“He’s not here,” I assure Chris when his manic search of his family home fails to find Noah. “He rarely stays here anymore.”

Chris’s chest reveals his exhaustion, rising and falling at double the rate of mine. I want to pretend his fatigue is merely from scanning every room in his massive home, but the width of his pupils reveals that isn’t the case. He is gasping in breaths with the hope it will ease the guilt sitting heavy on his chest.

How do I know this?

He has the same look on his face I did when I searched Savannah's family mansion four years ago. First, he was panicked. Then, he was angry. Now, he is confused. I tackled every emotion you could imagine the day Savannah left. I was so confident foul play was involved, I called Regina the instant I entered Thorn's empty room.

It was only when Regina stumbled upon Savannah’s letter tucked into a copy of the first romance book she read did reality dawn. For the first time in my life, my acting skills were above par. Savannah believed every lie I spoke. She thought I had moved on.

She had left me.

Shaking my head to rid it of disturbing thoughts, I return my focus to Chris. Today isn't about Savannah. It is about Chris.

“Noah lives with his friend Jacob.” I keep my tone low, hoping my confession that I’ve been keeping an eye on his brother doesn’t re-spark his agitation.

I’m not watching Noah from afar because of my job. I watch him because the slap I witnessed him endure four years ago wasn’t the only one I’ve seen. Noah’s mom is a female version of my dad; she just abuses her teenage son instead of her partner. In a way, that makes her worse than my father. Children are innocent, no matter what.

“He’s with Jacob?” Chris asks, his voice unlike any I’ve heard. He sounds lost, void of a soul.

Unable to speak, I nod my head.

“How long?”

I lick my dry lips before replying, “Permanently, a couple of months. But he’s been back and forth for years.”

“Good,” Chris huffs out in a groan, his eyes fixated on someone behind my shoulder. “He’s better off there.”

Snubbing his mom’s request to sit down and talk, he exits his family estate with as much gusto as he entered it. After dipping my chin in farewell to his mother, I follow after him. It is times like today I wish I were a vindictive person. She doesn’t deserve my courtesy, but I can’t stop myself from issuing it.

Our drive back to Chris’s desolate house in the middle of Ravenshoe is made in silence. I have a million questions I want to ask and another million I want to answer, but easing his anguish is more important than settling my curiosity, so I keep my mouth shut.

I know from the stories Chris shared over the years that the man he mentioned when confronting his mother is his grandfather. Chris said although his infamous nickname was given in jest, the title suited him well. He was grumpy, but in a way Chris couldn’t help but admire. . . and emulate him. Even without having a drop of the same blood, Chris’s personality mirrors his father’s old man.

I stare down at my hands, wondering how long Chris has known Trevor isn't his father. Was it something he's always been aware of but never shared? Or was it only just unearthed? Is it the cause of his addiction? Or merely another piece of shit added to the pile he's been accumulating the past few years?

A couple of years ago, I would have only needed to look into Chris’s eyes to seek answers to my questions. Today, I am stumped. Chris has never been family-oriented, but up until four years ago, that didn’t extend to Brax and me. Things changed when Michael died. The stronger Chris’s grief became, the more he pulled away from us. He is still the same mischievous man he’s always been, just a watered-down, heartbroken version. Kind of like me.

My eyes drift from my hands to Chris when he says, “That house you saw—that big ugly pile of bricks and mortar my mom puts above anyone—she doesn’t even own it.” He chuckles. It is a painful, tormented laugh.

“My mom kissed Grumpies’ ass for years, and what did she get for it? Nothing. Not a single fucking thing.”

He turns his pained eyes to me. "I'm not even his grandson, yet he still left me one-third of his estate. An even share. Everything he owned was divided between Michael, Noah and me."

He shakes his head while looking at the clapboard home he is pulling his rusty, beat-up sedan in front of. “I live in this shithole while my name is on the deed of a property with a greater land value than I’ll earn in a decade.”

“Then do something about it. Have her evicted,” I encourage. No parent should suffer the loss of a child, but Chris’s mom is milking it for all it’s worth. She didn’t grieve her youngest son; she plotted how she could benefit from his death.

Chris purses his lips. “I considered it when I saw her strike Noah after Michael’s funeral. I even contacted a lawyer about it. But she had just lost her son. . . She was grieving. I couldn’t kick her out. She had nowhere to go.”

His eyes reveal his hesitation. “She also promised it was the first and last time she’d ever strike Noah.” I hear the rattle of his heart when he asks, “It wasn’t, was it?”

I want to save him the pain, but I also don’t want to lie, so I shake my head. Chris’s face scrunches up as he struggles to compose himself. He does a good job. If it weren’t for the pained moan simpering from his lips, I’d be none the wiser to the anguish swallowing him whole.

“You can fix this, Chris,” I assure him.

“How?” he asks, his short reply incapable of hiding his torment.

“We’ll. . . Brax and I. . .you’ll. . .” Come on brain, now is not the time to fuck up. “We’ll always be here for you, Chris. Brax and I will always have your back.”

He barely swallows a sob. “And what about Noah? Who has his back?”

"You do." When the absolute agony in his eyes doubles, I stumble out, "And me. He'll have me as well. You're my brother, Chris. That means Noah is as well."

He wipes the contents from his nose onto his long-sleeve shirt before muttering, “You’ll look after Noah? Treat him like your brother?”

I nod. “Yes. Always.”

“Okay,” he replies, copying my half-hearted nod. “Alright. Good.”

I eye him with caution when he undoes his seatbelt and clambers out of his car. Although we’ve been at odds most of the day, now it feels ten times stranger. I want to say his lukewarm response to my pledge is normal, but there is a weird feeling twisting my stomach, warning me to remain cautious.

I stop shadowing Chris up the cracked sidewalk when the rumble of a motorbike sounds through my ears. Air whizzes out of my parted lips when I spot Brax’s Harley gliding down the street. My response is one a man hiding from insurgents would give when spotting a Boeing XE-15 bomber in the sky. I am relieved beyond belief.

The cavalry has arrived, but instead of being strapped with AK47s and nuclear bombs, his saddlebags are loaded with Chris's favorite whiskey and spicy buffalo wings.

“Has he been like this all day?” Brax asks, dumping a dozen empty bottles of beer into the trash can at the side of Chris’s house.

I follow the direction of his gaze. “Yeah. Other than an unexpected trip to visit his mother’s house, he’s been sitting on that couch all day,” I reply, peering at Chris through the torn lace curtain of his living room.

Feeling our inconspicuous gawk, Chris lifts and locks his eyes with us. The accuracy of his stare is shocking. He didn't even scan his surroundings. I want to say the past ten hours has cleared the angst from his eyes, but unfortunately, that isn’t the case. They appear as lost now than they were earlier today. If only I could read him as well as I can Brax, then I'd have an idea what is going on in that head of his. He keeps his emotions as tightly locked as a bank vault. He is impossible to crack.

Incapable of returning Chris’s haunted stare for a moment longer, I return my eyes to Brax. “Did he tell you what happened this morning?”

Brax scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Somewhat? He didn’t really make any sense. He mentioned something about a house belonging to Noah? And that he’s got a plan to make things right.” You can see the confusion on his face. “Other than that, he slurred the rest of his words.”

Brax’s tongue delves out to replenish his dry lips while he contemplates how to ask, “Is he only intoxicated?”

I freeze for barely a second, but it is long enough for Brax to see the truth in my eyes. He can read me as well as I can him.

“Fuck. . . What’s he on?”

I shrug. “I didn’t get a good look at it before I flushed it down the toilet.”

Air puffs from Brax’s nostrils. “You flushed his stash down the toilet?”

I glare at him, stunned by the humor in his voice. Now is not the time for laughing.

"Come on, Ryan, don't give me that face. I know what today is. I know what he's been through, but it's also been four years. His grief should be easing, not getting worse," Brax says, his voice more mature than his twenty-two years. "You've gone through just as much shit, but you're not walking the same path Chris is."

“This is different—”

"How?" Brax asks with raised brows. "His dad was an alcoholic. Your dad was an alcoholic. His mother is fucked in the head. Your mother is fucked in the head. He lost his brother. You pretty much lost yours. You are two men dealing with the same shit, but you got up and dusted off your shoulders. Chris hasn't even attempted to move past the first stage of grief."

“We can’t force him to move on—”

“Why?” Brax interrupts again, his voice not malicious or rude. He is genuinely confused.

“Because that’s not how grief works. Just because you’re told you shouldn’t miss someone doesn’t mean you don’t. There is no suitable timeframe to overcome the loss of a loved one. For some, it can take months. For others, it is years.” For fools like me, it could be eternity.

I grow uneasy I said my last sentence out loud when the worry on Brax’s face doubles. It is only when I notice his focus is on something behind my shoulder do I take another breath.

“What is it. . .?”

My words trail off when I notice the sofa Chris has been occupying the past ten hours is void of his backside. I'm not going to lie; I'm surprised he can walk. My dad's veins pumped more alcohol than they did blood and even he would have had a hard time functioning after the copious amount of scotch Chris consumed this evening.

“He’s probably just hitting the can,” Brax surmises. “I’d rather him use the bathroom than make the mess he did last year. I swear I can still smell his piss in my carpet.”

“Yeah, probably,” I reply, struggling to ignore the knot in my stomach.

“Ryan. . .” Brax warns in a low growl when I push off my feet and head back into Chris’s house. “If he thinks you’re babying him. . .”

He stops talking when he hears flowing water.

“He’s taking a shower?” Nothing but shock resonates in his tone. One of the first things Chris abandoned when Michael died was his showering regime.

“Chris? You alright?” I ask, racking my knuckles on the bathroom door.

When he fails to answer me, I rattle the doorknob. It’s locked.

“Chris!” Brax shouts, ensuring his deep timbre is heard over the heavy flow of water. “Did you pass out again? I told you not to have that last shot. You’re such a soft cock.”

My heart thumps against my ribs when Chris fails to respond to Brax’s rile. That isn’t like him at all. It doesn’t matter if he is as drunk as a sailor on shore leave, if Brax is stirring the pot, Chris adds more spice. Brax knows this, which is why he used it as a tactic to coerce him out of the bathroom.

“Go grab the crowbar out of my patrol car,” I advise Brax before pushing my ear against the door to seek any signs of life.

If Chris has passed out, I hope he is on his side. I don't want him choking on his vomit like he nearly did on his twenty-first almost a year ago.

“What do you want with a crowbar?” Brax asks, half-chuckling, half-confused. “Gonna knock some sense into him?”

“Just go get the fucking crowbar,” I snarl, my voice void of the humor Brax’s has.

Can’t he feel the tension in the air? It is so thick, it’s nearly suffocating me.

While Brax races to my patrol car parked half a block down, I continue coercing Chris out of the bathroom. “You know Molly will be pissed if you use all the hot water again.”

I rattle the doorknob for the second time, praying the lock will give out to the force of my spin. Unfortunately, it is one of those industrial-sized locks that barely wobbles when a size thirteen boot kicks it.

"Come on, Chris. It's been a long ass day, and I'm not up for more antics. We're all tired. How about we call it a night?" If he thinks I’m a nag, he’s about to be taught a hard lesson.

“Brax is into your private magazine stash. He’s gonna color in all the centerfolds again. . .”

My words trail off when a coolness hits my feet. It is wet and sloshy.

Bile surges to the back of my throat when I drop my gaze. Water is seeping under the bathroom door, soaking the shaggy green carpet under my bare feet.

“Chris!” I scream, banging my fists furiously on the door.

When he fails to answer me, I take a step back. Pain rockets up my leg when I slam my foot into the strip of titanium separating us, but I continue kicking down the door, only stopping once the solid paneled wood fragments at my feet.

My panic surges to an all-time high when my eyes lock in on the cause for the overflowing water. Chris is slumped in the bathtub. He has a needle stuck in a vein in his arm.

“No, Chris. No. No. No. No,” I mutter on repeat, racing into the room.

Hooking my arm around his torso, I drag him out of the bathtub. The water seeping into his clothes makes him triple the weight he usually is.

“R-ry. . .” he barely whispers when I lay him on the slippery floor.

“I’m right here. Just stay with me, okay?” I answer while tugging the needle out of his arm and loosening the plastic hose wrapped around his bicep. “What did you take, Chris? Was it heroin? Cocaine? How much did you take?”

“N-N-Noah.”

He’s not stammering from the whiskey he's been guzzling down all day but from the big shakes hampering his body. The water in the bath was freezing, nearly as low as his body temperature.

“P-p-promise me, Ry. Promise me you’ll look after him.”

I shake my head. I’m not promising him that. If I promise him that, he won’t fight. He’ll give up like everyone has given up on him the past four years. I won’t do it. I’m not giving up on him.

"Noah needs you, Chris. He doesn't want me helping him. He wants you," I reply while grabbing every towel in the vicinity to wrap around his body. If I don't get his body temp up, he could go to hypothermic shock. "I need to know what you took and how much. Was it heroin? Did you take heroin?"

I slap his cheek with the back of my hand, returning his focus to me when his glassy eyes stare into space. “Tell me what you took, Chris. Tell me, then I’ll promise.”

Chris locks his light brown eyes with mine. I can see the hope in them. “H-h-he—”

“You took heroin?” I fill in, my voice as shaky as my hands.

When Chris nods, I ask, “How much? How much did you shoot up?”

Chris has a decent build, but if his drug of choice the past few months has been heroin, there is no guarantee how his body will react. Long-term drug users are more at risk of overdosing than first-time users, as their bodies are already weak from prolonged use.

“P-p-promise me, Ry,” Chris begs with tears welling in his eyes.

I shake my head once more. "No. Then you'll give up. I'm not letting you give up! If you want to help Noah, you have to stay with me. You have to fight."

“P-promise. Y-you said you’d promise.” I swear I can see the life in his eyes fade with every syllable he utters.

I curl my shuddering hands around his blue-tinged jaw. "Don't make me do this, Chris. Please don't make me do this."

I don’t bother clearing the tears filling my eyes. Maybe if he sees how devasted I am, he’ll fight harder.

"P-p-promise," he begs, his words garbling in his exhausted state. "P-please, Ry. Please.” His last word is barely a whisper.

It takes me three attempts to force two minor words out of my mouth, and even then, they are strangled by a sob. "I promise."

I stop watching a tear careening down Chris’s bluish cheek when the scuffling of feet booms into my ears. I’m shocked I can hear anything, much less the stomp of Brax’s bare feet. My pulse is roaring through my body so hard, I feel like I’m submerged in three thousand feet of water.

"Jesus Christ. I thought you flushed his drugs?" Brax mutters, freezing halfway into the bathroom. He has a crowbar in one hand and his riding boots in another. Apparently, he was planning to kick down the door if the crowbar was ineffective.

“I did. Well, I thought I did. He must have had a hidden stash,” I reply, my tone partially frustrated but mostly devastated.

My panic grows when Chris's body convulses against the drugs in his system. His eyes roll into the back of his head as his hands clamp into fists.

“Call an ambulance. He’s overdosing.”

My request has only just left my lips when Brax charges out of the bathroom.

“My cell is on the kitchen counter,” I shout when I hear him rummaging through the hundreds of car magazines covering Chris’s coffee table.

While he stomps to the kitchen, I grind my knuckles over Chris’s sternum, striving to get a response from him. “Come on, Chris,” I beg when he fails to respond.

My breathing comes out in ragged pants when I lower my ear to count his exhalations—they are far and few between.

“God, Chris, don’t do this to me. Not today.”

After removing the towel I placed under his head, I tilt his head back, plug his nose, then seal my lips over his. I breathe into his mouth two times, supplementing the air his fritzing brain can’t command his body to take.

My eyes drop to his chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. It doesn’t.

“No, Chris. Come on.”

I return my ear to his mouth. He is no longer breathing.

“Brax!” I scream, alerting him to my worry. “Advise first responders he’s going into coronary failure. He’s not breathing, and he doesn’t have a pulse.”

As I rip off the towels I just placed on Chris to keep him warm, Brax relays an update to the emergency responders on the other end of the line.

"One. . . Two. . . Three. . . Four. . ." I compress his chest in the same rhythm I did to Savannah years ago while striving to ignore the horrible memories resurfacing. "Five. . . Six. . . Seven. . . Eight. . . Come on, Chris." I increase the pressure of my pumps, finally recognizing that hurting someone to save them is okay. "Don't do this to us, Chris. We can't be the three musketeers without a third man."

After announcing the paramedics are on their way, Brax falls to his knees next to me. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do.” His voice is as panicked as mine was when I pulled Savannah from her watery grave.

“When I reach thirty, blow air into his mouth two times.”

My words are as foggy as my brain. I feel like I’m watching the entire charade from above, as if I’m dreaming. This doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. Life can’t be so cruel that I have the lives of two of my best friends in my hands within years of each other.

“Twenty-nine. . . Thirty.”

Brax does precisely as instructed. Chris's chest rises and falls in rhythm to Brax's breaths, but his pulse remains flatlined.

“What now?” Brax asks, his voice riddled with so much panic he sounds like a pubescent teen.

“We keep going until the paramedics arrive. We don’t stop. We never stop. He’s going to pull through. He won’t do this to us.” He won’t do this to me.

Anguish clouds Brax’s eyes before he faintly nods his head.

“One. . . Two. . . Three. . .”

I don't know how long it takes the first responders to arrive. It is long enough for my worry to switch to anger, but not long enough for me to give up on Chris just yet. I don't know who I am angrier at: Chris for placing me in this predicament, or myself for leaving him unattended for even a minute today. I didn't visit him from sunup to sundown on this exact day every year the past four years for no reason.

Chris will never admit it, but he has suffered from depression a majority of his life. I only realized his diagnosis during my six months at the academy. The psychological training was as intense as the physical. Chris's depression is the reason he always takes risks or causes trouble. He doesn't feel as if he is living unless he is surrounded by havoc or chasing his next hit.

For years, I thought his drug of choice was adrenaline. Now I realize I was way off the mark. But he’ll be okay. He’ll pull through this. Just like Savannah, I kept his heart pumping. When the first responders shock him with the defibrillator, he’ll be right as rain—right?

Right.

Then why is this horrible feeling twisting my stomach?

“Charge again,” the male paramedic advises the female medic kneeling next to the defibrillator that just shocked Chris for the third time.

Nodding, she does as instructed.

Four sets of eyes stare at the graph, waiting for the inevitable dip and fall that should follow Chris’s heart being zapped with electricity for the fourth time.

It doesn’t come. It remains in one straight line.

“Do it again,” I demand when they eye each other with reservation. “Shock him again.”

The male paramedic shakes his head. "We can't. He's been shocked too many times. I'm sorry, but your friend is gone."

“No!” I argue, shaking my head like I’m psychotic. “Do it again. He’s just tired; he needs an extra boost.”

When they ignore my request, I scoot across the tiled floor, not the least bit concerned the water from the tub is seeping into my clothes. “Shock him again.”

I stab the charge button of the device, preparing to zap Chris myself if they deny my request once more.

The female paramedic yanks the defibrillator out of my grasp. "We've done everything we can do. We administered naloxone twice; we've worked on him for over forty minutes. He's gone."

“No,” I deny, not wanting to acknowledge the honesty in her words.

Acting like I can’t feel three sets of eyes staring at me with sympathy, I restart my compressions on Chris’s chest. “Come on, Chris. Come on. You’ve got this. You’re just playing. You’re always playing.”

When I reach fifteen compressions, I lift my eyes to the female paramedic, requesting she squeeze the bag of air sealed over Chris's mouth.

"Please,” I beg. "He just needs a little longer. Don't you, Chris? You're always the difficult one, rocking up late and causing havoc."

I scrub my knuckles over his sternum again, praying he will move, moan, yell at me for nagging. He does nothing. Not a single thing.

I gave him my word, and he gave up.

This is all my fault.