Chapter 33

Blood and a broken heel.

The only evidence confirming that something very, very wrong happened.

In a matter of eight long hours since the cops showed up—ten, since I last saw her—what started out as a missing persons case handled by local law enforcement, has now escalated to Amber Alerts and national news coverage and blood and hair samples and interviews on top of interviews on top of interviews.

It's official: Isobel Montgomery, a seventeen year old female from Pennsylvania, has been abducted from a hotel conference center in Florida.

Detective Rosen hangs up his phone and turns to us. "Blood's not a match."

Mom lets out a sob of relief and Dad's demanding what now.

I'm sitting against the wall facing the beds, with my knees curled to my chest, chin resting on my folded arms. I blink, staring straight ahead, as police and hotel staff and men in suits come and go out of the room.

"But it is her heel," I hear myself mumble, my gaze and voice far off. Been like that since I woke up to Mom shaking me, throwing one question after another at me:

"Where is she?"

"Where did you last see her?"

"Your sister, Jeremy. Your sister. Where did she go?"

Unlike the traces of blood found by the dogs, we don't need to test DNA to confirm the heel is from her shoe. The second they showed it to us—discovered not very deep into the hedge maze—I knew. Mom knew…

She bought Izzy the shoes after all.

The room plummets into silence at the sound of my voice, save for Mom's sniffling.

I feel everyone turning their gaze to me, and it distantly occurs to me that the strangled feeling I'd normally get when being at the center of attention, is nowhere to be found.

I feel…nothing.

Questions start getting thrown at me—mostly from Mom—the same ones I've already been asked and answered at least a dozen times since they woke me up, like she's hoping I'll suddenly say, "Psyche! She's right outside. We were just having fun."

"That man…are you sure it wasn't him?" Mom asks, her voice breaking.

The second I learned my sister was nowhere to be found, I thought of him.

The man with the white hair. The cane. The too-sharp blue eyes.

The man who called me little dove.

I told them everything—about our run-in in the hall, and then how he cornered me in the bathroom.

Dad had demanded why I didn't say anything earlier, when he took me upstairs, and all I could do was stare at him.

Why didn't I?

Because I talked myself out of it.

Chalked it up to my imagination.

Now, I say nothing at all. What else is there left to say?

This is all my fault.

"Viktor Solokov's alibi is solid." The voice ringing out into the hotel suite is new. A man in a suit appears, flipping open his badge, just like in the movies, making this feel all the more ridiculous. "Detective Morris with the Violent Crimes Against Children unit, FBI. I've been assigned lead investigator to this case."

My dad stands up and shakes the man's hand. "So he's been looked into?"

Morris meets his gaze, then my mom's, and then he finds me. "Everything he told us was consistent with your statement. He offered up his full cooperation—even his assistance where he could."

I frown.

"Viktor is a very powerful man. He's got contracts and connections with some of the best security firms out there, and has already put out feelers."

My dad grunts at that. "Sure he isn't just trying to cover his tracks?"

The detective looks down at the floor, clearly holding something back.

"He…he did admit to…to somewhat cornering your son in the bathroom."

My dad spits out a curse, but the detective keeps going.

"He sends his apologies for scaring you." His gaze lifts to mine, sincerity shining from their dark depths. "From what we've gathered from witnesses, other guests tonight who know Viktor…the man is a little odd— eccentric—but otherwise harmless."

I stare at him.

"And according to numerous testimonies, he was exactly where he said he was. All night."

Swallowing tightly, I duck my head, staring unseeingly at my sock-clad toes. I don't remember taking my shoes off after having gone outside to help search. Where did I put them?

"It should also be noted that…well, your daughter's not exactly someone who would be a target of his advances. If you know what I mean." I feel him staring at me, and despite the implication of his words, I just feel hollow. "We have no reason to believe he had anything to do with this."

The bed creaks as Dad sits back down. He says roughly, "So we're back to square one."

My eyes fall shut.

"Afraid so."

"What about the cameras?"

"They show your daughter wandering into the maze. She doesn't come out."

Why, Izzy? What the fuck were you thinking?

"The search parties have combed every inch of that maze. The dogs… Other than the traces of blood we found, and the broken heel…there's nothing."

"And the blood? Who does it belong to?"

A beat passes, then— "We don't know. It's being sent to forensics to see if anything's in the system. But it's definitely not a match to your daughter."

All four of us did a DNA test online a couple years ago, to see our heritage. Izzy's in the system. Never in a million years did we think that would come in handy in a practical sense, such as this.

Detective Morris is speaking again, but a whooshing has taken up in my ears, drowning everything out but the sound of my own heart beating, sluggish, like it's failing.

Like without my sister here—without knowing if she's even alive—my body has started to shut down.

I'd feel it though, right? I'd feel it if she was…gone.

My eyes burn with unshed tears. I haven't cried. Every time I think I might—every time the panic seems to flare—it's immediately replaced with this odd icy tingling sensation all over my body, and I have to touch my hands or my neck or my cheeks to make sure everything's still intact.

That I'm solid.

A commotion from the hall has me lifting my head, and then Dad's standing up. Voices rise—one in particular, one that…that shouldn't be here.

Distantly, in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that I have no idea where my phone is. Not since Dad took the phone from me to explain to Mason what was going on.

That was hours ago. It's evening now. Dark.

I don't even remember making the decision to call him. But when Izzy's phone went straight to voicemail, I just… I needed him.

And now he's here.

I blink heavily, and when the world comes back into focus, there he is, storming into the room. I'm vaguely aware of Mom standing and rushing over to them—both of them, because of course Waylon is here too.

I'm aware I'm frowning.

How? I wonder silently, but I don't make any move to ask, much less stand up and approach them.

Everyone's talking all of a sudden, but it might as well be happening in a different room. A different universe. One separated by thick, impenetrable glass. And I am nothing but a mere explorer, tasked to observe from the other side.

Mason's talking, and for some reason, I can hear him—clear as day—the only voice that seems to be able to reach wherever I am.

"But it's not hers? That's good then…" His pale, red-rimmed blue eyes dart around the room, and it occurs to me he hasn't seen me yet.

Because he's not here for me…

And, yet, still a small part of me…hoped. That less rational, selfish, ugly part of me that had the audacity to think crushing on my sister's boyfriend wouldn't come back to bite me in the ass one day.

Nausea wells in my throat, just as his gaze finds me on the floor, sitting against the far wall between the window and the standing lamp in the corner.

I stare at him as his eyes widen briefly, a flash of something there I can't discern.

And then he just…looks away. Quickly.

And it hits me…

He blames me too.

Downstairsand outside the Hollinger house, we immediately run into trouble.

"Romance" by Varials blasts through the old house, slightly muffled now that we're outside, save for the reverberations that rattle the nearby windows.

"Well, look who it is," an obnoxious voice slurs into the night, immediately sending a chill down my spine, and bile up my throat.

It's been almost two years since I last heard that voice. Not since that day in the hallway of Shiloh High, my jaw throbbing, and my pride in shreds.

My lip ticks up bitterly at the memory. Oh how I pity that kid now.

"Clay, don't," Gina, his girlfriend whispers in a rush, just as they appear in the corner of my eye, leaning against the peeling white banister boxing in the porch. She's wrapped around his arm, like she's trying to hold him back.

He sways, a drunken grin lifting his cheek that does little to soften the sharp, predatorial glint in his eyes.

"Lil birdy said you showed up with a girl." Clay cackles at that, like he just dropped the funniest joke of all time.

The body slumped against me tenses as the party outside quiets, finally tuning into the tension brewing, but he doesn't lift his head.

Waylon's head snaps up from where he stands directly in front of us, after having helped me get Mason through the threshold. His bleary hazel eyes flash to mine, sharpening, before he twists his head over his shoulder, seeking out his cousin.

Clay's gaze remains locked on mine from over by the railing, while his girlfriend continues to try and talk him down and steer him away from us. He just shakes her off, and takes an unsteady step toward us, cocking his head. He's drunk—clearly—but if his blown out pupils are anything to go by, I'd say alcohol's not the only thing swimming through his veins right now.

"I said that can't be right. Not our little JJ." He sneers my name like just by existing, I've somehow personally offended him. Ruined his night.

I clamp my teeth together, my neck tendons straining tight.

Mason's back is rising and falling more heavily under my arm, and I feel fingers biting into the spot right above my elbow. Between the cold shower and throwing up, he must've sobered up some. Not enough to walk all that steady, but enough for some sense of awareness to be present that he registers Clay's taunting.

In front of us, Ivy's green eyes blaze from over Waylon's shoulder, glaring daggers at Clay, but he doesn't seem to notice. He only has eyes for me.

"Come on," I mutter, leading a stiff, reluctant-to-move Mason toward the steps. Waylon keeps close to Ivy's side, holding a steadying hand out toward us, his jaw ticking as he darts looks between us and Clay. He's blinking really fast, and keeps swallowing. I don't miss the tremble in his fingers.

Gina's rushing up to Clay and pushing to her toes, leaning against him, wobbling like she too has had too much to drink. She's saying something in his ear, shaking his arm, but she might as well not exist either.

He looks me up and down, his lip curling with disgust. Even before he speaks, I feel the shift in the air. Taste the promise of bloodshed. I didn't spend my entire life being bullied to miss the warning signs. Shit's about to hit the fan if we don't get the fuck out of here.

He barks out a laugh, and my whole body runs cold. "Well, if this isn't quite the turn of events…" His gaze lingers on where my fingers grip Mason's waist, and lip tips up cruelly. "Can't say I'm not surprised. Double dippin' are we?"

"Clay!"

He's still laughing. Belches. "What would your poor sister sa?—"

Before he even fully gets the words out, Mason is rushing him, disappearing out from under me faster than I can blink, and with more agility than I think any of us were prepared for.

The fleshy, cracking sound of a fist meeting bone rings out into the night, above Gina's scream and the others who curse and cheer and give them a wide berth as they go crashing onto the porch in a heap of sharp elbows.

Mason's got his hands around Clay's neck.

I take a step forward, my eyes wide, hands outstretched. But before I can so much as even try to get to Mason, Waylon beats me to it, grabbing him by the back of his shirt, heaving him up with a surprising amount of strength.

"Stop!" he barks, bracing an arm around Mason's chest, holding him back. I see a flash of red—blood. It drips to the floor where his clenched fist hangs at his side. In the corner of my eye, I spot Ivy keeping back as far as she can, arms wrapped around her middle.

Mason stumbles, and I rush forward, helping Waylon steady him.

Gone is that slackened, desperate expression from the upstairs bathroom. In its place, ice cold rage unlike anything I'd ever seen from him, making him barely recognizable.

My heart slows at the sight, wariness forming a sinking feeling in my gut.

Laughter, ugly and choked, reaches my ears, drawing me out of my daze, and I snap my gaze to where Clay's rolling side to side on the uneven floorboards, clutching his face. Narrowed black eyes meet mine as he lowers his hands, revealing a busted up nose and bloody smile.

"You're lucky I'm drunk," he slurs as we start dragging Mason down the stairs.

Over his shoulder, Waylon says through his teeth, "You're lucky he is too."

Ivy's urging us to get moving, waving us toward the lot. "Come on!"

Halfway down the path, I risk a glance behind me, not at all surprised to see Clay standing, smirking, his gaze leveled on me.

He lifts a hand, forms his fingers into a gun, and pretends to shoot it right at my head.

Where fear should be—anger too—there's just…nothing.

Nothing but stark apathy, and a sick sort of amusement.

Do it, I think tauntingly. Fucking do it.

If it brought back my sister, I'd take that bullet in a heartbeat.

It's quiet between the four of us as we cut through the sea of cars. Mason shakes us off, storming ahead. He stumbles, but doesn't let it stop him.

When my car comes into view, Waylon slows down, hanging back. "I think I'm going to stay for a bit."

Ivy whirls on him before I can hope to try and muster even a quarter of her outrage. Brushing past them, I jog to catch up with Mason.

"Absolutely not!" Ivy explodes from behind me. "Are you stupid?"

I glance back to find Waylon standing hunched with his head hanging between his shoulders.

Shaking my head, I turn and call out to Mason, "Hey!"

He stutters over his next step, but stops, and turns toward me.

I gesture at my car, the one he just nearly stormed past, and he frowns.

"Get inside," I tell him.

His bleary blue eyes meet mine, and I wait for him to be a dumbass too.

Jaw working, he nods, and lowers his head as he makes his way toward the passenger side. My shoulders drop with relief.

"Waylon!"

Damnit.

Turning, I find Waylon walking toward the girls we spotted earlier, who are still hanging out and smoking by the black Dodge pick-up. When they see him, they straighten, and flash him smiles. One holds out a bottle of what looks to be whiskey, which he immediately takes, slugging it back.

Mouth tightening, I glance at Ivy who stands there fuming. Under that though, I don't miss the worry in her eyes. The resignation. Nothing short of knocking him out and dragging him away is going to get him out of here. The harder we push, the more he'll pull away. And that's the last thing we want. With either of them.

Plus, with today being the day it is…

Well, what right do we have telling him how he should cope? How either of them should cope.

And you? What about you?

My mind flashes with images of open roads and spinning darkness. Followed immediately by a different urge—one I've ground down to basically non-existent since that day Mason made me promise never again.

For him, for him, for him, I tell myself.

If only I could make him return the promise.

Vodka. Pills. A blade.

It's all the same.

Just different roads to the same destination: peace.

He's such a damn hypocrite.

Clearing my throat, I call out tiredly, "Get outta here, Ivy."

She snaps her gaze to me, looking like she's about to argue. Behind me I hear a car door slam shut, and I blow out a sigh of relief. Her attention drifts just past me, a frown marring her forehead.

Following her gaze, I turn to look over my shoulder to peer through the driver's side window. Through the shadows, I can just barely make out Mason in the passenger seat, hunched over, head bent to the dash.

My heart stutters.

"You guys go on."

At the sound of Waylon's voice calling out, we both turn to face him. He's got an arm around each girl, the bottle hanging from between his fingers. Lip curled in a familiar smirk that showcases a single dimple winking out into the night. Yet it does nothing at all to counteract the hard, pained glint in his hazel eyes.

He shrugs. "We've got a ride coming." The girls nod, confirming as much. "I'll be fine."

Ivy's fingers are curled at her sides, but after a moment, she gives a stiff nod, before stomping off toward her car without so much as a goodbye, or a glance back.

Waylon's and my gazes meet, and he glances past me, before giving me a small nod. All traces of humor—that rogue smirk of his—gone.

Something heavy and unspoken passes between us.

Working my jaw, all I can do is nod back.

What the fuck else left is there to do?

Laughter and low murmuring follow me as I turn and make for my car, throwing the door open, and climbing inside.

When I slam it shut, Mason doesn't so much as flinch. If it weren't for the gentle rise and fall of his back, I'd think he stopped breathing.

"Buckle up," I say flatly.

He ignores me.

Biting back a curse, I reach over, shoving him back against the seat. His head flops back, and I half expect his eyes to be closed when I lift my gaze to his face, but he's just staring vacantly up at the ceiling.

Leaning across him, I find the belt, and wrap it around him. He smells like he bathed in a vat of vodka, but at least the sharp tang of that is enough to drown out the less pleasant smells. So long as he keeps his mouth shut.

With a solid click that echoes in the small space, I quickly throw myself back into my seat, and grip the wheel, staring straight ahead.

"I can't go home like this," he says in a slow, careful manner, that tells me it took everything in him to speak.

"I know," is all I say, before turning my keys into the ignition.

His hand comes up the second the engine rumbles to life, and my music kicks on—soft…but loud enough. I beat him to it, jabbing the Power button with my finger. He slumps back against the seat.

Teeth clenched, nostrils flaring, I shift into reverse, and slowly pull out.

The silence is heavy, but not awkward. Just…heavy.

Suffocating.

But at least with him here, I can almost bear it.

On the road, I lower my window, breathing a sigh of relief at the feel of the wind rushing over my face, and the whooshing that replaces the worst of the quiet.

In my periphery, Mason turns to rest his head against the window.

It's not a long drive, but long enough. Unbearably so.

When I hit the narrow drag I'd raced down and spun on either…an urge to do the same now rises to the surface.

What would he do? I wonder. Would it make him feel better like it does me, if only just for a moment?

Would he be mad, like that time he found me cutting?

My fingers clench around the wheel, and I give my head a little shake.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My gaze grows unfocused, my mind drifting, chest squeezing.

I hate this.

I fucking hate this.

I take the next turn a little too quick, and my pulse jackknifes—a sort of floaty feeling settling over me. It's like I'm not here. This isn't me.

This is a dream.

Distantly, I'm aware of Mason turning his face away from the window. He sits up. Says something.

My gaze is on the odometer, watching the little red ticker creep up and up and?—

"Watch out!"

I slam on the brakes just as my head snaps up, eyes widening when I see the deer jumping out of the fields up ahead.

The car swerves a bit, fishtailing before straightening and grinding to a lurching stop. On instinct, my arm shoots out next to me, just as Mason's body is thrown forward.

Chest pressed to my steering wheel, I stare wide-eyed and unblinking through the windshield. Moisture clings to the night in a sort of mist where my headlights sweep over the empty road.

The deer's already gone.

My arm's shoved away, and there's a click, and then the passenger door is being thrown open. I'm vaguely aware of Mason tumbling out onto the road, the sounds of him vomiting echoing into the night.

Save for the dinging coming from my car, his dry heaves and the furious roar of my heart are all that can be heard.

I inhale sharply, gasping.

Fumbling for my seatbelt, I release it, and throw my own door open. Not bothering to close it, I round the front of the car, and crash to my knees in front of Mason, who's on all fours, spitting at the asphalt.

"I'm sorry," I choke out.

His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's cradling his stomach.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I chant, the words running all together. My hands hover around him, fingers clawing at the air. My voice breaks, but I don't cry. "I'm sorry."

He lifts his head, reddened eyes meeting mine. He's panting, lips parted and damp.

"I'm sorry," I rasp.

His face bunches and we just stay there, kneeling on wet, glittering asphalt. Staring at one another, stripped down to the bone, with nothing but crushed cornfields, icy mist slamming into our faces, an endless black night bearing down on us…

And the wasteland that is all of what we once were, stretched out between us.

It's a divide I fear we'll never be able to close, and yet one we can't help but trek across anyway, clinging to the past. To our histories. To hope. To who we were…

To the girl in both our hearts, who for all we know, is nothing but a ghost.

If there's a way out of this hell, would we even take it at this point?