Chapter 3 : The Brother

Kaia’s POV

I had chosen the farthest table in the library on purpose.

The third floor was almost empty after nine. Most students preferred the louder floors with group study rooms and coffee machines. 

Up here the lights were dimmer, the shelves taller, and the silence thick enough to hide inside. I sat with my back to the wall, a closed textbook in front of me that I had not read a single page of. 

My hoodie was pulled up. My hands stayed in my sleeves. Every time someone walked past the end of the aisle, my shoulders tensed.

Three weeks had passed since the night in the restroom. 

The police had questioned me twice. The studio had suspended my cleaning job. On campus, people still stared. Some whispered. 

A few crossed to the other side of the path when they saw me coming. I had stopped trying to explain myself. 

No one wanted the truth. They only wanted a story that made sense, and the story where the quiet cleaner snapped and killed the popular dancer made the most sense to them.

I was tired of being the story.

A chair scraped softly across from me.

I looked up.

A tall guy stood there with one hand on the back of the empty seat. Dark hair, clean jaw, the kind of face that belonged on the student council posters near the entrance. 

He wore a simple black sweater and jeans, nothing flashy, but he still looked like he belonged in places I did not. 

His eyes were calm, steady, and fixed on me.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

My first instinct was to say yes and leave. Instead I just stared at him. He did not wait for permission. 

He pulled the chair out and sat down, resting his forearms on the table. Up close he smelled faintly of clean soap and cold air, like he had just come inside.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

My pulse jumped. “I don’t know you.”

“I know.” His voice stayed low, careful not to carry. “My name is Cassian Drake. I’m Sable’s older brother.”

The words hit harder than I expected. For a second the library noise faded. I saw Sable’s half-open eyes again, the blood under her head, the way her skin had felt under my fingers.

I sat up straighter. “If you’re here to accuse me, you can save your breath. I’ve already heard it from everyone else.”

Cassian shook his head once. “I’m not here to accuse you.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked at me for a long moment, as if measuring how close I was to standing up and walking away. “I don’t think you killed her.”

The sentence landed between us and stayed there. No one had said those words to me since the night it happened. Not the police. Not Mrs. Langford. Not a single person on campus. Hearing them from her brother felt unreal.

I let out a short, bitter breath. “That’s a first.”

“I mean it.” He kept his voice quiet. “I’ve read the reports. I’ve talked to the detective. The timeline doesn’t fit. You had no real reason to hurt her that night, and the way you were found doesn’t match someone who just committed a murder. You looked shocked. Traumatized. Not guilty.”

I studied his face, searching for the usual disgust or anger. There was none. Only a steady seriousness that made it hard to look away.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because I need your help.”

I almost laughed. “My help? I’m the main suspect.”

“You were the last person who saw her alive,” he said. “Even if it was only for a few minutes. You were in that restroom. You saw the body before anyone else. There might be details you noticed that the police missed or didn’t think were important. I need to know everything.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “I already told the police everything.”

“Tell me anyway.” His tone stayed gentle, but there was something firm underneath. “Please. She was my sister. I can’t just sit around and wait for them to close the case with the wrong person.”

The word “sister” made something twist in my chest. I had spent so much time hating Sable that I had never imagined her having a family who mourned her. 

Looking at Cassian, it was hard to connect the cruel girl from the studio with this calm, serious guy sitting across from me.

“I don’t know what else I can say,” I admitted. 

“I walked in. She was already on the floor. There was blood under her head. I tried to wake her. I checked for a pulse. Then Mrs. Langford came in and everything went to hell.”

Cassian listened without interrupting. His eyes never left my face. When I finished, he nodded slowly.

“Was the door open when you arrived?”

“Slightly.”

“Did you hear anything before you went in? Voices? A struggle?”

“No. The studio was empty. Quiet.”

“What about her bag? Her phone? Was anything out of place?”

I frowned, trying to remember. Most of that night had blurred into panic. “I don’t think so. I wasn’t looking at her things. I was looking at her.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “Thank you for telling me.”

The simple gratitude felt strange. I had grown used to questions that sounded like traps. This felt different.

Cassian leaned back slightly in his chair. “People have been treating you badly since it happened.”

It was not a question.

I shrugged. “It’s easier for them to believe I did it. I was the cleaner. She was the star. The story writes itself.”

“It’s not right.”

Something in the way he said it made my throat tighten. I looked down at the table. “Why do you even care? Most brothers would want me locked up.”

“Because I want the truth,” he said simply. “And right now, you are the only person who might help me find it. Everyone else has already decided.”

For the first time in weeks, the pressure in my chest loosened a little. Someone believed me. Someone was sitting here, looking at me like a person instead of a criminal. The relief was so strong it almost scared me.

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” I said quietly.

“You don’t have to know yet.” Cassian’s voice stayed calm. “We can start slow. If you remember anything else—anything at all—I want you to tell me. Even if it seems small.”

I nodded once. It was the closest thing to agreement I could manage.

We sat in silence for a moment. The library felt less cold than before. Across the table, Cassian looked steady, solid, like a wall I could lean against after weeks of standing alone. 

Part of me wanted to trust that feeling. Another part of me, the part that still woke up from dreams of blood on white tiles, stayed careful.

My eyes drifted down to his hands resting on the table. His fingers were long, clean, the nails neat. Then I noticed the edge of his sweater sleeve where it met his wrist.

A small dark stain marked the fabric on the underside of the cuff. It was brownish, uneven, almost hidden unless you looked closely. It looked dry. 

The color of blood that had been washed but not completely removed.

I stared at it for half a second too long.

Cassian followed my gaze, then calmly adjusted the sleeve so the stain disappeared under the fabric again. 

When he looked back at me, his expression had not changed. Still calm. Still gentle.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

I forced my eyes up to his face and shook my head. “No. Nothing.”

But the image of that small dark mark stayed behind my eyes, quiet and sharp, while the first person who claimed to believe me sat across the table and waited for my answer.