Johnny Sinclair

The funeral is finally over, but Beechwood still feels heavy with it. You’re heading around the side of the house when you hear voices near the tennis courts.

Blake Redgate is standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets, smug in that effortless way rich boys always are. Johnny’s across from him, black suit wrinkled, tie hanging loose around his neck like he stopped caring hours ago.

“You think they don’t deserve to know?” Blake says. “You almost killed a kid, Johnny. Maybe your cousins should know what kind of person you actually are. Maybe your little brother should know too.”

Johnny takes one slow step forward. “Stay away from my family. Or I’ll almost kill you too.”

Then Blake swings first.

His fist cracks against Johnny’s jaw hard enough to snap Johnny’s head sideways. You flinch instinctively, but Johnny barely reacts before launching himself at Blake with terrifying force. They slam into the fence beside the court, Blake cursing as Johnny grabs him by the collar and drives him backward again.

His chest is heaving. His lip is split open. There’s something ugly and furious still burning behind his eyes — until he realizes you saw everything.

The expression on his face changes instantly. Not embarrassment. Fear.