See No Evil

“Are you assholes going to stand out there all day long?” a voice calls out, making us all turn to face the house at our backs, and my eyes instantly lock on the friend I had been dreading to see for the past three months.

The breath I had apparently been holding in leaves me the minute I register that Lincoln still looks like Linc.

All three of us leave our spots, walking toward the house. The closer I get to him, the clearer it becomes to me that he is far from looking like someone who’s carrying the biggest fucked-up secret. There’s no frown, nor deep lines under his eyes. No sunken cheeks from lack of eating, nor pale, clammy skin from sleep deprivation due to horror-filled nightmares. He looks like a totally different person than the one I left behind before going on vacation.

As I inspect every inch of him, I can’t pinpoint one single trace of damage on his face. Instead of the frail friend I expected to find, I’m astounded to see he looks even better than before. I see he bulked up over the summer, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, he’s also got some mad ink peeking out from under his short sleeve.

He looks good.

Too good.

If most of Asheville didn’t attend his parents’ funeral last May, then they probably wouldn’t suspect the guy in front of me as having gone through such an ordeal and loss.

Hmm.

Loss? Is loss really the right word to be used when all four of us took part in their unexpected demise? I mean, the Hamiltons weren’t exactly like a set of keys that you can just misplace or lose. You just don’t lose two people like that. Nope. Loss is the wrong fucking word in this scenario. They weren’t lost. They were killed. And everyone in Asheville believes it was a robbery gone wrong. If anyone ever discovered the truth, then the only thing that could be lost here is our freedom.

“We’re here, asshole. What the fuck was so important that couldn’t wait? Remy Peterson was pissed as hell when I had to leave her bed this morning,” Colt singsongs, wiggling his eyebrows at his cousin.

“Just come inside the house. We need to talk,” Lincoln says a bit too harshly, and just like that, my hackles rise up again.

Linc’s su

The question, though, is why does he believe he needs it in the first place?

“What’s going on, Lincoln?” Easton asks anxiously, never one to use kid gloves when facing a problem.

If I knew what Lincoln’s response would be to his question, then I would have pleaded with Easton not to open his trap, just so I could have a bit more time to prepare myself better for the fuckery ahead. Because the words that pass through Lincoln’s lips are my very worst nightmare coming to fruition.

“Someone knows.”