❝I had a conversation with Death, he wants you back ❞
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At the New Year's Eve party, Quincy Sinclair finds the dead body of Alfred Kingsley III. Resident golden boy and incredibly rich, his death was no accident.
By morning, Quincy sees him again...
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Felix Montgomery was dead.
The blonde boy who'd attacked me just yesterday had killed himself and despite only having talked to him once, I was in his suicide note. My mind whirled with all the reasons why my name could have been one of the last to slip from his lips.
"H-how do you know?" I asked, my voice sounded foreign and far away. "Are you sure it was him?"
Charlie looked up and his hazel eyes were full of sympathy. He ran a hand through his chestnut hair and glanced back to my open window. The morning sun felt more like a burden now and I wanted nothing else than to go back to sleep. That was back when I thought he was still alive and before this awful feeling blossomed in my stomach again.
"It was him, Bambi," Charlie answered, voice low with sorrow and certainty.
He pushed himself up from the carpet and patted me on the back slowly. I wasn't crying, that much was clear. There were so many emotions that battled against one another in my body but grief was not one I recognised amongst it all. I didn't feel sad for him.
"Listen, Quincy," he murmured. "I can't stay long, I have to go to the other guys and tell them-"
"Can't you just text them?"
He chuckled sadly. "No, this is something I need to tell them myself. It's a sensitive subject."
A numbing feeling spread across my body like wildfire. It was chilling and empty as it coursed through my blood. I could only stare at the chipped wood of my desk and sigh.
"Here's the note," he muttered and handed me his phone where he'd taken a picture.
My breath caught in my throat and as much as I hated to read it, my eyes couldn't help but scan the words.
The phone shook as I grasped it tightly in my trembling hands. The note was written on a crumpled piece of paper, torn straight from an old notebook, evident from the tattered edges.
I read the messy words over and over again, trying to make sense of it all.
'I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry to Mum, Dad, Lucas, Hadiyah, Atticus, Quincy, Kingsley, and whoever else I've come across lately.
Everywhere I look I see Kingsley's face. He's always there, whispering in my ear and sneering at the awful decisions that I've made. He hates me, in life and death, and I can't bear to see his face. It's painful. Quincy would know what I'm talking about, I know she can see him too.
I'm sorry, Hadiyah. I lied a lot, I'm still lying now. I never liked you. I slept with you to spite Kingsley and I regret it. Sorry. I'm sorry, Atticus. I slept with you because I could. That's it.
