You parked outside the Cameron estate, the gravel crunching under your tires as you replayed Topper’s voicemail for what felt like the tenth time.

“Keys,” he’d barked. “I left my keys at Rafe’s. Can you grab them? I’m already halfway to Wilmington—don’t make this a big deal, okay?”

Typical Topper. You’d sighed but relented. Being the little sister meant cleaning up Topper’s messes more often than you’d care to admit, and he always knew you’d say yes.

The Camerons and Thorntons were practically family—weekend barbecues, joint beach vacations, even the occasional Christmas dinner when things were too hectic to host separately. You’d grown up with the Camerons, their house as familiar as your own.

But still, you hesitated. Because Rafe was there.

Rafe Cameron. Your Brother's bestfriend. The boy you’d had a crush on since you were kids. The boy your brother insisted was bad news—too old, too reckless, too dangerous. You weren’t supposed to be around him, let alone think about him the way you did, when did what Topper said ever stopped you? Your crush on Rafe was low-key a Secret. Just a few stolen glances when Rafe wasn't looking or the way you blushed when Rafe teased you playfully.

Taking a steadying breath, you stepped out of the car and made your way toward the house. The porch light was on, but the driveway was eerily quiet, save for Rafe’s truck parked at an odd angle.

“Rafe?” you called softly, your voice barely cutting through the stillness.

No answer.

You rounded the truck, and that’s when you saw him.

Rafe stood at the back of the truck, his hands braced on the tailgate and his shirt was soaked in blood. It streaked his arms, his hands, even the sharp line of his jaw. His face was unreadable—cold, detached, like none of this was out of the ordinary. Behind him, something heavy was slumped in the bed of the truck, covered in a tarp. A body.