CAPSIZE | BOOK II (Rafe Cameron)

9.

The silence in the house hung thick, like grief itself, raw and festering. I stood at the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the sky streaked with bruising purples and fiery oranges. It should have been beautiful, but it wasn't. Out there, life went on—oblivious, uncaring. Inside these four walls, everything was coming apart.

John B. had been arrested.

But it wasn't Rafe who'd tipped off the police, I reminded myself. Not directly. He had listened, tried, I wanted to believe that. I had to believe it. But the truth tasted bitter, a sour tang that lingered in the back of my throat.

Ward Cameron had set everything in motion, pulling the strings to ensure John B. would be dragged through the mud, his name permanently stained. The charges—two counts of first-degree murder—were a lie. The real killers, Rafe and Ward, remained untouchable, hidden behind their walls of power. Who would ever believe it, though?

The courtroom had been a circus. I could still feel the dissonance between the truth I knew and the lies that were being spun. The evidence against John B. was paper-thin, circumstantial at best. But Ward's influence was everywhere—like a shadow, stretching long and dark, tainting every corner. It was a game to him, a sickening one, and we were all just pawns.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the images away—the courtroom, the people, the whispers. Even after Rafe's promises, I couldn't shake the taste of betrayal. He'd promised to change, but how could I believe that? His father was the puppet master. And we were all tangled in their strings.

I turned from the window, legs shaky as I made my way to the bed, collapsing onto it with a groan. The room felt suffocating. I buried my face in my hands. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be anywhere.

I had returned home after days away, and I knew from the moment I stepped through the door that things were about to unravel. My mom's anger had been sharp at first, but it had faded, replaced by an all-consuming sadness. Grief filled the space between us, thick and suffocating, as if she were reliving my father's death all over again.

They had caught my father's killer, or so they said. The anchor's voice droned on, my father's name flashing on the screen, just another headline. I knew the truth—John B. wasn't a killer. My friends knew it. But it didn't matter. Not when the system had been rigged from the start.

At the courthouse, I couldn't look at my friends. Not with everything between us so fragile, so broken. Not when I was drowning in my own mess. A mess I had made. I couldn't face them, not after everything that had happened with Rafe. I could barely face myself.

Their eyes burned into me, unspoken questions hanging in the air. But I couldn't return their gaze. Instead, I fixed my eyes on the stand—on the accused, the one who was supposed to be guilty, but wasn't.

My father's name echoed in the courtroom like a ghost—fading, meaningless. I couldn't even feel it anymore.

The hearing ended too quickly. My mother pulled me from the courthouse without a word, ushering me out of the building as the crowd cheered for "justice." But I knew it wasn't justice. It was a lie, a foreign nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

Back home, alone in my room, I stared at the wall. The silence pressed in, suffocating. My breath came shallow, ragged. The anger, the guilt, the grief—it twisted inside me, a knot that wouldn't loosen.

And the worst part? I couldn't tell anyone. Not what I had done. Not how I had let myself fall into Rafe's arms, how I'd let him blur the lines between right and wrong. For a few moments, it had felt real—like something untainted by lies. But I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't take it back.