Chapter 2The Good Brother With A Deadly Secret

I hadn't meant to be found.

Three months ago, Grant had tearfully told Savannah I was a lost cause—flunking out of school and running with “gutter trash.”

He even forged a few compromising photos of me in bed and showed them to her as irrefutable proof.

Savannah believed him.

No matter how I pleaded, her face was a black storm cloud. She had only one thing to say:

“Elias, you’re truly disgusting.”

I was beyond defending myself. The outrage made my whole body ache. I lost it, slapping Grant across the face.

Savannah immediately returned the favor—for him.

Her swing was massive; the blow knocked me to the floor, my ear ringing a loud, sickening buzz.

Clutching my face, I stared at her in disbelief. The feeling of betrayal was too much. I bolted out the door.

I was going to crash at a cheap motel for a few nights.

But the pain in my ear became unbearable, and ached all over.

The doctor diagnosed a perforated eardrum in my left ear, then dropped the second bomb: late-stage blood cancer.

The doctor frowned. “That ear will never hear again. If someone hit you, you should report it.”

He continued, “As for the cancer, I recommend conservative care…”

The implication was clear: it was terminal.

I walked out of the hospital, still in shock.

Everyone rushed past, looking purposeful, most of them with family nearby.

I sank down onto the curb, hiding in a corner, and just wept.

My phone was dead. I hadn't charged it since I left.

Two days later, Savannah tracked me down. She roared, livid:

“Why didn’t you come home? Do you know how long I looked for you?!”

“You’re the one who screwed up, and all I did was hit you once. Was that really worth running away over?”

She looked haggard, a wreck of anger and exhaustion. She grabbed my wrist, pleading:

“Please. Just—just cut me a break, will you?”

In that moment, I remembered something my grandmother used to say:

“If you die full of hatred, you’ll become a vengeful spirit, and you won’t get a good rebirth.”

My grandparents had a lifelong love story. Then, on her deathbed, my grandmother found out my grandfather had two illegitimate children. Yet, she found a way to let go of that resentment.

What did I have to hold onto?

So I went home with Savannah, and we never spoke about the past again.

In those first weeks, the thought of dying would hit me, and I’d cry in secret.

A few times, Savannah caught me. She would coldly snap, annoyed:

“Crying, crying, crying. I have no idea why you’re constantly tearing up. Can’t you learn to be a man, like Grant?”

I tried to mention my diagnosis once. She didn't take it seriously, instantly dismissing it as a lie.

After that, I stopped trying.

She complained I was loud, so I never spoke to her first.

She called me selfish, so I handed everything over to Grant.

When she finally couldn't find a fault in me, she decided I was just pouting.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was my own peace.

Every day ahead was just waiting to die.

I was far more excited about the next life.

At midnight, I lit fireworks alone in the backyard.

I didn’t want to wake Savannah and Grant, so I used the cheap, dollar-store sparklers.

The fire sizzled and cracked from end to end.

I made a wish: to make it through the new year.

I slept in late the next day.

When I got up, Savannah was sitting on the sofa.

Our eyes met. The sheer rage in hers was barely contained.

My heart sank. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her palm. Lying there was the pill bottle I’d forgotten to pick up yesterday.

I thought she knew. I clenched my fists, a tiny, desperate flicker of hope rising in my chest.

Now that she knew about the cancer, would she finally care? Would her attitude soften?

The next moment, she spat out the words, cold as ice:

“Elias Bellweather, you’re an addict.”