Page 2 of Exposing Colorado

Then, my father sighs heavily before saying the words that splinter my entire being into pieces. “Yes. But you’re still our son.”

My stomach lurches, the world tilting around me.

I hoped—God, I hoped—that it wasn’t real. But hearing them say it out loud feels like a knife straight to the ribs. A slow, twisting agony that rips through everything I thought I knew.

I stagger back, the porch suddenly too small, the air too thin. My mind races, struggling to connect pieces that I don’t want to fit together.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“Logan, please, just listen—” Mom reaches for me again, but I pull back so fast I nearly stumble.

“I am listening. And I hear everything now.”

Decades of secrets. All the shame I stuffed deep down. The fucking irony of it all. My whole goddamn life, I tried to be the son they wanted. The man I thought I was supposed to be.

Turns out, I was nothing more than a cosmic punchline at my own expense.

Dad doesn’t even try to soften the blow. “We did what we had to do.”

I bark out an almost manic laugh as I turn away, but I don’t answer. All I can think about is her. My wife.

And Devon.

My eyes squeeze shut, but that only makes it worse because now I see it—the two of them together. The betrayal carved into my skin, into my fucking DNA.

She screamed that our marriage was a mistake. She slept with my adopted brother. My parents’ real son.

A shudder wracks through my body, and I force my legs to move. One step, then another. The front door gapes behind me like a black hole, no longer my home. Maybe it never was.

I don’t say goodbye.

I don’t say anything at all. Just stumble to my car, throw myself inside and speed out of the driveway like I have somewhere to be and people waiting who care about me.

But the truth is, I don’t.

I have nothing.

And I am no one.

Chapter

Two

Salem - One Year Later

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I disagree.

A picture is worthless.

Flimsy paper, easily crumpled and tossed aside. Burned to ash, ripped to shreds. Weak. Delicate. Of all the ways to capture a memory, most choose thin material behind fragile glass.

Myself included.

As I pull the first print from the tray, I watch the image sharpen, details blooming in the dim red glow of my darkroom. It’s a face I know all too well—sharp gray eyes, a ghost of a smile, freckled cheeks. A moment stolen in time.

But it’s not real.

The person in the photo doesn’t exist anymore, not like this.