LATE NIGHTS IN VEGAS

The neon lights of Fremont Street pulsed like a heartbeat, casting red and blue across the cracked pavement. Tourists still drifted in clusters farther down the block, snapping photos, laughing too loud, the music of slot machines spilling from the casinos. Here, in this corner where the light flickered, the world narrowed into silence. My knees were soaked. Not from rain. From him. “Jamie—” My voice broke, my hands slick with blood as I pressed against the wound in his chest. The warmth poured out too fast, thick and unrelenting, like a tide determined to pull him under. His lips moved. At first, I thought it was just air leaving his lungs, the body’s last betrayal. But then I heard it, a whisper rasped into the night. Antoine. I froze, leaning closer, desperate. “What? What about Antoine?” But his eyes—eyes that had once squinted against sunlight as he laughed at our backyard jokes, eyes that softened when he promised to protect me after Mom died—clouded over. He was gone. Just like that. “NO!” The scream tore out of me, jagged, raw. I shook him hard enough that his head lolled against my arm. “Stay with me, Jamie! Stay—please—” But the plea was useless. My brother’s chest no longer rose. Around me, the street seemed to breathe with whispers. Faces hovered in the shadows—some curious, most fearful. A man in a wrinkled shirt muttered to the woman beside him. “Antoine’s men.” Another voice: “They run this block. You didn’t see anything. Don’t get involved.” Feet shuffled, bodies turned away, retreating. By the time the sirens grew closer, the crowd had thinned, scattering like roaches under a light. Of course they left. Everyone in Vegas knew the rules: when blood hit the pavement, it belonged to Antoine. And when Antoine’s name was involved, no one stayed. I lowered my forehead to Jamie’s chest, my tears streaking the crimson stain spreading across his shirt. “I’ll make him pay,” I whispered into the silence. “Do you hear me? I swear it.” Something hard pressed against my thigh. I slid my hand into Jamie’s jacket pocket and pulled free a small, leather-bound notebook. It was soaked, the cover stiff with blood, but my fingers itched to open it. Flipping through, I found scribbled numbers, codes I didn’t understand. But over and over, one name appeared in uneven handwriting, pressed so deep the pen had nearly torn the page. Antoine. The letters burned into me, searing my vision. My brother hadn’t just known his name. He’d obsessed over it. Tracked it. The sirens wailed louder now, tires screeching as a black-and-white pulled up to the curb. I shoved the notebook into my bag, clutching it like a lifeline. Two officers jumped out, but neither rushed to help me. Their eyes flickered to the body, then quickly away. One muttered under his breath, “Shit.” “Where were you when I called?” My voice cracked with fury. “Where the hell were you?” “Miss,” one said, his tone clipped, professional. “We’ll handle it from here.” Handle it. They wouldn’t. I could see it in the tight set of their jaws, in the way they avoided my eyes. Antoine’s name held power. It turned lawmen into cowards. When they pried me away, I screamed until my throat was raw. When they zipped Jamie into a black bag, the sound was worse than the gunshot. Final. Hollow. Like nails hammered into my chest. Back at my apartment, the hours blurred. I sat on the couch with the notebook in my lap, hands shaking as I traced the stained pages. I thought of Jamie’s smile, the way he used to sing off-key in the shower, how he always remembered to buy my favorite coffee creamer when money was tight. He’d been my anchor, my protector. Now the only family I had left was a name written in blood. Antoine. Grief carved me hollow. Rage filled the emptiness. I turned the notebook to the last page. My breath caught. The sheet had been torn jaggedly down the middle, ripped out with urgency. Someone had taken it. The one piece of information Jamie hadn’t wanted me to see. Or hadn’t lived long enough to share. I stared at the ragged edge, my heart pounding. Whoever had that page knew the truth. Knew why my brother died. And maybe… knew why he’d spoken Antoine’s name with his last breath. The neon glow bled through my curtains, painting the room red. I clutched the notebook to my chest and made my vow again, stronger this time. “I’ll find him. I’ll find Antoine.” And when I did, I’d get close enough to watch the life fade from his eyes. Just like I’d watched it fade from Jamie’s.