Veils of Rivalry Chapter 77

Blaise's POV

I pause in the living room doorway and scan the dark room. Heavy, moth-eaten curtains frame the windows, blocking out the daylight. A small sliver breaks through the gap, and dust mites float peacefully in an eternal dance, forever adrift.

Crossing the room, I skirt the flowery couch and pull the curtains open to flood the room with light, then cough when it disturbs the dust. “Fuck…” I waft the air, looking around.

A forgotten can of beer still sits on the coffee table, like the owner of the house rose from the armchair one day, walked out, and never returned.

As I drift my fingers over the dusty couch, it dawns on me how little I know about Cole. I want to know every secret he’s ever told, every nightmare that’s kept him up at night, and every fantasy he’s pictured while touching himself.

The less I realize I know, the more I want to dig beneath his skin until I unearth all those secrets he guards close to his heart. I don’t care if I have to carve him open to get at what he’s hiding at his core.

I walk the length of the room, drifting my fingers over every surface, feeling an inexplicable urge to touch his past.

Disturbing the dust on the empty bookshelf, I imagine a much younger Cole doing the same.

A freestanding lamp in the corner lacks its lampshade. The electricity has long since been cut, so nothing happens when I pull the string, but I still picture it flooding the room with an ambient golden glow.

I’m just about to turn around and leave the room, when my eyes snag on a framed medal on the wall. I walk closer, tilting my head sideways. It looks out of place in this run-down, miserable house.

It’s an award. A bravery award with Cole’s dad’s name, to be exact.

Huh…

Cole never mentioned it. And it’s also difficult to imagine the drunk, unhinged man who fired the gun on his son as the recipient of such a prestigious award.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I rip it out so fast, I almost drop it. Tiago again. Disappointment weighs heavily on my chest as I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear.

“Miss me already?”

“Har. Har. Have you heard anything yet?”

“No. The cops are fucking useless,” I say as I cross the room to a set of drawers. “I don’t know what the fuck to do…” My voice bleeds with frustration.

Tiago is silent for a moment. I pull open a drawer and root through its contents.

“Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?”

I scoff, inspecting a sepia photograph of an elderly man in suspenders on a sun lounger with a cigar in his mouth. I drop it back down, then pull open the next drawer. “I can’t make promises.”

“Where are you?”

“At home, debating if I should binge-watch Friends or Gossip Girl.”

“Fucking liar,” he chuckles. “I went by your house, and your dad said you left.”

“I couldn’t sit around.”

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?” I ask, pulling open the third drawer and rooting through paperwork. There’s no system to any of it. Someone rammed it all in here.

I pull out the contents, phone balanced between my ear and shoulder as I flip through the unpaid bills and letters. They sail through the air and flutter to the floor.

“You have that tone in your voice.”

“I don’t have a tone in my voice.”

“Stop lying to yourself. Just…” He hesitates. “You could hinder the investigation.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the investigation right now,” I reply. “Cole is injured…” I drift off when I spot a yellowed cutout news clipping amongst the letters.

‘Police officers win bravery award.’

I feel a frown on my forehead as I let my eyes roam over the photograph of two young, proud officers. One of them is definitely a much younger version of Cole’s dad.

I scan the news article to find the date. Quick math tells me this was published years before Cole was born. His dad was in his early twenties, fresh out of the police academy⁠—

“Blaise?” Tiago asks.

“I have to go.”

“Fuck that. What did I say about doing anything stupid?”

I hang up on him, then pocket my phone while reading the article. Cole’s dad and a colleague won a bravery award for neutralizing a shooter who entered a local warehouse and opened fire on the workers.

How come no one talks about this? And what the hell has happened to Malcolm? He could never replicate that moment and, according to my diligent research, he got into trouble at work for turning up drunk. It spiraled from there.

I look over at the medal on the wall, then back down at the article. A grainy photograph shows the warehouse nestled amongst fir trees.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I google the address. Call it a hunch or a sixth sense, but something tells me it’s important.

The paper clip trembles in my hand. It’s probably a long shot, but I have to check it out to see if there’s even the slightest chance that he took them there, back to a place of immense pride and nostalgia, back to a time when he felt like he could go somewhere in the world—back to the beginning.

The news article flutters to the floor, and I stride back out with a renewed sense of urgency.