Regret.

Remorse.

Blame.

I’ve felt it all before and I feel it again, like needles under my skin, stabbing their way to the surface. Everything’s falling apart and it’s all my fault.

The next few moments move in clips. Nancy gets me her cell phone and I call an ambulance. But she tells me to wait outside, that she’s got too many drugs inside her house. I tell her she’s fucking paranoid, but she flips out, so I carry Tristan outside while he fights to breathe, his skin getting paler and paler, his lips bluer. I stop when we reach the edge of the parking lot and by the time I set him down, his chest has stopped rising and falling altogether.

I feel myself break apart as I push on his chest and put my mouth to his to his, giving him CPR, trying to breathe for him, live for him, keep him from leaving, like how everyone else left.

One more breath.

One more.

But it’s not working—he won’t breathe on his own. I feel like I’m dying with him only I’m not. I’m still kneeling here on fucking concrete while everyone keeps dying around me and I just sit by and watch, motionless, unable to stop it. I fucking hate it. I hate being here. I can’t do it. Can’t feel death again.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” I cry out to the sky as tears stream down my face. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. “I don’t want to live! Please just take me instead!” I’m not even sure if I believe in God or if he exists, but I swear if he does he hates me. Or maybe it’s just me that hates me.

Tears fall from my eyes and I start breathing for Tristan again, refusing to give up. Fighting. Refusing to accept another death. “Come on,” I beg through my hopeless sobs. “Please, please, just breathe.”

Please, please don’t die.

Chapter 13

May 27, day twelve of summer break


Nova

I have about twenty-four hours to figure out if Quinton’s okay before my mom’s flight lands and I have to go home. He never called me like he said he would and I at least need to know if he’s okay before I bail out on him, let him go, knowing I’ll probably hate myself forever for walking away.

I try to call Delilah’s phone, but she doesn’t answer, so I drive over to Quinton’s house. Lea argued with me about it for a while but gave up and got in the car with me, despite my protests that she shouldn’t go over there. If she knew the entire story of what happened, she probably would have put up a bigger fight, but I didn’t tell her, knowing this.

It’s a rare cloudy day and I’m grateful to get a break from the sunlight. Although when we pull up to the building, the gray sky over it makes it seem much more ominous.

Warning flags are all over the place when I get to their door. There’s a hole in it and the front window is cracked. But it’s not even just that. I have a bad feeling, like I did the morning I woke up and found Landon dead in his room. I knew something was about to shift and not in a good way.

“Nova, would you just relax?” Lea says as I cup my hands around my eyes and peer in through the window of Quinton’s apartment. The curtain’s falling down on one side and I can see right into the living room. The place is a wreck, more than it usually is. One of the sofas is tipped over and there’s an abundance of garbage and glass on the floor and there are more holes in the walls, Sheetrock all over the linoleum. The lamps have been bashed to pieces and the ceiling light is on the floor.

“No…something’s not right.” I glance over my shoulder at her. “I can feel it.”

“You’re not telling me everything,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “Something happened yesterday—something bad.”

“Everything’s fine,” I lie. I’m not even sure why I’m lying at the moment. My mother’s already headed down here. Everything’s ruined. But saying it all aloud makes it feel so real.

I put my face up against the glass and try to see inside again. There’s someone lying on the sofa that’s still upright, arm hanging over the side, head turned to the other side so I can’t see his face. But from the bald head, bony body, and tattoos, I’m guessing it’s Dylan.

I step back from the window and glance out at the parking lot and the two vehicles out there, one of which is mine and one of which has four flat tires. The Cadillac that was here yesterday is gone. I don’t know what that means or if I can handle what it means—whatever happened between Trace, Tristan, and Quinton.

“Nova, I think we should go,” Lea says, glancing down the balcony with worry in her eyes as Bernie walks out of his apartment.

She’s probably right. We shouldn’t be here. I’m putting us at risk by making us stay, when I have no idea what happened yesterday.

“I just need to know if he’s okay.” I move back in front of the door and try the doorknob, but it’s locked, so I knock on the door. “I think he might be in some trouble.”

She picks at her fingernails nervously. “This entire place is trouble, Nova. You should have never been hanging around here.” She catches my arm, startling me. “And if that’s true, then you need to stay out of it.” She targets me with a stern look. “Focus on the bigger picture and how dangerous this is.” She motions around us, her gaze lingering on Bernie, who’s watching us. “All of this is.”

I jerk my arm away from her, more roughly than I meant to, but I don’t apologize as I slip my fingers through the hole in the door, trying to reach the lock, refusing to walk away until I know Quinton’s not dead.

I manage to get to the lock and the door opens up. “Thank God,” I mutter.

“Nova, please don’t go in there,” Lea begs, but I’m already over the threshold and she doesn’t follow me in.

It’s stuffier than normal, but that could be because all the garbage and dirty dishes from the kitchen are scattered all over the place. Whatever the reason, the air is so heavy and potent that it knocks the breath out of me.

“I’m not going in there,” Lea calls out from the balcony and I’m glad because I don’t want her to.

I leave her standing outside and walk over to the sofa, broken glass crunching under my sandals. When I get there, I lean over and determine that it is Dylan lying there with a rubber band tied around his arm and a needle on the floor just below him, along with a spoon and a lighter. I hate that I feel it, but I’m glad he’s passed out on drugs because I don’t want to deal with his creepiness today.

Swallowing the burn in the back of my throat I head for the hallway and go to Quinton’s room. For the briefest second, I flash back to the moment I walked into Landon’s room and found him hanging from the rope. I’m not sure why, other than maybe because my stomach and mind feel like they’re in the same place now. The place where I know something bad is about to happen—or has happened.

Quinton’s not in his room, though, and I’m not sure if I feel good about that or not, because I didn’t find him dead behind the door, but he’s still missing.

His sketches are all over the place, torn up, crinkled. There are some of me and some of a girl I think must be Lexi. His mattress has been flipped over and slashed and a few holes have been put in his wall. There are coins scattered all over the place and shards of mirror all over the floor.

I pick up a few of his drawings, fold them, and tuck them into my pocket. Then I leave his room and peek into the room at the end of the hallway, Tristan’s room. Or at least the room I saw him shooting up in. It looks to be in the same condition as Quinton’s: completely trashed, stuff ruined and thrown all over the place, and a dresser tipped over, the contents of the drawers dumped out.

I turn around, feeling the hope inside me dim a little, feeling my oxygen fading. I need to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air, get my thoughts together—pull myself together, before I have another meltdown like yesterday. So I hurry down the hallway, but slam to a stop when one of the doors on my left swings open and someone steps out.

I jump back, startled, but slightly relax when I realize it’s Delilah. “Shit, you scared me,” I say, pressing my hand over my heart.

She gives me a dirty look, her swollen eyes stained with mascara and her cheek puffy and red like she’s been struck there. Her auburn hair is tangled, she has on an old T-shirt that goes to her mid-thighs, and she’s barefoot and walking around on glass but it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“You should be scared,” she says in a strained voice, her legs wobbling, and she braces her hand on the door.

Shaking my head, I move to leave, not wanting to get into this with her, but she quickly rushes toward me and throws her arms around me, hugging me way too tightly.

“Oh, Nova, this is so bad.” She starts to cry into me and I have no idea what to do or if I want to do anything.

Awkwardly, I pat her back. “What’s bad?” I ask. “Delilah, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she cries, her shoulders heaving with each breath as she grips me. “Everything’s so fucked up.”

“Why? What happened?” I ask, my muscles stiff under her hold.

She shakes her head and tightens her hold on me, so it feels like I’m suffocating. “We all screwed up.”

Fear courses through my veins. “Who screwed up?”

“Me,” she sniffs. “Tristan…Quinton. Everyone.”

I’m not sure what state of mind she’s in so I choose my words carefully, even though all I want to do is shout at her to tell me what the fuck happened. “Delilah, what happened exactly…where are Quinton and Tristan? Did…did Trace do something to them?”

“Who knows,” she says, still soaking my shirt with her tears as she shrugs. “He could have killed them for all I know…I haven’t seen them since yesterday when everything went to shit…when I…” She glances at her arms and legs, which are covered in bruises. She blinks and then looks at me, her hysteria calming. “Either living out on the streets somewhere or dead in a ditch.” She says it with so little compassion and it infuriates me.

I jerk back. “You’re lying.”

“Believe whatever you want, but I’m not.” She hugs her arms around herself as she collapses to the floor on her knees. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, whether something actually happened or she’s just on something. And as much as I’d love to help her, I need to find Quinton.

I crouch down in front of her. “Delilah, when Quinton left here was he okay?”

She shakes her head. “No, they beat him up.” Then she turns to her side and curls inward, into herself, her tears drying, but her sadness amplifying.

I shut my eyes, counting my inhalations and exhalations, sucking air in and blowing it out of my lungs. What does that mean? That he’s beaten up but still alive. “You don’t know where he went?” I ask, feeling completely hopeless at this moment. Like I’ve drowned and I’m sitting at the bottom of a lake, still breathing, but there’s no way back to the surface.

“No.” She brings her knees to her chest, balling herself up more on the floor that’s stained and covered in sharp pieces of glass, a death trap, yet she doesn’t care. “Just go away. Please. Before Dylan wakes up and takes his anger toward Quinton out on you.”

Part of me wants to press her for more information, but the other part wants to get the hell out of this house and go find Quinton. “You should come with me, Delilah. Get out of this house.”

“Would you please just fucking go!” Delilah shouts. “I’ll be fine.” She mutters the last part like she’s trying to convince herself.

I’m not sure if it’s right—leaving her in that kind of state. Right and wrong. Whom to help? It feels like there’s a really thin line between the two at the moment. When Delilah shuts her eyes, looking like she’s drifting off to sleep, I stand up and head out of the apartment, but my body and mind ache with each step.

Lea’s not there when I walk outside. When I glance down at the car, I can see her sitting inside, staring up at the balcony, where Bernie is shouting over the railing something about Jesus saving everyone. He’s tripping out of his mind and Lea’s probably scared out of hers. I should be, too, but Quinton is consuming my thoughts. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute as I rush toward the stairs, pushing Bernie out of my way when he grabs my arm. He staggers to the side, nearly toppling over the railing, and starts shouting that I’m not going to be saved.

I pick up my pace as I reach the stairs. My thoughts speed up and I start counting my strides as I jog across the parking lot. I’m halfway across it when it hits me. All of it. The fact that I may never see Quinton again—may never know if he’s alive again. That the moment I walk away from this apartment, that’s it. I’ve given up. It’s over and have to accept that I may never see Quinton again. That I’m going to have to feel that sense of loss again. The responsibility of not stopping it.