Page 75 of Savage Heart

I lower the phone slowly, staring at my reflection in the dark screen.

Brandon and I don’t talk while we ride. I take us to the far pasture that overlooks the river.

We dismount. Brandon paces once, then stops, hands on his hips. He lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for years and rubs a hand over his face.

“Lincoln called me, said they’d had a wreck. I was new on the force, still trying to prove myself. But I was off that night, and I got there before anyone else.”

My chest is already tight with dread.

“I pulled over,” he continues. “Called it in. Then I ran toward the road. And they weren’t in the car. They were on the grass. Off to the side. Iris was sitting up, and Lincoln was next to her.”

I nod, urging him to keep going.

“Lincoln had blood on his head,” Brandon says. “Not a lot, but enough that I thought he should go to the hospital. He was crying. Talking a mile a minute.”

“About what?”

“That he was gonna be in trouble,” Brandon says. “That Dad was gonna be mad. That he couldn’t lose his scholarship.”

My jaw clenches. I don’t want to hear all of this. It hurts too much.

“He kept saying he was okay,” Brandon continues. “Kept trying to stand up. Full of adrenaline. Fear.”

“And Iris?” I ask.

He hesitates.

“She was shaking. She kept her hand on him, trying to calm him down. I told Lincoln to be still. He was . . . drunk, but his pupils looked okay. He knew his name and how old he was. Told me the date wrong, but I thought it was just because he was freaked out.”

Silence stretches.

“He kept looking at Iris and . . .” His eyes meet mine, and he swallows hard. “He said, ‘You have to cover for me.’”

“What? What did he mean by that?” I snap.

“And Iris promised she would,” he says like he doesn’t hear me.

“What do you mean?” I yell. “What did she promise?”

“Iris promised she’d say she was driving.”

The blood drains from my face.

“What?” I whisper.

“She took the blame,” Brandon says, his eyes not meeting mine anymore. “Didn’t argue. Didn’t correct anyone. Just told the arriving officers that it was her driving.”

I bend over, feeling gutted.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I choke out.

“We promised him,” he says softly. “I thought I was helping.”

I stare up at him through glassy eyes. “Helping who, exactly?”

“My brother,” he says, his voice cracking.

I stare down at the dirt, my mind going a thousand directions. I feel like I’m going to be sick, wave after wave of nausea roiling through me.