Reckless Intentions: CH. 8

CHAPTER EIGHT: I SEE DEAD PEOPLE

I don't think I sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Kyle. Hanging there. His eyes wide, pupils blown open like black holes. His head tilted to one side at that unnatural angle. I can see his face so clearly—too clearly. His expression frozen mid-gasp, lifeless and gray.

I wake up sweating, heart hammering against my ribs. I look over at my phone propped against the base of the lamp on the side table. 4:47 AM.

"Shit."

I've probably woken up six times already. And every single time, it's after seeing that face. That same frozen moment replaying behind my eyelids like some fucked-up slideshow I can't turn off. How do I get that image out of my head? How do I unsee what I saw?

Jack still doesn't know. I don't know who knows. Maybe Abigail does by now. Is she going to blame herself? And since I took the note—was that doing her a kindness or is that going to leave a gaping wound that'll never close? Did I help her or just make everything worse?

This is fucking unreal. How does something like this even happen? I think about Everett. How he partially orchestrated this whole mess. I was just fine tearing up his friend group, playing my little games. But he wanted revenge too, and I went along with it. Two-for-one special, I guess.

And did he know about Kyle's depression? Has Kyle been suicidal before? I can keep asking myself all these questions, turning them over and over in my mind like stones, but it won't change anything. It won't bring him back. It won't undo what I set in motion.

Lying back down seems to be pointless at this stage. I've tried it three times already, and nothing changes. I stare at the ceiling, tracing the same cracks and imperfections I've memorized over the past hour. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Kyle. This isn't working. Sleep feels impossible now, like chasing something that doesn't want to be caught.

Twenty minutes later, I'm outside on the beach. With a surfboard. To his credit, this was one thing I got from my relationship with Jack Jr., he taught me how to surf. The sun has yet to make an appearance, but I can see the first inklings of light. I wander into the surf and stand there, the water washing over my feet, contemplating my life, how I got here and everything that's happened since I came here. A family is in shambles, lives have been ruined, and a man is dead and to some degree, that's on me.

I haven't talked to Everett since last night on the drive home. I'm sure he's feeling some type of way. But still yet, there's some part of me at the very edges that doesn't trust him. It's a finicky thing, trust, once it's lost it's near impossible to get back.

I wade deeper, the cold Atlantic biting at my calves, then my thighs. The board feels heavy under my arm. I throw it down and climb on, paddling out past the break. The rhythm is automatic—left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm. The water is dark gray, almost black. My shoulders burn. Good. I need the burn. Need something physical to focus on that isn't Kyle's face.

The waves are decent. Not great, but decent. I paddle harder, pushing through the whitewater, feeling the spray hit my face. Salt on my lips. The cold shocking my system awake.

His eyes were open.

I shake my head. Focus on the horizon. On the swell building in the distance.

Paddle. Paddle. Paddle.

I make it past the break and sit up on the board, straddling it, letting my legs dangle in the water. The ocean rocks me gently. It's quiet out here. Just the sound of water moving, the distant crash of waves hitting shore. No one else is out yet. It's just me and the dark and the cold.

I take a breath. Let it out slow.

He was hanging there. Just hanging.

Fuck.

I lie back down on the board and start paddling again, moving parallel to the shore, just to keep moving. Just to do something. The repetition helps. Left, right, left, right. My arms are already tired but I don't stop. I can't stop. If I stop, I'll think. And if I think—

A wave builds behind me. I feel it lift the board. I spin around, paddle hard, catch it just as it crests. I pop up—feet planted, knees bent, arms out for balance—and ride it in. The board cuts through the water, smooth and fast, and for maybe ten seconds I'm not thinking about anything except staying upright. The wind in my face. The spray. The speed.

Then the wave dies and I'm coasting into shallow water and it all comes rushing back.

The rope. The small step-ladder kicked over. His face.

I paddle back out.

Catch another wave. This one's bigger. I ride it longer, carving left, then right, feeling the board respond beneath me. The focus required is absolute. You can't think about anything else when you're on a wave. You just react. Move. Adjust. Survive.

But the wave ends.

They always end.

I'm back in the water, paddling out again, and Kyle is back in my head.

Did he hesitate? Did he stand on that step-ladder and think about stepping down? Or did he just do it?

I catch another wave. And another. And another.

Each time, for those few seconds, I'm free. I'm just a body on a board, moving through water, chasing speed and balance and the brief high of not eating shit. But each time the wave dies, the thoughts come back. Louder. Sharper.

I killed him.

No. He killed himself.

I pushed him to it.

He made a choice.

I set the trap. I baited it. I watched him fall into it.

I paddle harder. My arms are screaming now, muscles burning, but I don't care. I need to be tired. Need to be so exhausted I can't think anymore.

Another wave. I catch it. Ride it. Fall.

The water swallows me whole, cold and dark and suffocating. I tumble underwater, disoriented, the board yanking at my ankle leash. I don't fight it. For a second—just a second—I think about letting go. About sinking. About how easy it would be to just stop.

But my body doesn't let me. Survival instinct kicks in and I'm kicking toward the surface, breaking through, gasping for air.

I grab the board and climb back on.

Paddle out again.

The sun is starting to rise now, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful. And Kyle will never see another sunrise. He'll never see anything again.

Because of me.

I catch another wave but I'm not really trying anymore. I'm just going through the motions. The surfing isn't working. It's not an escape. It's just another place to be trapped with my own thoughts.

I ride the wave in and don't paddle back out.

I sit on the board in the shallows, water lapping at my waist, staring at the horizon. The ocean doesn't care. The sun doesn't care. The world keeps turning and Kyle is still dead and I'm still the one who made it happen.

I think about Everett. About how satisfied he probably is right now. About how this was always part of his plan—not just Jack Jr.'s destruction, but Kyle's too. And I went along with it. I helped.

Two-for-one special.

I laugh. It comes out bitter and broken.

The water is cold. My arms are numb. I should go back inside. Shower. Pretend to sleep. Pretend to be shocked when someone finally tells me Kyle is dead.

But I stay in the water a little longer.

Not because it helps.

Because it doesn't.

I walk out of the water with the board tucked under my arm, the shorty wetsuit tight against my skin. The Harrington Estate comes complete with its own beach cabana—a small structure that's really just a miniature version of the pool house. Except it's probably the size of a regular person's pool house. On the inside it looks like a small studio apartment: a sleeping area with two beds, a small kitchenette, a sitting area that doubles as an eating space, and a full-sized bathroom that also serves as a laundry room.

I strip the wetsuit off and toss it on top of the counter above the washer and dryer. I turn the water on and it's hot almost instantly. Steam fills the small bathroom as I step under the spray and rest my hands against the tile wall. I can't rinse away my sins, but I can get rid of the smell of the saltwater. I have to pee and instead of getting out of the shower, I just let it go, watching it mix with the water at the drain, creating a yellowish-green hue.

I grab the body wash and a loofa and start washing. Scrubbing at my chest until it's red and raw. My arms, my legs, my ass, even the bottoms of my feet. Thoroughly soaped, I turn around and rinse off. Then I grab the shampoo and wash my hair, rinse, and repeat. Like I can wash away what I've done. Like I can scrub Kyle's death off my skin.

Afterwards, I grab the change of clothes I brought with me—shorts and a tank top—and step outside. The sky is brighter now, the sun sitting fat and orange on the horizon. The temperature has increased a few degrees and the beach starts to look alive, except there's still no people. Just me and the endless stretch of sand.

I walk along the beach, looking out at the water in the distance. It's endless. Everything is endless—well, not everything. Kyle's proof of that.

The beach starts to look different—new—and I realize I've walked further than I normally do. I should go back to the house. I should go up to Jack's room. I should tell him what happened. Or should I go to the pool house and tell Jack Sr.? They'll both find out sooner or later. My guess is sooner. Maybe they already have text messages from friends. Maybe it's already in the news.

There were other people there last night, watching as they loaded his body into the van. It wouldn't be hard to figure out. Body comes out of the bar, bar owner nowhere in sight. People were murmuring at the scene. I remember that now—the whispers, the phones coming out, the way everyone stepped back like death was contagious.

I should tell one of them, but which one? If I tell Jack Sr., will he blame himself? Will he blame me or accuse me? If I tell Jack Jr., will he blame his father, or will he blame his own reaction? I don't know and I don't think I want to.

Continue reading with full access to The House of Thorne.

UNLOCK FULL ACCESS