The first word was one she’d seen a hundred times in the comment sections under her fathers’ videos. In person, it burned. She approached the slur; it stretched the full width of the wall between their doors, red paint glaring at her. Only four letters, but each one was a punch to the gut. Whoever had left it had the forethought to make it plural.
The phrase below it was what snatched her breath away. YOU KILLED HIM.
The door swung open. A pajama-clad Alejo stepped into the threshold and stifled a yawn in the crook of his elbow. Logan’s stomach dropped. She was overcome with the sudden urge to throw herself over the door if it meant he and Brandon didn’t see it, too.
“What’s going on?” Brandon asked, joining them outside.
Alejo rubbed his eyes and followed Logan’s gaze to the wall. When he saw it, he said nothing. The night smelled like old garbage and laundry.
“Bran, I don’t think you should—”
Brandon adjusted his glasses and stared at the slur. Wordlessly, he ambled back into the motel room, hand perched to cover his face.
“We should talk to the cops,” Logan said. “People can’t—”
Alejo turned and put his hands on her shoulders. His expression was impossible to read—concern, fear, anger, pity—and he shook his head. “No. Don’t worry about that. We—Gracia will come help us cover it in the morning. It’s not…”
“It’s not what?” Logan asked.
Alejo looked past her at the boy who’d woken them. “Elexis. I almost didn’t recognize you in the dark.”
The boy nodded. “I’m sorry, Tío. I tried to wake you up first, but—”
“Thank you for letting us know.” Alejo sucked in a sharp breath. “Why don’t you get back to sleep? We’ll take it from here.”
Elexis made his way back across the parking lot, ducking into the motel room on the far end of the building. Logan made a mental note of it—if Alejo was his tío, that made Elexis her family, too.
Logan furrowed her brow. “You were gonna say it’s not a big deal.”
A hate crime was a big deal, actually. Logan was no expert, but she was pretty sure hate crimes were illegal. She was pretty sure the police were supposed to do something about them.
Alejo looked over his shoulder, eyes fixed on Brandon, silhouette outlined in the pale light of the motel room. He didn’t seem surprised or angry or even disappointed. He was just … quiet. He looked like he had in her dream, broad and emotionless. Unreadable.
“No cops,” Alejo said. He pulled her into a hug, cupping her head against his shoulder. “Just us. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Somehow, she doubted that.
10
From The Beginning
“Where’s Paris?”
Ashley slapped her palm on the front desk of the Owyhee County police station, startling Becky Golden out of her usual cheery daze. The station lobby was eerily quiet at nine in the morning, the silence broken only by the hum of an outdated computer and the fridge in the break room.
The world spun too fast. After Fran and John had taken her home, she hadn’t slept. It was a miracle she hadn’t woken her mother with her restless pacing. It didn’t make sense—she’d seen Tristan in the woods, heard his breathing, been close enough to reach out and touch him. Her voice echoed from the brick walls, reverberating back at her like a slap.
Becky blinked. “Ashley? Are you okay? You look sick.”
“I’m fine. Where’s Paris?”
“At home, probably. I can call him if it’s an emergency.”