THE HEIR THEY CAST AWAY

Alexander kept the waterproof phone raised as he walked the last stretch of sidewalk. The camera caught the gray sky, the drenched pavement ahead, and the occasional car hissing past. He wasn’t talking. He just liked the sound of his own footsteps mixed with the rain—a proof that the day was ending and he was almost home. Alexander pushed the front door open with his shoulder, the backpack still hanging on one side. The house smelled like the lemon cleaner Nita always used on the floors. He stepped inside, still filming, angling the phone toward the hallway like he might catch something ordinary—maybe recording someone. Instead, he heard a sharp, alarming sound. He puzzled. Another choked breath followed, then the unusual sound of something heavy collapsing to the ground. Alexander, with the phone still up, moved without thinking. He rounded the corner into the living room, and the world narrowed to the space between the sofa and the low table. Harry stood over her. Nita was on the floor, one hand pressed to her side—her blood gushed out and soaked the pale rug. Harry’s arm rose with a knife, which caught the overhead light for half a second before it disappeared into her again. Alexander’s breath left him in a single broken sound. Harry swung his head up, and their eyes met. For one mysterious second, neither of them moved. Meanwhile, Alexander's phone kept filming, his hand shaking so hard to film unstable video, but it still caught everything—Harry’s face, the knife, and Nita’s open eyes staring at nothing. Harry stepped over the lifeless body. Immediately, Alexander turned and ran. He slammed into the hallway wall, rebounded, and routed toward the exit door at the back of the house. Harry’s pounding footsteps and low and broad voice followed after him. “Come here.” Alexander didn’t answer. He cut through the kitchen, knocked a chair sideways, but Harry jumped over it. The side door stuck for a terrifying half-second before it gave. Rain hit his face the moment he crossed the threshold. He ran across the wet patio, vaulted the low fence at the edge of the property, and landed hard on the other side. Pain flew to his shin, but he wouldn’t relent. Behind him the fence rattled as Harry climbed it. The street was empty and dark. Rain came down in sheets, soaking through his hoodie in seconds. Alexander’s backpack made him uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure where he was heading—only that he was certain any other place would be safer than home. Harry’s footsteps slapped the pavement behind him, closing the distance. Alexander cut between two parked cars and slipped on the slick asphalt. He went down hard on one knee, scrambled up, and kept running. His lungs burned. The phone was still clenched in his right hand, the screen dark now, the camera long since stopped. A sharp c***k of metal against concrete sounded behind him. Harry had slipped into a ditch—Alexander didn’t look back to find out. He only heard the heavy impact of both Harry’s fall, the sound of knife scraping on the ground, and the unexpected ending of the chasing footsteps. He ran until the houses thinned and the streetlights grew farther away. Then his legs simply stopped moving. He staggered under the wide branches of an old oak and then collapsed against its trunk. Rain poured through the leaves, causing his hair to glue on his forehead. His whole body shivered—cold, shock, and leftover adrenaline all mixed together. He stared at the phone in his hand; a new c***k appeared on the screen. And even without opening the gallery, he was assured of what’s saved in it. Nita was gone. He was born a bastard, and even Harry, whom he assumed was a father figure, chased him with a knife. The scene played in his head like he was watching a movie. He had recorded it abruptly. And the man who raised him—or claimed to—had done it for some foolish reason. Alexander pulled his knees up and pressed his forehead against them as he wept. He shivered while water ran down the back of his neck. Suddenly, a pair of headlights flashed across the lot and slowed. The car was black and expensive—the kind that belonged to people who never got wet unless they chose to. The driver’s window lowered a few inches, but no one spoke for seconds after it stopped ten feet from the tree. Alexander lifted his head; a wave of panic surged through him again. Harry had money, people, and of course, someone had been sent. He stood upright quickly, ready to run again even though the pain in his leg was unbearable. The phone stayed locked in his fist. The passenger door opened. A man stepped out into the rain. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark coat that looked untouched by the weather. His face was partially shadowed by the streetlight, yet Alexander could see both his angular features and steady eyes. As if sensing his mind, the man raised both hands up. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said; his voice was almost quiet against the rain. “You look like you need help.” Alexander’s throat closed. The words came out cracked and raw. “Please… don’t kill me.” The man stopped. Rain hammered on his shoulders. For a brief moment he glanced at the soaked teenager under the tree, great concern rolling in his eyes—the type that cause Alexander’s heart to be alerted. Then he spoke again, slower. “I’m Blackwell and not here to kill anyone. I only noticed that you seem hurt and stranded. That’s all.” Alexander didn’t move. Water dripped from his chin. The phone felt heavier than it should in his hand—the only proof he had left. The headlights stayed on, cutting white lines through the rain. The man waited, hands still stretched to help. But Alexander’s body weighed heavier beneath his legs. He had nowhere left to run, and the cold was becoming overwhelming. He stayed under the tree, phone clenched tight, and watched the stranger who claimed he only wanted to help.