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“Rosen?” Sebastian said from behind me.

“Something feels wrong,” I murmured as I turned and caught the look of concern on his face. Sebastian didn’t look at me straight away, just kept his eyes moving before giving a small, tight nod.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Place is…off, and the lounge room didn't produce anything other than the fact that he probably needs a hearing aid.”

I chuckled, shaking my head as a frame beside me caught my eye. A large portion of the “pig skin” hung on the wall, sitting behind a layer of glass, a large brand of WG burned into the centre.

“Just doesn’t look like pig skin to me,” he muttered as we both faced the end of the hall where Wayne paced in the foyer.

“No, it doesn’t. But we need something solid,” I said, forcing my voice back into focus. “If we take him in and come up empty…” I exhaled slowly. “We lose our window. Jackson. Christopher.” Evie, I added silently. The morbid art works and misplaced furniture weren’t enough to prove that Wayne Gatz was a killer. Right now, it was all circumstantial. Sebastian tilted his head slightly, eyes still on the frame. Then slowly, he reached into his pocket.

“Well,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, “what do you reckon the odds are these help?”

He held up a small forensic container.

Inside—four teeth.

They knocked softly against the plastic as he shifted it, the sound far too loud in the hallway. My arm felt heavy as I reached out, not quite touching it. “Where did you⁠—”

“Kitchen sink,” he said.

I stared at them. White. Rooted. Human. Fuck.

“Did he look like he was missing any?” Sebastian added, almost casually, and something cold slid down my spine. Slowly, I lifted my gaze over Sebastian’s shoulder. Wayne had stopped pacing and was standing completely still now. Watching us.

“No.” I held his gaze, my voice steadier than I felt.

“He didn’t.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

JACKSON

January 5th, 1993

“Iused to look up between plays,” I admitted. “Not even sure why. Just a habit,” I murmured, feeling her light breaths against my chest from where she was resting her head. “I used to imagine you were there,” I said. “I’d kick a goal, and for half a second I’d look up, thinking I’d see you losing your mind in the stands.”

She sniffled and traced her name on my chest. She hadn't said anything about it yet, but she gravitated towards it whenever she came down here.

“I would’ve been there,” she whispered, looking up at me with her big green eyes.

“I know,” I murmured, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. Evie sighed and leaned into it, her eyes fluttering closed. “You always showed up for me, Evie. In every version of my life that mattered.”

January 7th, 1993

“And then Peter sped off and crashed the commodore into Mrs. Stevens fence,” I huffed, opening my mouth for another piece. Evie smiled, and my heart almost gave out as she fed me the cold pork chop. God, she was so beautiful. Even in the dim lighting, I could see the crinkle by her eyes from the movement.

“What? Is that why you had that dent on the front?” She softly laughed, and I soaked in the sound. It wasn’t the easy, unguarded giggle she used to let out without thinking—the one that used to follow me home like it belonged there. This one was brittle at the edges, like it had been held back for too long and wasn’t entirely sure it was allowed to exist anymore. And for a second, I just stared at her, my mouth halfway open, the rest of the memory slipping away, because all I heard was that sound trying to remember how to be itself.

Evie’s smile faded a little when she noticed.

“Jackson?”

I blinked, forcing myself back.

“Yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Yeah…that’s exactly why.”

January 9th, 1993