Chapter 1

Percy

The judge’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

“…having found the defendant guilty on his own plea…”

I don’t blink, I don’t even shift. I don’t look at my parents or my sister, whose voice I can hear above everyone else, crying. I don’t look at the woman crying in the second row, clutching a photograph of a boy who will never grow older, thanks to me. I did the world a favour. I keep my eyes forward, fixed on the seal behind the judge’s head, gold and flaking, like everything else, and everyone else, in this room that pretends to be holy.

Murderer.

The word has already been said, just not directly to me yet. It’s floating around the courtroom like smoke, clinging to my skin.

I killed Clay MacCoy.

And I would do it again.

“…sentenced to life with the possibility of parole…”

My mother makes a sound then. A small, broken sound, like glass snapping. I know without looking that she has collapsed against my father’s shoulder. I know his hand is on her back, stiff and awkward, like he doesn’t know how to comfort people without writing checks.

James Blackwell, billionaire philanthropist. Builder of hospitals. Patron of orphanages. Owner of more money than empathy.

My father doesn’t cry. He doesn’t shout. He stares at the back of my head like I’ve personally embarrassed him in public.

The courtroom smells like polish and sweat and old paper. It smells like other people’s fear. I breathe it in slowly, just to see if I feel anything.

But I feel nothing. No guilt, no regret, but equally no relief.

They prepared me for this day, my lawyers said to plead not guilty, my family insisted everything would be fine, to plead not guilty and let my lawyer handle the rest. I have never been one to listen to them, and they have never cared this much. So I do what I do best, go against them. 

It’s going to affect only me in the end, but I don't care; it’s my life. All I have right now is a quiet sense of completion.

The prosecutor is still talking. Something about brutality. Something about intent. Something about how I “tracked the victim.”

They make it sound like a sport. It wasn’t. It wasn’t hard.

What they don’t say is that Clay MacCoy laughed when my sister cried.

What they don’t say is that the police already knew his name and what he did before I ever touched him.

What they don’t say is that he would still be walking free if I hadn’t done it myself.

I turn my head slightly and catch a glimpse of my parents.

My mother’s face is blotchy, red, ruined by tears. She looks older than she did this morning. Her eyes are fixed on me with a mix of horror and grief, like she’s trying to find the son she lost inside the one who remains.

My father’s jaw is tight. His lips are pressed into a thin line. His eyes hold calculation, not sadness. He’s already planning the next move. Appeals. Transfers. Damage control.

Their sorrow slides off me.

They didn’t cry when my sister begged them to listen.

They didn’t cry when she locked herself in her room.

They didn’t cry when she stopped eating.

They didn’t cry when she stopped laughing.

But they pretended to cry when she died. I don’t care if their tears are genuine; she’s gone already. We buried her a week ago.

The judge asks if I have anything to say before sentencing, and the entire room leans forward.

This is the part where I’m supposed to apologize. Where I’m supposed to shake. Where I’m supposed to say her name and show them how hurt I am. Where I have to say I’m sorry for killing him to gain leverage.

I stand.

The cuffs on my wrists clink softly. The sound is sharper than it should be. Too loud for something so small.

I look straight ahead.

“No.”

The word lands clean and flat, as gasps ripple through the room. The judge frowns, and my mother sobs. My father exhales slowly, like he expected this.

I sit back down.

They can keep their forgiveness. They can keep their speeches. Clay MacCoy is dead, and my sister isn’t screaming anymore. I wish I had done it sooner; she would still be here with us.

When the guards come for me, their hands are firm but not rough. They know who I am. They know what I’m worth. They know not to bruise the merchandise.

I stand without being told.

The courtroom blurs as they lead me out. I catch flashes of faces, anger, disgust, and fascination. Someone calls my name. Someone else spits.

I don’t turn around.

The hallway outside is cold and echoing. My shoes scrape against marble as we walk. Every step feels final, like the end of something.

They put me in a room that looks like a waiting room. White walls. A single hard bench. I sit on it as the door shuts behind them.

For the first time since my arrest, no one is watching me openly. No audience. No family. No press.

Just me.

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, and she comes to me instantly, my sister, uninvited and unavoidable. Not as she looked at the end. Not pale and still and wrong. But as she was before.

Barefoot in the kitchen, hair falling into her face, laughing because I burned the toast again. She used to steal the best parts of everything: pizza crusts, fries, blankets, my heart,  like the world owed her small joys, and it did. She had been so full of life, and he took that from her. Stole it piece by piece until there was nothing left. 

She used to say I was her favorite person because I protected her from our parents. Because I stood between her and their cold hearts, their indifference. But I failed her. I couldn’t protect her from the one person I should have seen coming. The one danger I should have been ready for.

My chest tightens. A tear slips from my left eye before I can stop it. I swipe it away roughly, like that might erase the feeling with it. I don’t want anyone to see this part of me. I don’t want the world to know how much it still hurts.

“Thank you, Perc. I love you,” she whispers, soft as breath against my ear.

My eyes fly open, but the room is empty.

I clutch my hands to my head. Of course, she can’t be here. She’s dead.

I lean back against the wall as the image of that bastard’s lifeless body flashes through my mind. I hate it when my thoughts do this. I hate seeing his face. Even now.

People think killing someone must feel like lightning, like some violent burst of power. It doesn’t. At least, it didn’t for me. There was no thrill. No release. Just a hollow quiet that followed me everywhere.

A while later, the doors open, and my parents and older sister rush in.

“Why didn’t you do as we said?” my father snaps, his voice sharp and furious.

“Oh, Percy, why did you plead guilty? We had it covered,” my mother adds, sitting beside me and placing her hands on my shoulders.

My sister takes the other side of the bench and wraps her arms around me as she sobs.

I don’t want them touching me, so I rise to my feet and step away.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” I shout. “And you should’ve had it covered from the beginning, when Lila came to you for help. That’s when you should’ve handled it.”

“We’re sorry, Perc,” my sister says through tears. “We’re sorry.”

“No amount of sorry will bring her back,” my mother says, “But we’ll make it up to you, son. I promise,” my mother says, her voice trembling.

“We’ve made arrangements,” my father adds. “The lawyer will still work the case, and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of in prison.”

“I need all of you out,” I say coldly. “Right now. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you,” I scream, “Leave me alone.”

That’s when the same guards who brought me into this room return and tell my family to step aside. They say it’s time. Time to leave for the prison.

I extend my hands without being asked.

As they lead me out, I can still hear my sister crying and my mother calling after me, telling me to take care of myself. Her voice cracks as she says it, like she already knows I won’t.

Outside, we pass through a crowd. Reporters. Journalists. Strangers who made my life into a headline.

Questions fly at me from every direction, but I don’t answer a single one. Cameras flash. Microphones are shoved toward my face. I keep my eyes forward, my jaw locked.

Then I notice the signs some strangers are holding.

FREE HIM.

HE’S INNOCENT.

TOO HOT TO GO TO JAIL.

It’s surreal, like they’re cheering for something they don’t understand. Like this is entertainment instead of a funeral.

They rush me through back corridors, away from the noise, past offices and storage rooms, deeper into the courthouse. Down into its belly, where the transport vans are waiting.

My cuffs come off.

The chains go on.

This is the part I didn’t plan for.

I always knew this was coming. Prison. Bars. A number instead of a name. But not this part, the waiting. The in-between. The moment where there’s nothing left to do but exist inside the consequences of what I’ve done.

They shove me into the back of a black vehicle with no windows.

The door slams shut.

Darkness swallows me whole.