Chris stumbles into his living room, his steps as wobbly as the snarl on my face. It is barely 11 AM, and he is already well on the way to being drunk. I'd like to say his inebriated state is because today is the fourth anniversary of his little brother's death, but I know that isn't the case. He isn't guzzling down beer because he wants to forget; he's guzzling it because he has become his father. He is an alcoholic.

The past four years have been tough on Chris. No. Correction. The past four years have been tough on us all; Chris’s recovery is just longer than the rest of us. Brax and I have stood by his side the entire time, but nothing we say or do has helped his grief. He isn’t just angry he lost his brother; he’s mad as hell.

I can understand his anger. Michael was only four years old. He had barely lived before his life was cruelly stripped away. But shouldn’t Michael’s death encourage Chris to be a better man? Shouldn’t it stop him from following the muddy footprints our fathers’ left behind? Shouldn’t he appreciate the life Michael never got to live?

I want to say yes to all my questions, but I’ve never been fond of lying. Chris isn’t living his best life; he is living his worst. He doesn’t respect himself, much less those around him. He doesn’t even bother hiding his drug paraphernalia from me anymore. He knows the field I work in, but he also knows I care about him too much to watch him waste the prime years of his life in jail alongside his father.

God—what a fucking soft cock I've become. Just like I did my entire childhood, I am once again keeping silent. This has to stop. I need it to end.

“Do you really need another, Chris?” I ask, noticing he isn’t just clasping two beers in his hand. He has three. “Today is supposed to be about remembering Michael.” Not drinking yourself into a coma.

Chris shoots me a disapproving glare before slumping into the springless sofa shoved against the far wall of his living room. Unlike me, Chris moved out of home within weeks of us finishing school. He works as a mechanic at a local wrecking yard and has been dating a local girl the past few months. The moving out part is like honey and milk, a perfect combination. My other two statements are more like oil and water.

The wrecking yard Chris works at is owned by a notorious man in our community. His name isn't on the title, and he hasn't stepped foot on the premises since the day it opened two years ago, but everyone knows it is one of Col's many last-ditch attempts to return his wealth to its former glory.

A little under three years ago, Col faced federal charges. The list of accusations was immense: racketeering, kidnapping, money laundering, attempted murder—you name it, it was addressed during his arraignment. The prosecution was certain they had a slam dunk case.

They didn’t.

All but one remained after a yearlong trial: Col Petretti.

I followed the case with interest, not just because I am a member of the law enforcement community, but because names mentioned during the trial piqued my interest. I had associated, hated, and fought against the men cited in the charges. I even knew some of them on a more personal level.

I was also hoping to see a familiar face.

I never did. Well, not the one I was hoping for.

Although Isaac was never summoned to testify in Col’s trial, his name was mentioned numerous times by the prosecutors leading the case. I don’t know if they were using him to aid in their case or discredit it. But at the end of the day, Col walked free.

His associates weren’t as lucky. It wasn’t just their assets stripped from their possession. They also lost their freedom.

After keeping his location on the down-low for nearly a year, Col inevitably resurfaced. Unfortunately, his roots were too embedded in the Ravenshoe area to officially cut ties. At first, his dealings appeared above board, but as the months rolled on, rumors circulated.

Even though I don’t have proof, I’m certain Col is back to his old tricks. You can strip a man of every possession he owns, and he will still see himself as a king. You can even remove his heart, and he will continue functioning without it. I’m living proof of that.

“Jesus Christ, Chris,” I babble under my breath when he spills a year’s worth of cigarette butts into my lap as he grabs for the remote control. “Watch what you’re fucking doing.”

While I stand from the stained couch, Chris snarks, “Do you really need another? How can you pay the electric bill if you spend all your money at the track? Why don’t you tell me I look pretty anymore? My god—you nag more than Molly does. Blah, blah, fucking blah. No wonder Damon hit her. An old geezer who popped three blue pills only an hour ago would have difficulties keeping it hard with her voice yipping in his ear. I’m tempted to smack her just for a minute of peace.”

I glare at him, too shocked to form words. The snarky smirk on his face shows he’s trying to be playful, but it doesn’t lessen my anger in the slightest.

“I swear to God, Chris, I will turn a blind eye to your obvious obsession with a bong, and god knows what else you’re hiding with a couple of well-placed magazines, but if you ever—I mean even once—lay your hands on a woman, I will arrest you, I will haul your sorry ass to jail, and I’ll tell Bruno to ride it until you’re screaming your momma’s name for help. Do you understand me? This shit isn’t funny. Beating women isn’t funny.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Chris stabs his half-smoked cigarette directly onto the coffee table. “One, I was joking. Two, I was fucking joking. And three, don’t go acting like the stick shoved up your ass has anything to do with me. You’re not here to ‘help see me through my grief’ or even mourn the death of your father. You’re here because you don’t want to think about her.”

The tick in my jaw turns manic. I'm not fuming at the mention of my father; I'm peeved at the way he said his last word. Just like my dad, Chris hasn't said Savannah's name since the day she left. Not once. I thought he was doing that to save me the anguish. Only now am I realizing my assumptions are wrong. My dad's death was a godsend; Savannah's disappearance wasn't. She didn't just hurt me when she left; she hurt Chris and Brax as well.

“My brother died, Ryan. He is fucking dead.” The pain in Chris’s voice cuts me like a knife. “She left of her own choice. That isn’t even close to the same thing.”

I work my jaw side to side, reminding myself that I’m not interreacting with a lifelong friend and brother. I’m talking to an addict—a person who can’t see sense even when it is staring him in the face.

“This isn’t about Savannah, Chris—”

“It isn’t?” he interrupts, his short reply incapable of hiding the slur of his words. “Because this sure as fuck seems to be about her. Everything you do, every word you speak is done with her entering your mind first. You preach for me to move on, yet you sit in denial, waiting for her. You’re wasting your life as much as I’m squandering mine.” He grins a nasty smirk. “But at least I’m giving it a decent shot.”

My chest puffs when I huff out a laugh. “A decent shot? This isn’t living, Chris. Drinking yourself into an early grave isn’t living.”

He stands from his chair, swaying like a leaf in a hot summer breeze. "How many times did you read her letter today, Ry?" he asks, not even attempting to deny my accusation. "How many times have you read it in the past week, month, fucking year?"

I feign ignorance, pretending I don't have a clue what he is talking about. My acting skills are as hopeless as Chris's promise to quit drinking last month. We're both shit. I read Savannah's letter a minimum once a day, as it is the only reminder I have that she existed.

I have access to the best tracking equipment in the country, and I still haven't located a single reference on a Savannah Fontane her age and description the past four years. I even searched for her father, confident his extensive medical bills would leave a trail of crumbs for me to follow. They didn't. It is as if they never existed. They vanished without a trace.

I don’t know if I’ve spent the last four years in grief or denial. It is probably a bit of both. I am also angry. Not just at Savannah, but myself as well. I shouldn’t have lied. Her disappearance is my punishment for breaking a promise I swore I’d never break. I took her choices away from her. In my eyes, that makes me as bad as Axel.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when I spot Chris prowling toward me like he always does when he plans to use his height to his advantage.

“Chris. . . don’t!” I warn, my voice one I generally reserve for when I’m on the clock.

Chris is a few inches taller than me, and a couple of inches wider, but with my mood the worst it’s ever been, I’m not in the right mind frame to wrestle a drunken idiot who thinks we’re still in high school.

“Not today, Chris. I can’t handle your shit today.”

Today isn't just the anniversary of Chris's brother's death; it is also four years to the day my brother killed my father, meaning in only a few hours, it will also be four years to the day I last saw Savannah. Four years to the day I broke her heart into a million pieces. And four years to the day she returned the heartache with a letter I've read a million times since.

She never said she was coming back, but she never said she’d stay away forever either. One day she will come home. One day soon. I hope.

Chris saw my lips move, but he didn’t hear a word I spoke. His focus is locked on his target, and he won’t stop until he gets it.

“It’s not your letter; it’s mine,” I snarl, praying he will stand down before our words are replaced with fists.

Chris has always had a playful edge to him, but it has become more aggressive since Michael’s death. “Bullshit,” he shouts, his voice rumbling through the shambles he calls home. “Savannah was part of our group long before she was yours. That means her goodbye letter doesn’t just belong to you. It belongs to all of us.”

Some of what he is saying is true. Savannah didn’t address her parting letter, but the signature reveals whom she intended her recipient to be: me.

“Let me read it, Ryan. I want to see what it says,” Chris asks, holding out his hand palm side up.

I shake my head. It’s all I have left of her. I’m not going to risk handing it to a drunk. The paper has already thinned significantly the past four years; imagine how much worse it will be with additional grubby mitts on it?

"I told you what it says; you don't need to read it." My voice is lower than Chris's, and less arrogant as well.

“I want to read it myself. I want to read what she wrote about me with my own two eyes." I swear, he sounds like a twelve-year-old boy having a tantrum because the ice-creamery ran out of sprinkles.

When he charges for me, I push him away, accidentally shoving him into the coffee table. Numerous empty bottles of bourbon join his ashtray on the floor when he lands on his backside with a thud. Even without a heart, my intuition remains spot on. He isn’t just hiding an addiction to marijuana from me; his drug usage goes way beyond an occasional joint.

"Fuck, Chris. What the fuck are you doing with your life?" I ask, stepping closer to him as my eyes absorb the numerous baggies filled with white powder, a burnt spoon, and a crack pipe.

I'm so torn. I feel bad for shoving him, but I'm so angry he is throwing his life away like this, I want to push him for the second time. Chris has always been a mischief maker. If there was trouble to be found, you could be sure he was first on scene. But this extends beyond recreational drug usage to forget a shit week. This isn't an addiction. It is a life sentence to a miserably bleak existence. I know this all too well, as it is the exact path my brother is traveling.

“Why are you doing this, Chris? I know you lost your brother. I know you’re hurting, but this shit won’t solve anything. You can’t bring Michael back. He is gone. He’s dead. He can’t come back from that. But you can, Chris. You can live a life worthy for you both.”

The anger in Chris’s eyes switches to panic when I grab the bags of powder from his coffee table and storm into his bathroom.

“No, Ryan. No!” he screams, following after me. His cries remind me of the ones he howled when I told him Michael had died.

“I won’t let you follow in your dad footsteps, Chris. You deserve more than the life of an addict.”

Using his thick, long arms, Chris wraps me up in a bear hug. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He isn’t holding me for comfort. He is using his body weight to stop me from flushing his drugs down the toilet. “My dad is a brilliant man. He had a great life.”

“Was a brilliant man, Chris. Was. Until alcohol took everything away from him. He killed your brother. He did that. Not your brother who asked for a ride. Not the driver of the van who was found not to be at fault. He did it! Your father killed Michael.”

“No! No!” Chris shrieks on repeat.

I don’t know if his screams are because he doesn’t want to hear the truth, or because I’ve just flushed over six ounces of drugs down the toilet.

I realize it is the latter when he snarls, “Why the fuck would you do that, Ryan? What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how much that shit costs?”

He drops to his knees bowl-side, seeking any evidence of drugs in the circling water. The manic pulse of the vein in his neck grows when the cistern stops flushing, revealing not a single particle of white dust.

“That was my freedom! My way out! I don’t want to live like you, miserable and fucked up over a woman who left your sorry ass.”

Before I can stammer that being a drug addict isn’t living, Chris continues his obnoxious rant, “Savannah fucking left you, Ryan. She left you. How about you go deal with those facts before fucking with other people’s lives?”

"I'm fucking with your life?" I bang my fist on my chest, increasing the wild thump of my heart. "I saved your life! Me. I did that. Not that pathetic man sitting in jail for getting behind the wheel intoxicated with his four-year-old son in the back seat. Me!"

Chris rises from his crouched position and fists the scruff of my shirt before I complete an entire blink. His stability is so off-balance, we crash into the wall in the far right corner. My body doesn’t register the discomfort of the towel rack digging into my back; my brain is too busy processing the agony in his eyes to register something as weak as pain.

“Take it back,” Chris roars, his alcohol-laced breath hitting my face. “Take back every word you just said about my dad, or I’ll smash your teeth into next week.”

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I'm sick of you defending people who don't deserve your sympathy. I get it, I do. I understand why you want to protect them, but there comes a point in your life where you have to realize some people aren't worth saving. Your dad isn't worth it, Chris, and neither is your mother. She is an abusive, manipulating, two-headed bitch who treats your brother like scum. And your father. . . your father. . . he's not even your fucking father."

The instant the words leave my mouth, I want to ram them back in there. I didn’t mean to say my last sentence. I was angry and upset and saying things I should never say. God, I hope Chris didn’t hear my last sentence. Please let this be one of the many times his addiction has him mistaking my words. I don’t want him to find out like this. He doesn’t deserve to find out like this. Not today. Not on the anniversary of his brother’s death.

My silent pleas go unanswered.

“Chris. . .” I barely whisper when he releases my collar from his fists.

“Chris,” I repeat when he turns on his heels and stalks to the other side of his living room.

"Chris?" I question in confusion when he snatches his keys from an entranceway table covered with empty beer cans and over-stacked ashtrays.

“Chris!” I shout when he charges out of his home like he has a missile strapped to his back.

When the loud growl of his engine rumbles through my heaving chest, I push off my feet. I make it into the passenger seat of his car by the skin of my teeth. His anger is so white hot, I doubt he knows I am sitting next to him. His focus remains on one thing and one thing only—seeking clarification to the secret I just exposed.

We travel across Ravenshoe at a record-setting pace. Remarkedly, Chris’s intoxication doesn’t hinder his driving ability. His skills are as hair-raising as ever.

Dust billows around us when he takes the dirt track of his parents’ property at the same speed he did the gravel road. We come to a stop mere inches from a side entrance hidden by large hedges. Chris's perfect parking is compliments of him yanking on the parking brake at the same time he spun the steering wheel.

"I didn't mean what I said. I was talking smack."

Chris ignores my pledge like he did the half dozen I issued during our five minute trip. He knows me well enough to know I am lying. It is what makes as brothers as much as it makes us friends. I should have told him what the coroner’s report said years ago. I wanted to, but ethically, I couldn’t. His father pled guilty, so the dispute in paternity was never made public. Neither Chris nor Michael are Trevor’s sons. They bear his last name, but only Noah carries his bloodline.

Usually, paternity doesn't rise in cases involving family, but something Regina heard in the seconds leading to me fleeing the hospital four years ago altered the perspective. The DA wondered if the accident was indeed an accident, or if Trevor was seeking revenge for the lies his wife had told.

One look into Trevor's devasted eyes answered the DA's questions without a word spilling from Regina's lips. He didn't kill Michael for revenge. He didn't even know he wasn't his son until Regina visited him the week after the accident. He was as blindsided by our findings as Chris is now.

My heart races at the same frantic pace Chris is charging through his childhood home, shouting his mother's name on repeat. My eyes go crazy as I chase after him. This is the first time I've been in his home. I wish it were under better circumstances.

I stop taking in the raked ceiling and polished marble floor when we enter a kitchen bigger than the lower level of my home. I thought Chris's family was as poor as mine. I had no clue he lived in such opulence. This house isn't as large as Savannah's family mansion, but it has a regal feel that makes it seem more like a castle than a residence.

“Is it true?” Chris asks, storming to his mother.

I linger to the side when I notice his mother’s face doesn’t hold the same disdain it did when she greeted Noah years ago. She has love in her eyes, not hate.

My gaze snaps up from the floor when Chris yells, “Are you abusing Noah?”

His mother startles, as shocked as me. I thought he was coming here to seek answers about his paternity. I had no clue he was here for Noah.

"You promised it was the only time! You said it was part of your grief!" Chris yells when she fails to answer his question promptly. "How many times do I have to tell you, Noah isn’t to blame for what happened to Michael, Mom. He was just a kid. He is still a kid.”

“He’s his son—”

“He’s your son too!” Chris interrupts, his anger growing. “You’re the one who had him when Grumpies raised suspicion on my birthright You wanted to sink your hooks into Trevor’s inheritance. Noah gave you a hook.” He waves his hands around the state of the art kitchen. “Noah gave you this. If Dad didn’t have a true heir, you would have never inherited Grumpies’ house.”

“He took my son! He killed him,” Chris’s mother argues with tears streaming down her face.

“No, he didn’t,” Chris denies, shaking his head. “Your husband did that. Your ticket to easy street killed Michael. Noah didn’t do anything wrong.” He stares down at his mother, his head shaking as much as his body. “I’m telling Noah the truth. He deserves to know the truth.”

“No,” Chris’s mom fights back, grabbing his arm when he pivots away from her. “You said you’d take your secret to the grave. You promised to keep my secret—”

“I promised to protect a woman who lost her son. I didn’t agree to watch my brother suffer. This is wrong, Mom. What you are doing to Noah is wrong.”

Chris’s trek through his family home is faster than his first. The room he wants is only a few feet from the kitchen, the smallest room in the house. It appears to be an old maid’s sleeping quarters.

The color heating Chris’s cheeks drains to the sole of his shoes when he walks into the barren space. Other than a dirty mattress sitting in one corner, the room is completely bare.

His mother blubbers out a string of incoherent words, no doubt a lengthy plea about the reason her teenage son’s room resembles one you’d expect to see in a crack house despite the rest of the house being furnished with priceless antiques and modern appliances. Nothing she is saying makes any sense, but Chris doesn’t need to hear her words for the truth to smack him in the face.

“Chris!” I shout when his open hand connects harshly with his mother’s right cheek.

Anger reddens Chris’s face as he tries to articulate the million thoughts running through his eyes, but not a word seeps from his lips.

“You’re a liar and a cheat, and I’m ashamed to call you my mother,” he eventually settles on.

When he exits Noah’s bedroom, it takes me a few seconds to follow after him. I’m too stunned to force my legs to move. He hit a woman right in front of me, but instead of arresting him as I had warned, I nearly cheered him on.

Fuck. Am I becoming my father?