[a/n]: so this is gonna be the last author's note until the end to make for smoother reading. this chapter is heavy and there is so much angst i'm shocked i'm capable of it. these updates are becoming quite frequent, here's to hoping that Y is completed before 2017. - imo X

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27: Underage

Devin asked me what it was like to be in love once. I remember with a distinct clarity, the way her hair blew back in the wind—tones and colours I didn't know existed illuminated when the sun hit her curls—eyes piercing me into my seat. It was the last county fair she'd attended, one of the first times I remember seeing her out in public when she wasn't under Grant's arm.

I was with Charlie at the time—still unsure if what we had was pure enough to call love, or if we were facing the truth and calling it out on the bitterness that it was. I get carried away when I look back on my memories without the tint of emotion to mar them—I manage to surprise even myself with how young I was. "Love," I said, voice caught in a laugh that never happened, "it's like . . . coming home. It's warm."

Her lips pursed in thought, "Well," she said, sipping at her lemonade. "I damn well don't have that with Grant. He's jagged—cruel and I think someday I'm going to end up cutting myself on him." I'd never understood Devin then, because she may have been the same age as me but she was infinitely older. Even then, I just didn't get how you could cut yourself on a person, what Devin meant, what she wanted me to understand.

"Maybe we love in different ways," I'd suggested, overcome with this desire to prove useful to Devin, caught in a trap which had me performing even when I didn't want to. "Maybe we accept love differently."

"Maybe," she'd said, looking over my shoulder. I turned around to catch the flash of a man in police uniform, but my view was obstructed by Idris stepping forward.

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Charlie lunges up from the chair in his anger, and I struggle to put the diary back in his bag. "You filthy piece of shit," he hisses, backing Idris up against the wall. I'm frozen in a moment I can't escape, watching fascinated as Charlie's hands tighten into fists, one of them rising to pin Idris by the neck. "You're fucking disgusting."

"So you've got the diary then, huh?" Idris chokes out, a smile on his face. "I'm sure it's a great read, dude, but you need to remember exactly who Devin was. She's a fucking liar—"

"She wouldn't lie about this," I say, standing up. "There's nothing for her to gain by putting it in her diary."

"Oh," Idris laughs, as though Charlie's left hand isn't around his neck, as though he hasn't just been called out for having sex with an underage girl—a girl who's now dead. "And now the two of you know her so well, do you? Get over yourselves, reading a few lines from a diary doesn't mean you know her. Not like how I did."

"Were you in love with her?"

Before Idris can answer, Charlie is quick to interject, tightening his hand causing Idris to choke. "Doesn't matter if he was. He's still a sicko who slept with a seventeen year old girl."

"So I fucked her. What's the big deal? It's not like it was just me at the scratching post. Man," Idris laughs, coughing, "it's Devin."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" I wonder, "Does it make it okay because it's Devin? Devin was seventeen, Idris, she was stupid and infatuated with Grant, she'd have done anyt—"

He snorts here. "Infatuated? Spare me the tripe. You've read the diary, Kasia, you can do better. You know she hated him. I only did it because I owed someone a favour."

"Who?" Charlie demands.

"A friend. Wanted to test her loyalty."

"Since when were you friends with Grant?"

"Grant? Fuck do I look like?"

Charlie steps back as we hear the crunching of gravel—a car pulling up towards the house. Idris rubs his neck, coughing whilst moving towards the window for a better look outside. He looks too pleased with himself, for someone who was being strangled moments ago—as though he isn't facing the very real possibility of us calling the police on him.

"Sorry to cut this meeting short," he says, adjusting the cuffs to his shirt which had been immaculately pressed before he'd been shoved up against the wall. "But I have visitors, and you need to leave. Now."

"Whatever," Charlie snorts, pausing to grab my wrist and pick up his bag before storming out of the room. I catch a glimpse of Idris' smirk, a small shake of his head—he's incredulous, not so much for the ambush, I suspect, but the fact that Devin's still here, even when she shouldn't be—and then the two of us are marching on the gravel around the red car outside of Idris' house.

I can't get a good enough look about who's inside, the windows are tinted, and Charlie isn't interested in slowing down long enough for either of us to figure it out. I wonder if it's the same one that was waiting outside of Logan's building, or the one that came to pick Caggie up all those months ago—and whilst a part of me wants to believe differently, I know it is.

It's so obvious now that it's all connected.

It's not until we're back in Charlie's car, him dropping me off to a home I'm not sure I want to be in for much longer, that it clicks. The pieces are coming together, I'm starting to see the picture—and I get it. I'd thought it all so innocent, the beginnings of an interest that hadn't been there when it mattered—but what did I know, Kasia Andrews, not really a separate entity, an extension of a brother long dead who could get it but doesn't really, she's no Devin.

I may not be Devin Hill, and maybe it's too late for me to start understanding how things work—but I'm closer than I've ever been to figuring it out, and that must count for something. I turn to Charlie—who is focusing much harder on driving and not screaming than is strictly necessary—ready to spill secrets out on my tongue, but I falter, and that makes all of the difference.

"I know who was in the car," I say finally, licking my chapped lips and trying to control the pounding of my heart. Charlie's hands flex around the steering wheel—I wonder about the likelihood of those same hands being wrapped around my neck, whether it'd be the same as him holding his breath for me to care about him again—struggling to gain composure before the chance to trip up has even presented itself. I'm scared to tell him, the fear that by doing so it'll make it real, make this something much greater than us finding a diary in gym class—that he won't believe me, because it's so close to home.

"It was Fred," I continue to his silence.

He barely pauses a second, letting out a breathy laugh, and my stomach drops. He doesn't believe me, thinks me stupid, thinks I've concocted a scheme to show that the words he threw at me haven't affected me and this is me making a point to someone whose opinion isn't the be all and end all anymore. "Don't be ridiculous," he tuts, shaking his head, unruly black hair moving. "Fred doesn't have anything to do with that mess."

"Okay," I say, "I get that you don't want to believe it, but hear me out. He's got the last name as Julian, right?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It means too much for us to ignore it, Charlie," I continue passionately, the words that Dean told me resonating, because I'm finally doing something, making an effort to end this thing that has taken over my life and ruined so many of my relationships with people I care about. This isn't the time for Charlie to get concerned with saving face because he doesn't want to face the harsh reality that he messed up on his part regarding one of his best friends, too—not wanting to be a Kasia.

"It's convenient. Julian Roscoe—Freya's ex, he's the one who ordered the hit out on Byron, right, and then Logan C. told me th—"

"God," Charlie scoffs, disgusted, "you've been speaking to Logan? He's full of bullshit, he's probably told you a load of crap knowing that you'd take it seriously. Why do you always try to see the good in that guy? All he ever does it hurt you, Kasia!"

"Like you, then?" I interrupt sharply. "So now I've got you and Logan who think they're protecting me by lying to me? Why can't you just listen to me when I'm telling you the truth? It's Fred, I know it is!"

"No, it's not!" He roars. I fall into silence as he continues shouting, slamming his hand down on the steering wheel. "It's not fucking Fred, Kasia! I know Fred—I know exactly what kind of guy he is, and he wouldn't be involved in this kind of shit. So just drop it."

"You know him so well, do you?" I taunt him. "Your best friend outed Skylar for nothing other than shits and giggles. Your best friend is nothing but a piece of shit who makes insinuations that I'm nothing when I'm not connected to a guy. Your best friend, Charlie, is involved with the same people who killed my brother!"

"I'm telling you," he says softly, "he's not."

"You sound so defensive. Maybe you killed Devin all along." I mean it as a joke, but the way his lips purse and face darken makes me pause for thought. Neither of us speak for the remainder of the journey, and by the time he pulls up outside of my house, I'm itching to get out of the car. I want to be confident in the knowledge that I know Charlie—maybe not as well as I'd once thought to, but he's not like that, that I'm safe in a car with him, but the seed of doubt has been planted and I breathe a sigh of relief once I'm standing back on the sidewalk.

He stares at me, blinking but remaining silent. I don't know if he's disappointed that I'm so eager to get away from him, or disappointed that I've figured him out. Finally, he shakes his head—in what I'm not sure—before he looks at me again. "I thought you knew me better than that, Kas."

"You didn't deny it."

"Should I have to?" He asks, frowning. "I loved you once—I love you now, you should know me. I could never hurt another person like that."

"You had your hands wrapped around Idris' throat an hour ago. You've done nothing but hurt me since we found the diary."

"I can't believe it," Charlie laughs, a bitter sound from the back of his throat. "My ex-girlfriend thinks I'm capable of murder!"

"I don't know what you're capable of," I say to him, and that's what scares me.

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Graham's bought me a skateboard as an apology. It's lying on my bed once I get home, with him sitting beside it—I don't think about how long he's been waiting, I've been out of the house more these past three days than I have been all month. I hate to consider the possibility that Byron was the glue between Graham and I, because I love Graham like he's my brother—he's family and he's going to be around for the rest of my life, and Byron or not, we're going to make this work and try to get to know each other without Byron here to distract us.

He stands up as I appear in the doorway of my room, mouth opening to say things that he's too scared to follow through with. I stay silent until he's ready to speak, I'm hoping he has the sense of mind for the first thing for him to say to me to be an apology, though it makes me realise I should apologise for the slap. I feel like I've slowly been becoming a different person—not the same Kasia I was months ago, before the diary, before Byron died, before it became my responsibility to solve the mystery of a girl's murder.

Graham releases a heavy breath, wringing his hands in front of him. "I—I'm so sorry, Kas. What I said about Skylar was absolutely disgusting, and I don't think like that at all but—" he cuts himself off to find the right words, I cross my arms over my chest. "I was just so . . . angry. I've been trying to sub you in for Byron, for how close we used to be—and it just got so frustrating when it wasn't working, when I forgot that just because you're Byron's sister doesn't mean I can try to replace you for him. I just keep fucking everything up, so I got you the skateboard because I thought it'd make things better between us, but that's probably a stupid idea, too a—"

"Graham," I say, voice catching on a sigh, moving to wrap him up in a hug. "I'm sorry, too. I should have just told you how I was feeling instead of blowing up on you like that. And I'm sorry for hitting you, too."

"Don't apologise for that," his voice is muffled as his mouth is pressed against my hair. "I was an idiot who deserved it. God," he sighs, "we're making a real mess of this, aren't we?" I've made a mess of everything, I think to myself, moving out of the hug to look in his face, but I'm smart enough to stay silent and not face any more questions. "How do—how do we get past this?" The reality is that the both of us have been trying to replace each other for a new Byron—but neither of us will live up to the expectations we've set, and it's damaging for either of us to try and pretend that Byron isn't really gone.

It's going to take more than a skateboard, both of us know, but there's no use pointing it out and taking away Graham's apology—at least one of us is trying to make things better, I'm going round in circles of wanting things to happen but not doing anything to make it happen. "That's a good start," I tell him, gesturing to the skateboard lying on my bed, "it's something, right?"

"I guess so," he shrugs, looking displeased that there isn't an immediate fix to this situation. "Maybe," Graham pauses to lick his lips, "maybe we should go and see Byron?"

◦ ▲ ◦ ▲ ◦

I can't mourn the loss of my brother when I'm looking at a slab of stone with words engraved into it. It's the most impersonal thing I've ever known—I know his body may be six feet under, but this isn't where my brother is, this is nothing but a mark for people who never really knew him to come and lay flowers so they feel a bit better about themselves. Byron might not be here, because he's everywhere else, everywhere where he was alive and smiling and living—so I push my hands into my jacket as Graham steps forward to look at a place which represents his best friend and all of his missed opportunities.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Graham asks of me, reaching out to take my hand. I take it, stepping forward to be included in the bubble of the moment. "Byron—he was so alive, you know, and this is just so finite. Maybe ashes would have made him seem more immortal."

"I don't think so," I shake my head, hunching my shoulders from the cool wind that blows. On the peak of summer or not, the cemetery hasn't caught up. "Ashes reminded Byron of dust. You know how morbid he i—was."

"Yeah," he cracks a smile, "I guess so." Byron may have been the reason why we connected in the first place, but now it's up to us to make this worthwhile, to make this something that Byron would be proud of—I've known Graham for ten years and he means so much to me—to my family that I can't throw it away when I'm too stubborn to use my words and be straightforward with how I feel. "It's still weird though, I mean," he jerks his head to the right, "Devin's grave is over there."

Devin's grave is also heavily decorated in red roses, and my gut twists with the thought of who left them for her—who's left that hadn't grown so bitter towards her they weren't already wishing for her death. It's the nod to Devin that makes me remember what Idris said to me—words that I'm sure were said in jest but mean so much more, everything happens for a reason, I'm realising now but I don't know how to confront Graham about it—especially with how Charlie blew up at me earlier.

"Did you know Devin?" I ask him, tightening my hold of his hand so he doesn't feel like I'm attacking him when I ask him anything else.

"Not particularly," he says slowly, looking at me closely. "Byron mentioned her a few times, you know . . . in your sophomore year. With everything that happened with Idris' twin sister." Graham shrugs his shoulders. "Two different worlds, you know." I do know, maybe too well, how Devin Hill was on a completely different planet that we could only get glances at once in a while. "Why?"

"Oh, it's just—" I sigh, dropping the pretence of this being anything innocent. I want to tell Graham—not everything, not about the diary, but enough for him listen to me, so I don't feel like I'm doing this all alone with Charlie popping his head in to help me on occasion—so he can take me seriously and not dismiss everything that I'm about to say. "When Byron died, I went to see Logan—"

"Why would you go to see him? Are—are you together?"

"No!" I grab onto his hand with both of mine now, feeling as though I'm already losing him to something I'm not even aware of—in the same way I've already lost everyone important to me. "I trust him, Graham. I trust him not to lie to me. So I spoke to him about Byron."

"What could he have told you? They weren't close." His face scrunches in confusion.

"No, they weren't," I agree, choosing to keep out everything about the ring and the photo—I'm not going to be the one responsible for kicking Graham when he's already down, I worry that his friendship with Byron is the only thing that is keeping him going, and I don't know what he'll be without it. "Anyway, he mentioned this thing, right—and I . . . I didn't think much of it at first. But, I saw Idris today and something happened, and it makes sense now—because everything is connected, isn't it?"

"Kasia," Graham says, mouth open to ask a question but not ready for the answer. He turns to face me head on then, left hand covering both of mine. "What are you asking me?"

I take a deep breath, "Did you sleep with Devin?"

I'm not surprised with the way his face shuts down, but the disappointment is there all the same. He pulls back from me, tucking himself in tight as he looks at me like I'm a stranger and not someone who's as good as his sister. "Where did you hear that, Kasia? Tha—you can't be spreading shit like that around."

"Graham," my throat is raw, reaching out for him as he takes a step back from me. "Tell me it isn't true. Tell me right now and I'll believe you! Just say that you didn't. Tell me that you never did it!"

"Oh my god," he breathes, both of his hands in his hair, he releases a breath