Blame my Shadow

The Shape of a Lie

I don't remember deciding to step out of the car. I only remember the sound of the door slamming and the world rushing at me like a tunnel. My vision narrowed until the only thing I could see was Max standing on his front porch, talking on his phone like his life wasn't about to be torn open. He looked ordinary. Clean clothes. Calm face. A volunteer. A survivor. A lie dressed like a man.

My fist connected with his face before he even saw me coming.

The sound was dull and wet. His phone flew out of his hand and shattered on the concrete. He staggered backward, clutching his jaw, eyes wide in shock. I grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall of his house so hard the flower pot beside the door rattled.

"What was with you and Sarah?" I shouted, my voice tearing out of my throat. "Why did you meet her? You're the killer, right? You're the one doing this. You're the one who ruined everything."

His hands fumbled at my wrists. "Ethan—"

"You go around killing people and I take the blame for it?" I yelled. "You hide in the dark while I rot under suspicion? How the hell does a lowlife like you seduce someone like her?"

Anger twisted his face, but it wasn't rage. It was calculation. I see that now. At that moment, it looked like fear. Before I could react, he grabbed the flower pot beside him and smashed it against my head. The impact exploded in white behind my eyes. I stumbled back, dizzy, warm blood sliding down my temple.

"Ethan, listen to me!" he shouted as he dragged me inside by my jacket and threw me onto the couch. My body hit the cushions hard. The world pitched sideways. My skull felt like it was splitting open.

"There is nothing—nothing—going on between me and Sarah," he said, pacing in front of me now. "She came to me because she was worried about you. About your past. About the orphanage."

"I don't buy that," I muttered.

And that's when the manipulation began. Carefully. Smoothly. Like someone slipping poison into tea.

Max sat across from me, lowering his voice, softening his posture. He looked exhausted. Wounded. The perfect victim. "Ethan, she was scared for you," he said. "She thought there were gaps in your memory. Thought something from childhood was resurfacing. She wanted to know if there was anything... dangerous in your past."

Dangerous.

That word landed gently in my mind and sank deep.

"She was trying to protect you," he said again. "From yourself."

I laughed bitterly. "That's rich. She lied to me. She met you in secret. She vanished. And you want me to believe she was just... helping?"

"That's what makes it tragic," he replied quietly. "The only person trying to save you... and you pushed her away."

The guilt slid under my ribs like a blade. He saw it and pressed harder.

"I didn't kill anyone," he said. "But I think you're sick, Ethan. I think you're losing time. I think you're doing things you can't survive knowing."

Every word was wrapped in concern. Every sentence designed to gently cut my foundation away.

"You're framing me," I said weakly.

He shook his head slowly. "No. I'm trying to stop you from destroying what little life you have left."

Silence stretched between us. My heartbeat thundered in my skull. My hands were still shaking.

"She said you get violent when you feel abandoned," he added casually, as if recalling something minor. "She said sometimes you scare her when you dissociate."