Page 90 of Captive of Outlaws

“—it’d just go to him anyway,” Tuck finishes. He blows out a breath and sweeps his hair off his forehead, leaning back in his chair. “Jesus, Maren. I’m so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as he’s going to be,” I spit. I fold my arms, fury coursing through me. “If I ever see him again, I’m going to...to...”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Tuck says, getting to his feet and coming to rub my arms. “Revenge is best served cold, okay? And maybe not when your uncle’s actively trying to, uh...

“Murder me for my family fortune?” I laugh a humorless laugh. “God, how is this my life? It all sounds so fuckingsoap opera.What’s next, a long-lost identical twin? It’s all just a dream thought up by some kid? I mean, seriously.”

Tuck laughs a little, but my ranting seems to be making him uncomfortable, so I dial it back.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m coming in hot. It’s just a lot to process. But also...good. Good to know the truth.”

Tuck nods. “Mm. I bet. I’m glad I could help.”

I flush. “Thank you.” I blow out a breath, and walk slowly back to the computer. “Wonder if there’s anything else mindblowing in here.”

I scroll back to the main results page, click around a bit. I pull up my parents’ marriage certificate, which breaks my heart a little to read, then my own birth certificate. And then, a bit further down...

“Police report,” I breathe. “July 17th.”

“That was the day they died,” Tuck says. Not a question, but I nod anyway. “I mean, I figured, based on the way you said it,” he adds quickly. “Are you sure you want to...”

“Yes.” I double click it—out of self-destruction or morbid curiosity or poor impulse control, I don’t know. But there it is, in black and white: the report from the night my parents died.

It’s what I expect, which is a strange kind of relief. Late night, slick roads, single car accident. 2:24 a.m. Telephone pole and terrible, terrible timing.

But there’s more. There’s—Jesus, there’s anautopsyreportfor my dad.

I never knew there had been an autopsy.

“Maren,” Tuck says gently. “Maybe you don’t need to read—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, and keep scrolling. Maybe it’s sick of me, but I don’t care. I can’t let the truth lurk out there if I know it exists. Not anymore.

My eyes skim with a strange ease past the gorier language—contusions, trauma, bleeding—and somehow, like a magnet pull, find a single phrase.

Blood tests indicate high opiate levels. Intoxication at time of death was likely.

I freeze. My hand finds my mouth, and I hear my own gasp from a distance, like it’s on a two-second delay.

“Maren—”

I can barely hear Tuck’s voice. I swallow, but my mouth is a desert. Swallow. Swallow. Try not to cry.

“Fucking...” I mutter at last, after how many seconds have passed, I don’t know. “Fuckingdrugs,Dad?”

The ear-piercing wail that fills the office is my own.

I crumple into Tuck’s chest, heaving sobs harder than anything I’ve cried in the past weeks, a soggy, snotty, stupid angry mess of a girl.

How is this my life?

I SPEND THE REST OFthe afternoon alone in my room, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

It doesn’t make sense.

And yet...it does.

My dad wasn’t perfect. He’d have been the first to tell youthat. He always had those light kinds of addictions that rich men get into—fast cars, big vacations, spending a little too much at poker night at the Fox Hunt Club, enjoying whiskey and a cigar more than was probably healthy—but drugs?

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