Chapter 7: Secrets Surface
1016 Words
The morning began with rain, the kind that slicked London’s streets into mirrors and blurred the horizon into silver. Maya wrapped her coat tighter as she stepped into Horizon’s archives, a dim, quiet room on the lower floor that smelled faintly of paper and dust. Nina had told her she could look through old press kits, album notes, and photographs for “context.”
Context. Maya knew that was PR’s polite word for curated history. Still, she hoped for something more.
Boxes were stacked along the wall, each labeled in block letters: TOUR 2017, ALBUM LAUNCH 2019, PRESS 2020. She set her notebook on a table and began opening lids. Inside were glossy flyers, backstage photos, laminated passes. Smiles frozen in time.
Half an hour in, she found it.
A folder labeled COLE FAMILY — INTERNAL. It shouldn’t have been there; the handwriting was different, messier, as if someone had shoved it in without cataloging. Her pulse kicked. She hesitated, then opened it.
Photographs. Two young men on a beach. Both barefoot, both laughing, chasing each other into waves. One was Adrian, she recognized the tattoos, though they were fewer back then. The other had the same sharp jawline, but softer eyes, lighter hair. The resemblance was undeniable.
On the back of one photo, a note in pen: Elliot, 2014.
Her chest tightened. His brother.
Another photo showed them at a gig, Elliot with an arm slung around Adrian’s shoulders, both sweaty and exhilarated. Underneath was a clipping from a small local paper: Brothers Cole play surprise set in Brighton pub.
And then nothing. The folder ended there. No more photos, no notes, no explanations.
Maya sat back. Elliot existed. He wasn’t a rumor. He was part of Adrian’s story, and then, suddenly, gone.
She put the photos back carefully, heart racing. When she closed the folder, she realized she wasn’t alone.
Adrian stood in the doorway.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes went straight to the folder on the table. He walked in, each step deliberate, and lifted it with one hand.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, voice low.
“It was in the archive boxes,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t looking for”
“You weren’t supposed to see it.”
She swallowed. “Adrian, I didn’t know it was here.”
His grip tightened on the folder. For a moment, she thought he’d leave without another word. But he stayed, staring at her like he was measuring whether she’d broken something fragile.
“You think you’ve found a story,” he said.
“No,” she said softly. “I’ve found your brother.”
Silence. The kind that prickled.
Adrian closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “Elliot’s not part of this.”
“He’s part of you,” she said before she could stop herself.
His jaw clenched. “Maya”
“I won’t print it,” she interrupted. “Not unless you want me to. But you can’t ask me to pretend I didn’t see him.”
Something flickered across his face, pain, maybe. Memory. He set the folder down, turned away, and pressed both hands against the edge of the table. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.
“Elliot’s dead,” he said finally. The words landed like stones. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”
Maya’s throat tightened. She wanted to step closer, to put a hand on his arm, but she stayed still. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer.
Later, rehearsal was strained. Adrian barked corrections more than usual, his patience thin. Theo muttered curses under his breath; Ash played so quietly his bass barely registered. Liv threw Maya a helpless look but said nothing.
When they broke for lunch, Maya slipped outside. The rain had eased to a drizzle, the air smelling of wet concrete and exhaust. She leaned against the building, trying to calm the weight in her chest.
Footsteps. Adrian joined her, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
“You didn’t know,” he said. His voice was softer now.
“No,” she admitted. “I just… I wanted context. For the music. That’s all.”
He nodded slowly, staring at the street. “Elliot was better than me. At guitar. At life. He didn’t want the spotlight. He wanted…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” she said gently.
His mouth twisted. “It killed him.”
Maya felt the chill seep deeper. “How?”
Adrian’s eyes flicked to hers, sharp again. “Not today.”
She held his gaze. “Okay. Not today.”
They stood in silence, listening to the hiss of tires on wet asphalt.
Then he spoke, so quietly she almost missed it. “Don’t let Daniel near this. He’ll spin it into something ugly.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
His eyes softened, just a fraction. “That’s why you’re still here.”
That night, Maya couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, Elliot’s name echoing in her head. She thought about Adrian’s music, the aching edges, the way his lyrics circled loss without ever naming it.
Now she knew why.
She reached for her notebook and wrote one line in the dark:
His songs are eulogies no one recognizes.
When she set the pen down, her phone buzzed.
A: Awake?
She hesitated, then typed back: Yes.
A: Couldn’t sleep. Kept hearing the bridge you said was needy.
She smiled faintly. You fixed it?
A: Tried. Still wrong. But maybe wrong is honest.
Her fingers paused. Then: Sometimes wrong is the truest thing.
There was a long gap. Then three dots. Then one word:
A: Exactly.
Maya set her phone down, heart tight. She knew she was crossing a line. But maybe that line had already blurred the moment she saw the photo of Elliot’s arm slung around his brother’s shoulders, two boys laughing on a beach, not yet broken by what the world would demand.
- Writer
