Page 87 of Beautiful Scars

He looks up as I hover in the doorway, face unreadable. "You came."

"You said I needed to see something."

He nods, pushing back from the desk. "Come in. Close the door."

I do, though every instinct screams to keep an escape route open. Z has never given me reason not to trust him, but old habits die hard.

"Sit." He gestures to a chair across from him.

I perch on the edge, ready to bolt. "What did you find?"

Instead of answering, Z pulls open a drawer and sets a manila envelope on the desk between us. It's old, edges worn and frayed with time. No labels or markings to hint at what's inside.

"Before you open this," he says carefully, "I need you to understand something. What's in here—it's going to hurt. But you deserve to know the truth. And we all could use some answers."

Istareattheenvelope, hands shaking as I reach for it. After everything—seeing Levi again, reliving that night, spilling my hatred at him— what could possibly hurt more than that?

"Go ahead," Z says softly.

I slide my chair closer to his desk, the legs scraping against hardwood. The envelope feels heavy in my hands, weighted with more than just paper. Taking a deep breath, I upend it over the desk.

Photos spill out first, scattering across the polished surface like fallen leaves. Behind them tumble what look like letters, paper yellowed with age, creases worn soft from repeated folding and unfolding. My heart stops as I pick up the first photo.

It's me. In a hospital bed.

The image is grainy, clearly taken from a distance, maybe through a window. I'm unconscious, tubes and wires everywhere. Bandages wrap my chest, peek out from under the thin hospital gown. Dark bruises mottle every visible inch of skin.

My hands shake harder as I pick up another. And another. More photos of me in the hospital, tracking my recovery day by day. Some are closer—taken from inside the room while I slept. The thought makes me shudder.

"There's more," Z says quietly.

I shuffle through the stack. Photos of me leaving the hospital. Getting on the bus. Arriving in Oak Valley. My first day working at Sirens. Years of surveillance, documenting every move I made.

"Someone's been watching me. All this time?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.

"Look at this first," Z says. He's holding a stack of photos, separate from the rest. He takes the first one and passes it to me. Three men stand arm in arm outside what looks like a warehouse. "Do you recognize everyone in that photo? It was taken about a year before your father died."

"Umm. That's my dad. And that's Garrett?" My stomach lurches. "What the hell is this Zane?"

Zane reaches across the desk and points to the man in the middle. "That is Alexander Reeves. Levi's father."

"Wait." I grab Z's wrist as he reaches for another document. "My father knew Levi's father? That's... that's impossible. I would have known."

"Would you?" Z's voice is gentle. "You were young, Sunny."

I stare at the photograph again. My father—the man who taught me to draw, who'd sing off-key while making me sundaes—standing there with Alexander Reeves like they were old friends. And Garrett. The same Garrett who...

"No." My voice breaks. "My father would never associate with someone like Levi's dad. Or Garrett. He was good. He was..."

But was he?

The words die in my throat as Z slides another photo across the desk.

A birthday party. I instantly recognize myself and my old backyard. I'm maybe five or six, sitting at a picnic table, wearing a shiny party hat, getting ready to open a brightly wrapped gift. In the background, my father and Alexander Reeves sit at the patio table, heads bent close in conversation. Garrett stands behind them, eyes focused on me.

"This was at my house." Bile rises in my throat. "All this time. Garrett. He was there, waiting.”

"I don't understand any of this Zane." I swallow hard over the lump in my throat.

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