Chapter 63 When Truth Isn't Enough
Chase's POV
I slipped an arm around Wynter’s waist, and when she signaled me to let go, I let go. “I think so.”
"Additionally, minor bruising on his upper arms. Fresh, occurring within hours of death. Pattern consistent with being gripped, possibly restrained."
"But no defensive wounds?" Rosalie asked.
"None. No trauma to hands, no skin under nails. He didn't fight back."
"Because the sedative made him too sluggish," I said.
"That's one interpretation." Dr. Greaves closed the file. "Officially, my report states Owen Fletcher died by suicide. All physical evidence supports that conclusion. Door locked from inside, no forced entry, no witnesses suggesting foul play."
"And unofficially?" Wynter pressed, but I saw her grip on the desk tighten, saw the slight tremor in her hands.
Dr. Greaves met her eyes. "Unofficially, I think someone drugged that boy and staged his murder to look like suicide. Someone with medical knowledge, access to sedatives, and the skill to make it convincing. But I can't prove it. Every piece of evidence can be explained as consistent with suicide."
"Then why not put your suspicions in the report?" I demanded.
"Because I want to keep my job and my life," Dr. Greaves said bluntly. "I have a daughter in college. And I'm not naive about power. If Bloodrock wanted Owen dead, they won't hesitate to silence a medical examiner who asks too many questions."
She gathered the photos. "I've given you everything I can. What you do with it is up to you. But be careful. Whoever killed Owen is smart, connected, and ruthless."
"Thank you," Wynter said quietly. "For honoring my father's memory."
Dr. Greaves' expression softened. "Your father was a good man. I hope you get justice for him. But please, be careful."
---
We left the medical wing in heavy silence. The morning sun was bright now, students heading to classes, unaware of the darkness beneath their routines.
Wynter stumbled on the steps outside. I caught her elbow, steadying her.
"I'm fine," she said automatically, but she wasn't. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow. Through the bond, I felt the exhaustion crushing down on her like a physical weight.
"You need to rest," I said firmly.
"We need to keep moving." But her words were slightly slurred, her eyes struggling to focus.
"Chase! Oh, Chase!"
I turned to see Scarlett Hayes approaching across the quad, her expression arranged in false sympathy. The sight of her made my wolf snarl.
"I've been looking for you," she said breathlessly, reaching for my arm. "I heard about poor Owen. Such a tragedy."
"Not now, Scarlett," I said flatly.
But she pressed on, oblivious. "And that scene with Anne just now. Chase, you were too harsh with her. She's just worried about you. We all are."
"Careful," I warned.
"Anne has always been there for you," Scarlett continued. "She's devoted herself to you for years. And you've abandoned her for..." Her eyes flicked to Wynter with contempt. "For some Beta girl with a scarred mark."
My Alpha presence surged, flooding the quad with crushing pressure. Scarlett gasped, stumbling backward.
"Let me be clear," I said, my voice soft and deadly. "You will leave Wynter alone. You will stop spreading rumors. And if I hear you've done anything to make her life harder, I will make you regret it. Am I clear?"
"Y-yes," Scarlett stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Get out of my sight."
She fled.
Beside me, Wynter swayed. I caught her before she could fall, her weight suddenly heavy against me.
"Wynter—"
"I'm okay," she whispered, but she wasn't. Her face was chalk-white, her pupils dilated. Through the bond, I felt the wrongness intensifying—not just exhaustion now, but something deeper, more dangerous.
"We need to get you somewhere private," I said urgently.
We found the old gardens, hidden by overgrown hedges. Wynter sank onto a stone bench, her breathing labored. Jax and Rosalie hovered nearby, concern written across their faces.
"So," Rosalie said carefully. "What do we have?"
"We know Owen was murdered," Jax said. "We know he was drugged, staged to look like suicide. We know someone cleaned out his evidence. We know there's a mole in the school."
"But we can't prove any of it," Wynter said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The official report says suicide. The evidence is gone. Owen is dead."
Through the bond, I felt her despair crashing over her like a wave. The unfairness of it, the helplessness, the crushing weight of too many failures.
"Every time we get close," she continued, her words slurring slightly, "they're ahead of us. Every witness gets silenced. Every piece of evidence disappears. Owen is dead because we involved him. Who's next?"
Her voice cracked. "We promised to protect his sister. Now he's dead, she's still captive, and we have nothing."
"This isn't your fault," I said firmly.
"Isn't it?" She looked at me, and her eyes were glassy, unfocused. "Every time we try to fight back, people die. They have more resources, more power. They can kill students and make it look like suicide. They have eyes everywhere. How are we supposed to win?"
She tried to stand but her legs buckled. I caught her, easing her back onto the bench.
"Wynter, you need to rest. The bond—"
"There's no time," she said, but her head was drooping, her body trembling with exhaustion. "We have to keep fighting. We have to—"
"We will," I said. "But not if you collapse."
Through the bond, I felt the wrongness intensifying. Her body was shutting down, unable to cope.
"How do we win?" she whispered, looking at each of us—Jax, Rosalie, me. Her eyes were losing focus, her words barely coherent. "How do we fight an enemy that's always ahead? That can kill people in locked rooms? That has eyes everywhere?"
Her breathing was becoming shallow, rapid. I recognized the signs—bond collapse. The damaged mark finally giving out under the strain.
"Wynter," I said urgently, taking her face in my hands. "Stay with me."
"How do we win when every move just gets more people killed?" Her voice was fading, her eyes starting to roll back. "What do we do now? How do we—"
Her words cut off. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Then she went limp in my arms.
"Wynter!" I caught her as she collapsed, her full weight suddenly against me. "Wynter, wake up!"