The Truth

ALICIA'S POV 

 Three days after Junior died, I still couldn't understand how it happened.

Every sports channel had the same headline. Every news article carried the college’s statement.

Junior Calloway, eighteen, died following sudden cardiac arrest caused by an undiagnosed heart condition.

Undiagnosed.

I kept going back to that word.

Junior had his heart screened every August. I drove him to his last appointment myself. The doctor had joked that he had the heart of a racehorse.

I remembered Junior laughing about it all the way home.

So how could his heart suddenly give up on him?

I opened my phone and searched for the medical report from his last screening. I'd saved a picture of it months ago.

Normal results. No abnormalities.

I stared at the screen, hoping I'd somehow missed something.

“Racehorse hearts don't just stop.” I muttered to myself.

On the fourth day, the team came to our house.

Twelve of them squeezed into our living room in black suits that didn’t fit, holding their hands like they didn’t know what to do with them. Silas wasn’t with them.

The team captain did the talking.

“We want to take care of everything,” he told my parents. “The team voted, and the college is backing us. They’ll take care of all the expenses. We're also planning a memorial at the arena, and his jersey will be retired.” He paused. “And the cremation is scheduled for Saturday. You and your family won't have to worry about any of the arrangements.”

Mom nodded, wiping at her tears. Dad reached for the captain's hand and held it firmly between both of his.

“Cremation?” I said.

The room went quiet.

“Junior always said he wanted to be scattered on the pond,” one of the defensemen said softly. “Where you two learned to skate.”

He had said that. Once, joking, when we were fourteen.

Somehow everyone in this room knew it.

“Saturday is very soon,” I said.

“Alicia.” Dad’s voice cracked. “Let them help.”

I looked from face to face. Red eyes. Shaking hands. Real grief, everywhere I looked.

So why did my skin feel cold?

——————————

That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in the dark, scrolling through my phone like it could somehow give him back.

Every sports blog had covered the story. I scrolled past the headlines. I couldn't stand seeing his face.

Then one headline stopped me.

JUNIOR'S LAST NIGHT: Inside the Halvorsen Star's Team Dinner Before Tragedy

A team dinner. The night before the final.

I opened the article and read it twice.

A private room at a restaurant downtown. The entire team, the coaches, and some staff. Food, music, speeches. Junior had even given a toast.

The blogger called it "a night of brotherhood."

I put my phone down.

That afternoon, the team captain had told my parents Junior spent his last night resting. The college's statement said he'd followed his normal routine.

Nobody had mentioned a dinner.

Not the captain. Not the coaches. Not the college.

Why?

I picked up my phone again. Who had sat beside Junior? What had he eaten? Had anyone noticed anything unusual?

Why would everyone who'd spent that evening with him leave it out?

At six in the morning, I opened the article again.

This page no longer exists.

I stared at the screen.

Someone had taken it down.

Junior's last words came back to me.

Wasn't... mine.

I didn't know what he meant. I didn't know who he was talking about.

But I knew one thing.

I couldn't let them cremate my brother before I found out what happened to him.

By sunrise, I had made up my mind.

If nobody was going to tell me what happened to Junior, I'd have to find out for myself.

I spent the next few hours searching for independent forensic labs. Most didn't answer. One told me I needed a lawyer's referral. The third number I tried belonged to a private lab about two hours away.

A woman answered on the second ring.

"I need an autopsy," I said. "My brother died four days ago. They're saying it was a heart condition, but I don't believe that's what happened."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said. "Have the doctors already performed an autopsy?"

"No. They're planning to cremate him on Saturday."

There was a brief silence.

"If you want an independent examination, we need to act quickly. I'd recommend a full autopsy with toxicology, not just a routine screening."

"Can you do it?"

"I can, but I need you to understand that the results might not give you the answers you're hoping for. We have to follow the evidence wherever it leads."

"I understand. I just want to know what happened to my brother."

"All right. But there's another thing. An examination like this isn't cheap."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” It was almost exactly what I had in my trials fund.

Three summers of coaching peewee hockey at six every morning. Every birthday cheque. Every bit of money my town had raised to help me get to the national team trials.

Junior had made the jar himself when we were fifteen. He'd written Licia Goes National across it in his messy handwriting.

I looked at the amount on my screen.

"I'll pay," I said.

My hand was shaking so badly that I had to try twice before I could sign the transfer.

Mom found the email about an hour later.

She came into my room with her phone in her hand. She looked at the screen, then at me.

"Please tell me you didn't."

I couldn't bring myself to look at her. "I did."

"Alicia, that money..." She stopped and took a breath. "That was for your trials. You worked so hard for it. Your brother wanted you to go more than anyone."

"Mom, my brother is dead!"

The moment I said it, I wished I could take it back.

Her face crumpled. She reached for the doorframe, but her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor. Her phone slipped from her hand.

"I've already lost Junior," she cried. "I can't lose you too. I can't watch you give up everything you worked for."

I hurried down beside her and pulled her into my arms. She held on to me, crying against my shoulder.

For a while, neither of us said anything.

"I'm not giving up, Mom," I whispered. "I just... I need to do this for him."

She didn't answer. She only held me tighter.

Dad was standing in the hallway. I hadn't noticed him there until I looked up.

He watched us for a moment, his face drawn and tired. Then he turned and walked away.

———————

The results came on Friday morning.

I'd been lying on Junior's bed, wearing his hoodie and holding his pillow against my chest. It still smelled like him. I hadn't been able to bring myself to wash it.

Then my phone rang.

It was the pathologist.

"Alicia," she said. "We've finished the tests."

I sat up. "What did you find?"

There was a pause.

"Your brother didn't have a heart condition."

For a moment, I couldn't make sense of what she'd said.

"What?"

"We found a toxin in his blood. It's rare, and it doesn't show up on standard screenings. It can take hours to affect the body, eventually causing the heart to stop."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

"How long?"

“Based on the levels, he took it around twenty-four hours before his death.”

I stared at the wall.

Twenty-four hours before he died, he’d been at that team dinner.

The dinner nobody had told us about.

"Are you saying someone poisoned him?"

Another pause.

"I'm saying the evidence points to poisoning. This wasn't a natural cardiac event, Alicia."

I couldn't speak.

Someone had done this to my brother.

And whoever it was had been close enough to get to him.

I drove to the police station with the report on the passenger seat.

The detective read it, turned to the last page, then placed it on his desk.

"The hospital's report says cardiac arrest," he said. "That's what we have on record."

"Then read this one. It says he was poisoned."

"It says a private lab found traces of a toxin. We don't know how the sample was collected or whether it was properly handled."

"So what? You're just going to ignore it?"

"I'm not ignoring anything, Miss Calloway. But we need evidence we can verify."

"My brother is dead. What more do you need?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I understand you're upset, but—"

"No, you don't. Someone killed him, and you're sitting here telling me about paperwork!"

"Please lower your voice."

"Then do something!"

He closed the report and stood up. "I'll contact the medical examiner's office. If there's enough here to warrant an investigation, we'll take it from there."

I wanted to believe him, but I didn't trust him to move quickly.

I stayed in the station lobby. I called the pathologist and asked her to speak directly with the detective. She agreed. I even contacted a local reporter, hoping the attention would make them take the report seriously.

By 4:15 p.m., the detective finally came out.

"We've contacted the medical examiner," he said. "They're prepared to arrange an examination, but we need access to the body before the cremation."

My shoulders dropped. "Then let's go."

He didn't move.

"There's a problem."

My stomach tightened.

"The funeral home says your brother was cremated this morning."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"The cremation was brought forward. Their records show that the family authorized the change."

"No. That's not possible. It was supposed to be tomorrow."

He looked down at the report in his hand.

"I'm sorry."

I don't remember leaving the station. I barely remember the drive. I only remember arriving at the funeral home and rushing inside.

"Junior Calloway," I said to the man behind the desk. "I'm here about Junior Calloway."

His expression changed.

"Miss, I'm sorry. The cremation has already taken place."

"Who changed the date?"

He hesitated.

"According to our records, the arrangements were updated yesterday."

"By who?"

He glanced at his computer.

"Your family authorized it."

"No." I shook my head. "My parents didn't change anything. They wouldn't have done that."

"Miss, I'm sorry."

I gripped the edge of the desk.

"Who signed the papers?”

He flipped through a folder.

"The college office arranged it. They said they were acting on behalf of the family."

"Who at the college?"

He checked the paperwork again. "It doesn't say."

I stood there, trying to take it all in.

No body. No sample. No proof.

My brother had been cremated hours ago, and someone had made sure it happened before anyone could ask questions.

I didn't know who had done it or why.

But I was beginning to believe someone at Halvorsen had something to hide.

---

On Monday morning, Coach Reyes called from the national programme.

"Calloway, your trial fees haven't come through. I can hold your spot until noon, but after that, I'll have to offer it to someone else."

I looked at the jar on my shelf.

Licia Goes National.

It was empty now.

"Give my spot to her," I said.

"Alicia, you've worked your whole life for this."

"I know."

I ended the call before she could say anything else.

Then I opened my acceptance letter from Halvorsen College. It was the school I'd only applied to because Junior had dared me to.

The police weren't taking me seriously. The college wasn't answering my questions, and the team seemed ready to move on.

If I wanted to know what happened to my brother, I'd have to find out myself.

Three days later, an email arrived.

Welcome to Halvorsen College!

Room assignment: Kessler Hall, Suite 4B.

Suitemate: Silas Varga.

I read the name twice.

Silas.

Junior's old room.

Any sensible person would have contacted Housing and asked for a different assignment.

I didn't.

I packed my hockey stick, Junior's black tape, and a screenshot of the team dinner article that had mysteriously disappeared.

Then I clicked Accept.