It’s hard to comprehend that. The difference a few minutes can make, how they can literally be the difference between life and death.
I try not to think about it too hard, actually, because it hurts my heart even to imagine it.
Chase cracks a smile, his bright grin shining through all the pain meds he’s doped up on. “Bigger asshole.”
He lifts one finger to point at Dax, and Dax grabs his hand, squeezing tight as his jaw clenches, his expression torn between amusement, relief, and lingering pain and fear.
Dax’s right arm is bound up in a sling. His injury was less life-threatening, but he won’t be able to use that arm for a while. Everyone else—including me—got away with pretty minor scrapes and bruises.
Well, I have a mild concussion, but it honestly feels like nothing at the moment.
A nurse pokes her head into the room. “Excuse me. The police would like to speak with the four of you.” She steps inside, glancing at Chase as she pulls down his chart. “And Doctor Campbell will be here in just a moment to check on you.”
Dax grips Chase’s hand tighter, looking like someone will have to physically pry him away from his brother’s side, but Chase shakes his head, his eyes still a little glazed and his voice scratchy.
“Dude. Go.” His gaze flicks to Linc, River, and me. Lincoln has his arms around me, holding onto me with my back to his front, and River’s fingers are interlaced with mine. “They need you.”
Intense emotion burns in Dax’s sea-green eyes, and he bends down to press his forehead against Chase’s, closing his eyes for a moment. I can see the boy in the bed visibly relax, as if his brother’s nearness is doing more to soothe him than all the pain meds in the world.
When Dax finally pulls back, I step out of Linc’s embrace to lean over the bed too, smoothing my hand over Chase’s soft, coppery hair.
“I love you,” I whisper, because it’s true, and I’m going to make sure he hears it every day.
A heartbreakingly soft smile spreads across his face, and his eyes clear a little as he looks up at me, our faces only a foot apart. “That’s good. Because I love you too.”
I drop my head to kiss him, pressing my lips to his like I’m sealing something. A vow, maybe.
The nurse stands nearby as she flips through his chart, but I catch her looking at us with a small smile on her face—and she doesn’t bat an eye when I step away from Chase and am immediately enfolded in Lincoln’s arms again, or when Dax rounds the bed and takes my hand before we turn to leave.
I glance back at her once more as we head out. Instead of the slightly confused, searching expression I’ve seen on most people’s faces when they see me with the guys, her smile has only grown.
I guess not everybody thinks it’s shocking.
The guys’ parents all showed up at the hospital shortly after we got here, notified by the ER staff that their sons had been brought in. Mr. and Mrs. Lauder, who’ve never seemed that concerned one way or another about what the twins do, looked anxious and pale as they waited for Chase and Dax to get out of surgery. I hope this makes them rethink the way they’ve treated their kids and realize how much they’ve taken the two amazing boys they brought into this world for granted.
The Lauders, Bettencourts, and Blacks are all in the waiting room with the police officers, and when we arrive, everyone is ushered into a large meeting room. The kings and I sit on one side of a long table with the cops on the other, and the boys’ parents gather around us. I feel a twinge of sadness when I realize that the only parent missing is mine—and I wonder if she even knows what’s happened.
“All right. Let’s start from the beginning. How did you four know Alexander Hollowell?”
The officer in charge, who introduced himself as James Morgan, leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, his fingers laced together.
The guys and I look at each other, and then we begin to speak. The story comes out slowly at first, because none of us know quite where to start. But when we get to the part about Iris’s death, about seeing the man in the black mask slid out of his car and check her still form before speeding away, Officer Morgan holds up a finger to stop us.
“Give us a few moments, please.”
We take a short break, and when we reconvene fifteen minutes later, there’s a new person in the room. Detective Dunagan takes a seat next to Morgan, his eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze lands on me.
“Didn’t we have an appointment to chat earlier today, Miss Thomas?”
I nod, a little shell-shocked at his presence. “Yeah. Sorry. I—I couldn’t make it.”
“I see.” He doesn’t comment on it further, just flips open his notebook and leans back, waiting for our story to continue.
So we start again.
We go back to the beginning, but this time it flows easier. The boys and I trade off speaking, picking up threads someone else dropped and filling in blank spaces to create the most complete picture possible. The story, the surreal situation that has overtaken my life for the past several months, sounds crazy when we say it all out loud like this. But no one in the room laughs at us or tells us to stop making shit up. I guess the carnage at Judge Hollowell’s house lends credence to our words.
Those bodies got there somehow, and as we lay out the chain of events that led up to it, I can feel Detective Dunagan watching us with intense focus.
When we get to the part about how Niles D’Amato and his men forced us to accompany them to Hollowell’s house to
