Of what Ledger might be planning to do, away from prying eyes.

They sped through town, the buildings blurring into a streak of colors as Dawson drove furiously, taking sharp turns without slowing. The closer they got to the outskirts, the darker it became, the familiar streetlights of Seagull's Bay fading into nothing but open road and the pale shimmer of moonlight.

Finally, Dawson swerved onto a narrow gravel path, the car bouncing and jolting as they raced toward the cliffs. The ocean loomed in the distance, an endless expanse of inky blackness stretching out beneath a starless sky. Nicholas could feel his pulse hammering harder now, every instinct screaming at him to move faster, to get there before it was too late.

They crested a slight rise, and then Dawson slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt, throwing up dust and gravel. Nicholas squinted through the windshield, his heart pounding at the sight.

There were two figures silhouetted against the faint light of the horizon. Ledger stood near the cliff's edge, his stance tense and unsteady. His hair was wild, whipping around his face in the wind, and his arm was outstretched. Holding a gun.

And on his knees in front of him, hands and feet bound, was Tom.

"Shit," Dawson breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper. He threw the car into the park and pushed open the door, moving slowly and deliberately. Nicholas followed, his body numb and shaking as they approached the two men.

Ledger's back was to them, his shoulders rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Tom was pale and drawn, eyes wide with a strange mixture of fear and something almost like resignation. He glanced up as they drew closer, a small, tight smile curling his lips.

"Welcome to the party," Tom murmured, his voice barely audible over the waves crashing against the rocks below. His gaze flicked to the gun in Ledger's hand, then to Dawson. "You're just in time," he mocked.

"Ledger," Dawson called out, his voice steady yet laced with a desperation that Nicholas had never heard before. "Look at me...you don't have to do this. We'll take him in. We'll make him pay. But not like this. This isn't..." the blonde tried to reason.

"He deserves to die," Ledger interrupted, his voice hoarse and trembling. He shifted slightly, his eyes never leaving Tom's face. Nicholas stepped closer, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

"Ledger...killing him won't bring Marcus back," Nicholas stated.

Ledger's shoulders shook, a strangled sound tearing from his throat between a sob and a laugh. He looked over his shoulder then, their eyes meeting, and what Nicholas saw there sent a chill down his spine.

There was pain, yes. Pain and rage and grief so raw it was almost unbearable. But there was something else, too. A darkness. A void.

"I loved him," Ledger whispered, his voice breaking. "I loved him and couldn't protect him," he added. "If I close my eyes, I can still smell him...I can still...feel him. His skin...so soft..." Ledger mumbled, his eyes softening momentarily as if the mere mention of Marcus' memory brought a fleeting comfort with it. Nicholas swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump in his throat.

"Ledger...if you do this… if you pull that trigger… you'll lose everything. Your job. Your freedom. Yourself," Nicholas reasoned as he stepped closer, his hands slightly raised.

"I already did," Ledger replied, his words hollow.

"Adrian...please," Nicholas pleaded.

For a long moment, Ledger didn't move. He just stood there, staring down at Tom with an intensity that made Nicholas's skin crawl. Tom, for his part, seemed almost amused. His lips twitched into that same infuriating smile as he shifted slightly on his knees, leaning forward just enough to whisper something Nicholas could barely hear.

"That's the name he cried out before he went...Adrian," Tom murmured.

And that's all it took.

Ledger's face twisted, a sound like a wounded animal tearing from his chest as he raised the gun higher, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"NO!" Dawson shouted, surging forward.

But it was too late. The gunshot rang out, a loud crack that echoed across the cliffs, bringing everything to a halt. The wind, the waves, and the world held its breath as Ledger's arm fell limply to his side.

Tom slumped forward, blood blossoming across his chest, his eyes wide with shock. He looked up at Ledger, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, then crumpled to the ground, his body folding in on itself like a broken doll.

The world tilted on its axis as Nicholas stumbled back, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

"Jesus Christ," Dawson whispered, his voice a broken, hollow thing.

A jagged silence lingered in the air, broken only by the crackle of static from the police radios in the distance.

Tom lay on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at nothing. A dark pool spread out from his chest, soaking into the dirt. The gun that ended him hung loosely in Ledger's hand, still smoking, its presence a final punctuation to a story that had been spiraling towards this inevitable conclusion.

Red and blue lights flashed across the scene as half a dozen patrol cars surrounded the cliff's edge, officers shouting into the chaos. They moved in cautiously, weapons drawn, voices raised.

"Put the weapon down and step away from the body, Ledger!" a voice ordered.

But Ledger didn't seem to hear them. Or if he did, he didn't care. He stood there, utterly still, as if the world around him had faded into the background. Dawson stepped forward, hands raised, trying to calm the escalating tension.

"He's not a threat," he shouted, his voice strained with desperation. "Just let me talk to him!" the blonde pleaded. The officers hesitated, their gaze shifting between Dawson and the man standing perilously close to the precipice. "Ledger," Dawson called out, his voice breaking as he tried to reach his friend. "We can fix this. Just...put the gun down, okay?" he begged, his green eyes glistening.

But Ledger didn't respond. His gaze was locked on something far beyond the cliff's edge, something invisible to everyone else. There was a strange tranquility in his eyes, an almost otherworldly peace. Nicholas stood frozen, a few paces behind Dawson. Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled, and ready to spring, yet he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. He watched Ledger with surreal detachment, like witnessing a dream. One he couldn't wake up from.

The officers were growing agitated, their commands more forceful, their bodies tense with the threat of violence. Ledger shifted slightly, and for a moment, it looked like he might turn, walk towards Dawson, and surrender.

But then he smiled.

It was a small, almost imperceptible smile. One that held no regret, no fear. Only acceptance.

Dawson took a step closer, but Nicholas reached out and gripped his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Confusion flaring, the blonde looked at him, but Nicholas shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving Ledger.

At that moment, he knew. He understood. Ledger's life had been tethered to Marcus's from the very beginning. And now, there was nothing left for Ledger to hold onto. No more battles to fight. No demons to conquer. There was nothing left to save. Nothing to protect.

Everything narrowed, the world contracting until it was just the two. Nicholas and Ledger, standing on opposite sides of an invisible divide. Ledger looked at Nicholas, his gaze clear and steady.

And then, something unspoken passed between them, something fragile and profound. It was as if every unvoiced word, every shared memory, every thread of pain and love that had bound them together over the past year coalesced into a single, searing moment of clarity.

Nicholas swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in his chest. Instead, he offered Ledger the only thing he could.

A smile, small and filled with an aching understanding.

And that's when Ledger's own smile widened, eyes softening with gratitude so deep it was almost luminous. Suddenly, there was no weight on his shoulders, no darkness clinging to the edges of his soul. The shadows of guilt and grief that haunted him had lifted, replaced by a lightness that seemed to shimmer around him, almost ethereal.

It was beautiful. In a fractured, heartbreaking way, like only the most tragic things could be.

Ledger's fingers loosened, and the gun slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground with a dull thud. He took a step back, then another, moving closer to the cliff's edge, his feet hovering on the precipice. His smile turned wistful, almost serene. He closed his eyes, face tilting up to the sky, savoring the feel of the wind on his skin and the taste of freedom in the air.

And then, without another word, without a single sound, Ledger stepped off the cliff.

Time stood still as his body arced gracefully through the air, arms outstretched, face still wearing that peaceful smile before vanishing into the darkness below.

As Dawson's screams tore through the silence, a raw, anguished sound that reverberated across the cliffside, Nicholas stood there, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the edge of the cliff.

(Two hours later)

Nicholas leaned against the hood of a patrol car, the early morning chill biting through his clothes. His hands trembled, fingers brushing absently against the collar of his shirt where his necklace used to rest. He stared blankly at the ground before a uniformed officer approached. The man's face was etched with lines of fatigue, his body shifting awkwardly.

"If you…find anything on my necklace," Nicholas said quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Please, let me know," he added. The officer nodded, his gaze steady and sympathetic.

"We'll keep you updated on everything we find," the cop replied.

Nicholas nodded absently, eyes drifting past the officer to the police car parked a few feet away. Dawson sat in the back seat, his broad shoulders hunched forward, gaze fixed on some point far beyond the glass. A broken shell of the man. His mouth was moving, but no sound came out. He was muttering something over and over again, vacant and lost. Occasionally, his hands twitched in his lap as if grasping at something invisible. Something he couldn't reach.

"Will he be alright?" Nicholas asked, his voice low, almost tentative. The officer glanced back at Dawson, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face.

"Don't worry. We'll take care of him," the officer promised.

Nicholas nodded, but the words rang hollow in his ears. There was a part of him that doubted anyone could mend what happened. To any of them. Not after losing one more person to the endless spiral of violence and grief that seemed to follow them all.

He turned his gaze toward the horizon. The first hints of dawn were breaking over the ocean, the sky streaked with pale golds and soft pinks. The sun was beginning to rise, a small, glowing orb. Nicholas closed his eyes, letting the morning breeze wash over him.

The officer's voice cut through the silence, pulling him back to the present.

"Do you need a ride home, Mr. Bowman?" the officer offered. Nicholas opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh light of dawn. He shook his head slowly, his gaze still locked on the horizon.

"No…I'll be fine," he replied.

Behind him, the sun climbed higher, bathing the world in its light.

But all Nicholas could see was darkness.

*

(3 years later)

The Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner of the room, adorned with lights and an assortment of ornaments collected over the years, each a memory of a time long gone. Nicholas watched, his eyes softening as Jett chattered animatedly, recounting some story about his school friends. Despite the years that had passed, his youngest still managed to make Nicholas feel a flicker of that old, steady light, a reminder that some things were still good and pure.

"Dad, you're not listening!" Jett pouted, his light curls flopping over his forehead as he leaned closer, his hands tugging at Nicholas's sleeve. Nicholas blinked, drawn back into the present by the boy's earnest gaze. He chuckled softly, ruffling Jett's hair.

"Sorry, buddy. Got a little lost in my head. Go on, tell me again," Nicholas explained. Jett's smile was bright enough to banish the shadows that seemed to cling to the edges of Nicholas's thoughts.

"I asked if we were still going to the museum next week. You promised!" the boy repeated.

"Of course we are," Nicholas said gently, his voice filled with a tenderness reserved only for his son.

It was a promise made quietly, but it carried the weight of something sacred. Their bond had only grown stronger over the past few years, tethering Nicholas to the world that had become increasingly harder to navigate since that terrible night. The city, his rented flat, and the university job that paid the bills all felt like a means to an end, a place to be so he could stay close to Jett. Every other purpose, every other passion, had been dulled by the haze of grief and guilt.

But here, at this moment, with his son looking up at him with such unbridled hope, Nicholas felt the faintest stirrings of peace. A small respite from the relentless ache that lingered deep within his chest.

Across the room, Beth and her boyfriend were sharing a quiet exchange, leaning in close, their heads tilted in a way that spoke of intimacy and comfort. Surprisingly, it was a sight that didn't sting as much as it once had. Nicholas had made peace with it. Their lives had diverged, but somehow, they'd found a way back to being friends. The tension and bitterness of those early days had faded, replaced by a mutual understanding, a shared commitment to raising Jett in the best way for him.

Brandon was there too, lounging on the couch with his arm draped lazily over the shoulders of a pretty, doe-eyed girl Nicholas had just met. His eldest son had changed, too, grown into a man in what felt like the blink of an eye. And if the strained, awkward glances they exchanged were anything to go by, Brandon seemed to have changed in ways that Nicholas still struggled to grasp.

But tonight, there was no resentment in his son's eyes, no simmering anger lurking beneath his casual smile. For once, everything seemed fine, Nicholas thought.

Dinner had passed with the usual pleasantries, conversations flowing easily enough despite the occasional stilted silence. Even Brandon, who had long since perfected the art of the withering glance or the curt, dismissive remark, had been more open, more present. He laughed at Jett's jokes, nodded to Beth's stories about the neighbors, and even shared a few anecdotes about college life. It was a tentative ceasefire that Nicholas clung to with quiet hope.

After dinner, they moved to the living room, settling into the cozy space that had once been their family home. It looked different now. Beth had redecorated and added touches that emulated a new life. Nicholas sat back, his gaze drifting around the room. Jett was tearing into his presents with a look of pure delight. Beth and her boyfriend exchanged amused smiles, and Brandon watched on, his expression unreadable.

"Alright," Beth announced, standing up with a slight flourish. "I think that's everyone?" she probed.

"Actually," Brandon said, his voice cutting through the conversation. "I have one more," he announced.

The room fell silent. Beth looked at her son, confusion crossing her face. Nicholas straightened slightly, his brow furrowing. Something in Brandon's tone was off. Brandon reached behind him and pulled out a small box wrapped in festive red and gold paper. He turned to Nicholas, holding it out with a strange smile. Almost too polite, too measured.

"This is for you, Dad," he said. Nicholas blinked, surprised. He took the box cautiously, his fingers brushing against the smooth paper. "Just a little something I've been saving for a special occasion," he added.

"Brandon, you didn't have to…" he stuttered.

"I know," Brandon said softly. "But I wanted to," he replied coldly.

Beth shifted uneasily, glancing between them as if sensing something was off. But she stayed quiet, gazing at Nicholas as he carefully unwrapped the gift. The wrapping fell away to reveal a simple black box. Nicholas's heart stuttered, his fingers trembling as he lifted the lid.

And then, the world tilted.

Inside the box, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was his necklace.

Nicholas's breath stumbled, his vision blurring as he stared at the tarnished string and the familiar shape of the pendant. The air around him thickened, closing in, pressing until he couldn't breathe. There was no mistaking it. Every detail, every scratch and groove. The necklace he had given Marcus. The same one that was missing the night of his death. The one the police had been unable to find.

Nicholas's mind spun, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other, splintering into fragments. How? Why? His gaze snapped up, locking onto Brandon's face.

Nicholas's mouth opened, but no words came out. His body felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot as every memory, every conversation, every fleeting suspicion clicked into place.

Brandon had been there. He'd known. He'd done it. And all this time, Nicholas had been blind. So hopelessly blind. That is until the memory of his son's words from years ago rang inside his ears.

"Dad?" Brandon called softly.

"Yeah?" Nicholas replied.

"Will you always love me? No matter what?" the boy asked.

"Of course," Nicholas immediately replied.

"What if I did something bad? Something you'd be ashamed of...that you couldn't possibly forgive?" Brandon insisted.

"Nothing you could do would shame me," Nicholas stuttered, his undying love for his son seeping through his every word. "There is nothing you would do I wouldn't forgive," Nicholas professed.

"You promise?" Brandon whispered.

"I promise," Nicholas whispered back.

Brandon's lips stretched into a deviant grin. Then he rolled over and turned his back to his father.

"...Good."

(To be continued...)