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The cold air stung my lungs with every breath as I sprinted down the empty street toward Ethan’s place. Each exhale burst into frantic white clouds that hung in the wintry night like ghosts I couldn’t escape. My sneakers slapped against the wet pavement, the noise echoing too loudly in the quiet neighborhood.

My thoughts kept spiraling back to the study, Keith’s calm voice saying the motel had been "handled," the casual way he referred to Ethan as if he was just some minor inconvenience that could be sorted later. Each step felt heavier, weighed down by the sickening certainty that had settled in my chest the moment I slipped out of the house without a second glance.

It wasn’t just that Keith was suspicious anymore; he was right in the thick of it. Maybe he was the one who gave the order. Maybe he pulled the trigger himself. Either way, the man who smiled at charity dinners and called me his "stepson" in front of cameras and in the house had blood on his hands, and Ethan...who deserved to know the truth more than anyone was completely in the dark.

And Adrien...god, Adrien.

How was i supposed to just tell him that his father, the man who raised him...was a murderer?

I reached the front porch gasping, my chest heaving, and knocked on the door harder than I intended. My knuckles throbbed, and my hands trembled so violently that I had to brace them flat against the wood just to steady myself.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened, and panic clawed at my throat...maybe he wasn’t home, maybe he’d gone somewhere I couldn’t follow, maybe I was already too late. Then I heard footsteps inside, heavy and deliberate, and the door creaked open.

Ethan stood there in sweatpants and an old hoodie, his hair messy, like he’d been running his hands through it for ages. The porch light caught the sharp angles of his face, making his eyes shimmer almost silver. Surprise flickered across his features for a brief moment before it hardened into something colder and more guarded.

Not that I expected him to receive me with open arm after what happened at the Snowball...

"Noah?"

That one word held so much weight...surprise, fatigue, and the lingering shadow of anger that hadn’t entirely faded. I could see his shoulders tighten, and his hand gripped the edge of the door as if he was already plotting how fast he could shut it.

"Noah, I really can’t deal with this right now—"

"Please." The word burst out of me before he could finish, raw and filled with desperation. "Please, Ethan, I need to talk to you."

His jaw clenched hard, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. "We already talked."

"No, we didn’t." I shook my head quickly, words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. "Not about this. This is different, this is bigger than us!"

Ethan let out a sharp breath through his nose, irritation flaring in his eyes. "If this is about you and Adrien, I really don’t want to hear it tonight. I can’t go through that again."

"It’s not." Guilt stabbed at me, sharp enough that I felt it flicker across my face before I could mask it. "I mean—it is, sort of...but that’s not why I’m here. I swear...please, I know I fucked up, but just...hear me out. It’s important."

He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement firm, adding another layer of distance between us even though we stood just a few feet apart. "Then why are you here?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight and burning. My heart raced from the run, from the fear, from the crushing weight of what I had to say. I must have looked a wreck, hair windblown, cheeks flushed and streaked from the cold, eyes probably red from crying on Gigi’s floor earlier. But none of that mattered now.

"I know I messed up," I said quietly, forcing the words out even though they felt like ash in my mouth. "What you saw in the courtyard... you had every right to be angry. Every right to hate me. I was wrong, Ethan. I was selfish and careless, and I hurt you in the worst way possible. I let things spiral out of control, and I didn’t stop them. I’m so sorry for that. I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life."

His expression didn’t soften. If anything, the reminder seemed to deepen the hurt etched around his mouth. "So you ran all the way over here just to apologize?"

"No." I shook my head again, more urgently. "I came because you need to hear something. Something serious. Something that can’t wait."

Ethan studied me for a long moment, skepticism battling with the panic that must have been written all over my face. Finally, he exhaled sharply, the sound almost a hiss.

"What are you talking about?"

I glanced over my shoulder, instinctively scanning the empty street behind me. Streetlights cast soft pools of light, snowflakes drifting lazily through them, but the darkness between felt alive, like it was watching. I lowered my voice to a whisper.

"I can’t say this out here."

Ethan’s eyes narrowed, but something must have shifted in my expression—real fear, perhaps...because after another beat, he stepped aside and pulled the door open wider.

"You’ve got five minutes," he said stiffly, his voice flat. "That’s it."

I slipped inside quickly, nerves still screaming. The familiar scent of the house enveloped me—faint traces of motor oil from the garage, the fresh laundry smell that always clung to Ethan’s clothes, and the lingering ghost of Logan’s whiskey, even though he’d been gone for weeks.

Ethan shut the door behind us with a soft click, leaning against it with his arms still crossed like a shield.

"Alright," he said. "Talk." 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

For a moment, I just stood there in the dim foyer, trying to find a way to start a story that felt too massive for words. My hands shook, so I shoved them into my pockets so he wouldn’t notice.

"I went back to the house earlier," I began, my voice unsteady. "Just to grab some clothes and my notebook for school. I didn’t think anyone would be home."

Ethan watched me closely but kept quiet.

"I was walking past the study when I heard voices," I continued. "Keith and Mr. Carlby, our Butler."

At Keith’s name, Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly, the first real crack in his guarded demeanor.

"They were talking about Logan."

Ethan straightened a bit. "Talking how?"

I took a breath, recalling the exact tone of Keith’s voice, calm, almost indifferent, as if he were discussing quarterly projections rather than a man’s death.

"Keith said the motel was ’handled,’" I told him quietly. "Mr. Carlby was worried that people might start asking questions. Especially you."

Ethan’s eyes narrowed further. "What does that mean?"

"That’s what I wondered too." My voice dropped lower. "But then Keith said something else. He mentioned that if Logan had kept quiet, none of this would’ve happened."

The foyer fell completely still. I could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room, the soft hum of the furnace kicking in somewhere below us.

Ethan’s face didn’t change at first, but I could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, his hands curling into slow fists at his sides.

"Are you sure that’s what he said?" he asked, each word careful and measured.

"Yes." I nodded firmly. "And when Mr. Carlby said things were getting dangerous, Keith said Logan forced his hand."

Those words lingered between us like smoke.

Ethan’s eyes widened slightly, the implication finally hitting home.

"He... forced his hand?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded again. "And he made it sound like that motel incident was just another problem he’d solved."

Ethan looked away for a moment, running a hand roughly through his hair, his fingers tangling in it. When he met my gaze again, the disbelief on his face felt raw, almost childlike.

"You’re saying Keith killed Logan."

"I don’t know if he did it himself," I said quickly, realizing how crucial that distinction felt. "But he’s right in the thick of this. You could hear it in the way he spoke, like...like it was all a done deal, like it had to happen."

Ethan just stared at me, stunned into silence.

"But Keith—" he started and then stopped himself.

Keith the philanthropist.

Keith the man who shook hands with mayors and cut ribbons at community centers.

Keith the guy who’d married my mom and promised to take care of us.

How could such a kind and gentle man...be capable of murder?

"That doesn’t make sense," Ethan muttered, though the certainty had already drained from his voice.

"I get it," I said softly. "I didn’t want to believe it either. I still don’t, but I heard it. I heard him say it."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The house creaked around us like it was listening.

Then Ethan’s gaze sharpened, cutting right through me.

"Does Adrien know?"

I shook my head immediately. "No. And I have no idea how to tell him. That’s his father."

Ethan exhaled slowly, the sound ragged. For the first time since I’d shown up, the anger between us, the sharp edges of hurt and jealousy...subsided into something entirely different.

Fear.

Pure, cold fear.

And the awful, shared realization that Logan’s death wasn’t a suicide at all.

Ethan finally spoke the words we had both been avoiding.

"If you’re right..." His voice cracked on the last word. "If you’re right, then we’re dealing with a killer. And he’s much closer than we thought."

That sentence hit me like a punch.

We stood there in the dim foyer, two boys who’d once danced under fake snow and kissed in hidden corners, now staring at each other across a divide that had nothing to do with love anymore and everything to do with survival.

The heartbreak, the betrayal, the impossible choices, they suddenly felt small.

Insignificant.