A heavy notebook dropped out of one of the boxes, thudding against the concrete floor. I picked it up and flipped through it. As I read some of the text, I knew what it was a diary. Brycen’s words enamored me, and I couldn’t look away.

“Did you find something?”

“Not sure,” I muttered, turning the page. “Just reading for now.”

“Guess I’ll keep looking then.”

I nodded but stayed focused on the book.

…I think I’m in love with E. We went out of town today. E gave me whatever I wanted.

…I never thought I could be so happy.

…Am I doing the right thing?

…He knows. I know he knows, and I’m terrified. I wish I could tell Abi, but she wouldn’t understand. I’m fucking scared.

My heart clenched. The more I read, the more the story twisted. Brycen wrote that he was scared of Enzo and Benito. He wanted to get away, but he couldn’t. I flipped to another page. He had another slip-up. He was back on drugs worse than before, from what I could tell by looking at his slanted writing. I turned the page, my heart racing, only to be met with nothing.

I frowned at the sight of ripped-out edges where the pages should be. Someone had torn them out. My stomach clenched. Did Enzo do this? Or Benito? Giancarlo? Why get rid of these pages and not the whole journal?

Nausea rose in my throat. What if those missing pages concealed the truth about Enzo and what really happened with Brycen? I closed my eyes, trying not to think about it. Enzo had explained it all, and I’d been on his side. But what if he was lying?

“Caster? What’s wrong? You look pale.”

I stared at Rourke. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

No, I was far from okay. The story Brycen told was different from what Enzo had shared with me. Brycen was in love with him, he cared about him, and he never even mentioned Benito. Had I really let Enzo talk me into something that was an outright lie?

Why am I even surprised? He’s a criminal. Of course, he lied to me.

I forced myself to focus on Rourke, whose face was pinched with concern. “I’m good. I should have eaten more this morning.”

“Okay,” Rourke said slowly. “What’s that?” He nodded toward the book in my hand. “Anything interesting?”

I stared at the leatherbound book. “No, just an old diary. It doesn’t have much in it.” I tossed the book back into a box. “Anything over there?”

Rourke turned his back on me and started talking about one of the boxes. I used that brief moment to snatch up the journal and shove it into the waistband of my jeans. Rourke turned around as I was yanking down my shirt to cover up the book.

“I can’t find anything here,” he said. “There’s some notes scribbled down I might be able to look into, but otherwise?” He shrugged. “This is a dud.”