Chapter 39

She beckons and screams

Waits for me to concede

I've got this hunger in me now

Who knew poison could be so sweet?

Is this how it started for him?

I told myself I'd never be like him. Promised

The sins of fathers can never be paid

So long as their blood still flows in our veins

FUCJIFNSHAJSJSJSJAJAJA

Izzy. Izzy. Izzy. IZZY.

Living from one tomorrow to the next

I'll be better

I'll be better

Promises to keep

AGE 19, JULY

Wet gravel crunchesand kicks out from under my feet when I jump out of Waylon's car.

I slam the door shut before he can so much as shift into park, much less kill the engine.

"Hey, hold up!" he calls out in his scramble after me, followed by another slam of the door echoing into the eerily quiet evening. Not even crickets can be heard.

It's no longer raining, like it was earlier, but the scent of it lingers on the air, mingling with the damp earth and something sweeter, something unnamable, something that thickens my throat and squeezes my chest.

I don't slow my strides, and Waylon's sneakers skid off the broken pavement as he jogs to catch up with me.

My heart pounds, the heavy sound of it filling my ears until it's all I can hear.

Time slows down to a crawl as my gaze homes in and lingers on the unmarked black car with tinted windows parked parallel to the front porch. I can just make out a man in a suit in the passenger side when I round the hood. He's on his phone, and lifts his head when he spots me. I don't slow, and he doesn't make any move to get out of the car, or so much as nod in acknowledgment.

He looks vaguely familiar. But honestly, all the detectives look the same to me.

Except for Morris. The lead investigator on the case, who we first met in Florida. And the reason Waylon and I dropped everything to get over here the second Jeremy sent me a single, three-worded text:

Morris is here

It's been a while since he made a house call. Months, maybe even a year since I last actually saw the face belonging to the name that never fails to fill me with equal parts dread and hope when I hear it, or see it flash across my phone when returning my calls.

Not that he calls me back all that often…

And from what I've gathered when harassing Ray for updates, even his calls to the Montgomerys have been getting more and more infrequent as time goes on.

One year and ten months and five days.

That's how long now Isobel Montgomery has been missing. And not a single clue or lead since.

No news means good news.

It's a mantra I've religiously clung to this whole time.

But at the sound of a muffled sob greeting me upon entry into the house…

Something tells me that's all about to change.

My steps slow, but it feels like they stop completely. It's as if my body is moving forward, while the rest of me remains back, hovering just outside the threshold, content to remain blissfully ignorant to whatever waits for me inside.

I'm vaguely aware of Waylon sucking in a breath, as if he's bracing himself—as if he too realizes it's safer out here. But then he brushes past me, and I kind of want to punch him for it.

Stay with me, I silently beg. Stay with me back here, out here, away from whatever's up ahead. Don't fucking leave me.

And before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm lurching forward, and grabbing his arm.

His steps slow, rocking back, and his gaze snaps down to where my fingers squeeze the spot just under his elbow with bruising force.

And for a moment we're both at a standstill in the foyer.

"Don't," I say.

Don't go in there, don't go in there. Stay.

Hazel eyes, rimmed red with unshed tears meet my fierce, pleading gaze. And I give a little shake of my head, silently willing him to understand.

Stay.

Whatever he sees has his features bunching, and he quickly averts his gaze, wrenching himself out of my hold. He murmurs something, but it's lost to the wave crashing in over my senses, drowning everything out but the sight of him walking away, his back to me the last thing I see before he disappears into the kitchen.

I can't do this.

I can't fucking do this.

This isn't happening.

This isn't real.

Yet, despite that insistence, and the fear blazing through me, burning through what little effects of the Vicodin I took earlier remained, my feet somehow carry me, tracing his steps.

This isn't real, this isn't real…

It's the silence that registers first just as the kitchen comes fully in view. Silence beyond just my own clouded awareness.

Eva's seated at the table directly across from where I come to a stop, her pale, tear-stained face slackened, her gaze empty as she stares blankly ahead, looking right through me.

A tingling sensation creeps down the back of my neck, spreading down my spine—not unlike the faint prickly feeling you get around your mouth when getting a cavity filled, right before the Novocain kicks in.

It suddenly feels smaller in here than it ever has before. Too small for us. Too small and tight, even for just me.

Ray, standing behind Eva with his face downturned, has one hand anchoring his wife's shoulder. The other is rubbing his forehead.

Detective Morris seated next to them, twists around to stare up at me with an apologetic, knowing gleam in his dark eyes.

And when Waylon steps out of the way, shuffling into the corner, his shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly like he's trying to protect himself from an invisible enemy…

I find Jeremy, seated directly across from the detective, with his back to the curtained window. His expression, like his mom's, is blank. Flat. But unlike her, he doesn't stare through me. He's not even staring down at the table, like I'd expect.

No, he's staring intently at Detective Morris. Not through him, but into him, like he's trying to read the man's mind. Or tear apart his insides.

It's that fierce not-quite glare that has my breath hitching sharply with my inhale, my lungs seizing.

At the sound of it, the hovering tension finally pops, and time resumes at a more normal pace.

"Mason," Ray says thickly. "Waylon."

Off to my side, Waylon straightens against the wall, but doesn't unfurl his limbs. Against my thighs, I curl my hands into tight fists. So tight, I feel my nails pushing into my skin.

"Detective Morris came to, uh, break the news."

No. Nonononono?—

"They're…they're—" Ray stumbles for words, his face rippling, threatening to break.

He rubs at his head forcefully, almost like he's trying to soothe some deep ache. Or perhaps untangle the thoughts he can't seem to put to words.

A burning sensation forms behind my eyes , and it distantly occurs to me that in all the years I've known Ray—particularly these last twenty-two months—I've never seen the man so overcome with emotion that he can't speak.

And when he breaks down in tears a second later, unchecked and unashamed, I find tears of my own taking shape, blurring my vision. My throat closes with a choked sob, and with it, somewhere in the back of my head, a memory sparks.

My dad—that piece of shit, good-for-nothing, poor excuse of a father…

Telling me to toughen up.

Be a man.

Boys don't cry.

Did he ever cry for me?

A throat clears, then?—

"We will no longer be actively looking for Isobel," Detective Morris says gently.

It takes a second for his words to register. And when they do, a frown slams over my brows, all thoughts of my dad coming to a grinding halt. "Wait. You didn't find her?"

His hesitation is all the answer I need, and suddenly, as if someone took paddles to my chest, the shock and resignation and…and relief I'd felt a moment ago…

It shatters.

Who knew relief could be so double-edged? Equally sharp whichever way it slices you.

"She could still be alive?" The words wrench roughly from some deep well inside me, and I find myself taking a step further into the too small, too tight kitchen.

My heart's racing, and my chest expands with what feels like the first real breath I've taken since I got that text. Maybe the first full, unencumbered breath I've taken in months.

Hope surges forward—more hope than I've felt in a long time. The kind of hope that throttles me out of this weird, dissociative state I've been in for what feels like forever.

It's a high not unlike the initial rush I get from Vicodin, swirling in my system, plucking gently at my nerve-endings, making things feel not so shitty and hopeless, but okay.

Bearable.

"No…no, Mason," Detective Morris says in a careful voice. "That's not what this is."

And just like that, my heart sinks to my feet.

"Her body has not been recovered."

A sob erupts out of Eva, and she buries her face in her hands on the table.

Body.

I'm shaking my head, taking that single step I'd advanced only moments ago, back. I don't understand.

Detective Morris's mouth flattens, and he glances down when he says, "As I was telling Ray and Eva before you arrived, we have reason to believe that?—"

"What do you mean you're done looking for her?" I cut in sharply.

He calmly meets my gaze. "We have reason to believe she's dead."

There's a muttered curse from someone in the room. Eva wails into the table.

"No."

"Mason…"

Jaw ticking, I glance between a ragged, bleary-eyed Ray and the detective. "No. She can't be dead. Where's the proof? Where's the body? You can't say she's dead if there's no body."

"Someone confirmed that they'd seen her."

My gaze swings to Detective Morris, and behind me, I feel Waylon push off the wall. "Someone saw her?" he says in a strangled voice.

Morris nods. "There was a…sting, recently. A pretty big one."

"What kind of sting?" I whisper, my voice faint even to my own ears. I can practically feel Waylon holding his breath.

Detective Morris's gaze flits to Ray and Eva, but I know it's not because he didn't already tell them. I can see the horror and devastation lining Ray's face—the same harsh, weathered lines I saw the first time it came up almost two years ago…

What likely happened to Izzy.

Human trafficking.

You hear about it all the fucking time. Hear about the dangers of straying off alone. See the posts all over Facebook. See it reenacted in cheesy Lifetime movies. Learn all about the disgusting underbelly of society in True Crime documentaries.

But it's one thing to know it happens.

Another thing entirely when your girlfriend might be a victim of such unimaginable horror.

"We closed in on a trafficking ring just across the Mexican border last month," the detective says. "I can't go into much detail beyond that, but when things like this happen and there are survivors…victims… When we bring them in, we cross-check to see if any are in our missing persons database. And once that's ruled out, we show those in our custody pictures, and see if they can identify any."

"And someone recognized Izzy?" Waylon says, his voice breaking on her name.

Detective Morris looks from him to me, and says, "Yes."

My eyes fall shut.

Eva's sobs fill the room, the only thing I can hear above the blood roaring in my ears.

That is, until Detective Morris continues speaking.

"Ten missing girls were identified by those we rescued. All confirmed to be…deceased by those who recognized them. Izzy was one of them."

Next to me, Waylon makes a sound, almost like a whimper. One he instantly chokes back.

When I open my eyes, I'm staring straight into Detective Morris's eyes as I say, "Where the fuck's her body then?"

He doesn't tear his gaze from mine, when he says, "There is a very slim chance anything remains to be found."

I hear him say this. Read the words off his lips as clearly as they filter through my ears.

But it doesn't register.

I won't let it.

I can't.

Reality sort of wobbles, tilting, and I'm acutely aware of Eva all but screaming into the table. As if Morris didn't already break the news to her. As if she's losing her daughter for the first time all over again.

My head is shaking, and there's a gasping sound coming from next to me where Waylon's fighting furiously to keep it together. And the next thing I know, my head's snapping to Jeremy.

And he's looking right at me.

One beat passes.

Two.

"You can still feel her, can't you?"

At my softly uttered plea, the room plunges into silence. Even Eva's cries simmer to choked whimpers.

Jeremy's eyes widen, and he's shaking his head.

"Wh-what?" his mom stutters, and in the corner of my eye, I catch her lifting her red, blotchy face. But I don't tear my gaze away from Jeremy.

I nod, telling him, "It's okay. Tell them what you told me. Tell them."

His head rocks from side to side with quick jerky movements.

"Jeremy? Bubs, what is he talking about?" Eva says thickly, her voice shredded.

Reddened amber eyes drag from me toward the head of the table. Still, I can't tear my gaze from his face, as I say, "He can feel her. She's alive. He knows it."

I sense more than see Detective Morris watching us, warily observing as things unfold.

"Jeremy?" Ray says in a deep, worried voice.

My chin quivers. "It's okay. It's okay."

But Jeremy's still shaking his head, and his eyes are filling, his face scrunching up. And he says, "I don't feel anything. I'm sorry. I don't feel anything."

Over and over and over again, he chants this.

And my chest is splitting right down the middle.

"You're lying."

I don't even realize the words came from me, until his eyes screw shut with a wince.

"You're lying!" I shout, making him flinch back.

"Mas—"

I don't know who tries to get my attention. I don't care. No one and nothing else can exist for all I care right now. It's just me and Jeremy and the wrathful desperation bowling forward, that has me lunging forward. "YOU'RE LYING!"

Dimly, I'm aware of Eva's sobbing—louder than ever—and Ray's shout as he goes to round the table and get between us. Waylon's huddled in the corner, and if I was a better person—a stronger person, a more selfless person—one who's sober and not breaking apart at the seams I've been so desperate to keep secure…

I'd realize what I'm doing to him.

To Ray and Eva.

To Jeremy…

But selfish is as selfish does, and I'm nothing if not the worst version of myself these days.

"You're lying! You feel her. I know you do. Tell them the truth! Tell them!" I'm shouting raggedly, his collar twisted in my grip. I don't even remember grabbing him.

And all I can think when I look at the round, shocked and wounded amber eyes of the boy who's been my best friend since I was six—the boy I've secretly vowed to protect amongst all else—the boy who is currently looking back at me like I'm a stranger…

This is all his fault.

That's what runs through my head.

This is his fault.

I lost her because of him…

Because of what I felt for him that night.

Because of what I did.

Hands grip my shoulders, trying to pull me away. Ray's saying something, but I can't hear him—I can't hear anything over the roar in my ears as my world crumbles around me.

"YOU PROMISED!" I scream.

And a single tear, the first I've ever seen from him, slips down Jeremy's cheek.

My hands are shaking around his collar—bone-white where the knuckles push against his skin.

"You promi?—"

Faster than I can blink, a hand comes up, cracking me across the face.

The sound echoes, ringing out into the now-silent kitchen.

So quiet, it's all I can hear. Even the roar in my ears I can't help but notice is gone, as I blink blankly at the black glass reflecting this awful scene. Peering back at me, the darkened eyes of a stranger.

The hands that were gripping my shoulder and back fall away, just as Jeremy scrambles to a stand, kicking his chair back hard against the window. In the black, glassy reflection, I watch more than feel as he shoves me out of the way in his haste to bolt from the kitchen.

Someone calls after him, but he's already gone.

Eva's crying into her folded arms, and Ray's twisting side to side, darting looks from the hall to his wife and back again. Detective Morris mutters something about excusing himself, and the urge to punch him in the face is strong…

But the urge to chase after Jeremy proves stronger.

Especially when I hear the front door slam shut a moment later.

Whirling toward the open archway, I'm stopped by Waylon darting in front of me, hands raised. "Just?—"

Behind me, Ray says roughly, "Stay put. Let me."

I ignore them both, as well as their attempts to physically stop me.

One second, I'm in the kitchen. And the next I'm racing down the hall, sneakers smacking off the hardwood as I race for the front door.

Throwing it open, I stumble out onto the front porch, eyes wide and unblinking as I sweep my gaze over the driveway.

The detective in the black unmarked car is still here, but I pay him no notice.

I only have eyes for the boy hunched over in the middle of the driveway up ahead, his blond hair lit up silver by the shadows of night. With the exception of that and his pale hands sneaking out from under the sleeves of his oversized shirt, he blends with the night, dressed in black head to toe like he's already in mourning.

Down the steps, and out from under the awning, raindrops crash against my cheeks. Wind blows at my hair, tossing it about. But just like the detective sitting in the car, and the footsteps and voices chasing after me, I ignore everything but the figure huddled in the rain, seemingly gasping for air.

Sensing me, he turns around, chest heaving, rain quickly soaking his hair and plastering it to his pale cheeks. He's chattering, but it's not cold. It's mid-fucking July. The height of summer.

And yet, I feel it—that pervading chill that burrows down deep, calcifying our bones to the point of splintering.

"Fuck you," he grits through clenched teeth, fists clenched at his side. His neck tendons are pulled taut enough to jump out through his too-pale skin.

Eyes burning, all I can do is storm toward him, chasing each backward step of his with big, forceful strides.

My cheek where he slapped me tingles hotly under the splash of rain. He got me good. Good enough that I hope it swells. Bruises. It's the least I fucking deserve.

"Fuck you," he spits again.

His entire body trembles—he's a shivering wraith in the thin darkness.

When I reach him, he shoves me as hard as he can. I stumble back a step, but I don't let it stop me. Again, I go to grab him, and he shoves me. Over and over, he shoves me, slaps at me…futilely fighting me off as I bring him into my arms.

And all I can do is close my eyes, whisper, "It's okay," and take it.

Even when an elbow nails me in the rib…

Even when his fist grazes off my chin…

Even when he twists and squirms and claws at the arms I bracket around him in a bear-like vice…

I take it all.

Accepting his violence for the precious gift it is.

Because as far as I'm concerned, there's no one else in the world who deserves to unleash as much as Jeremy Montgomery.

And right now, there's no one more deserving of his wrath than me.

"It's okay," I say to deaf ears.

Another slap.

Another rough shove.

I'm vaguely aware of several sets of eyes taking us in from the porch, but surprisingly they keep their distance. Letting us work it out amongst ourselves.

Bending my knees, I grip him tight, and slowly ease us down to the wet chipped pavement.

Fingers bite into my arms, blunt nails digging into my skin.

"It's okay."

And Jeremy screams.

The most heart wrenching scream I've ever fucking heard in my life. It rings out into the night, broken and savage and filled with more pain than words could ever do justice. More than I think any human is capable of carrying, much less storing inside for as long as he has.

It seems to rip out of him from the deepest, unventured part of him—somewhere no one, not even him, I suspect, has trekked.

And I realize it's not just the loss of his other half finally hitting him, after months of holding it in, displaying hardly any emotion whatsoever.

It's everything.

A culmination of years' worth of bullying and anxiety and struggling to accept himself.

Tonight was just the tipping point.

I was the tipping point.

I see that now.

I feel it.

In every shove turned fierce, clawing grip on my arm.

In every hitch in his breath, and broken wail into the night.

In the way his lean body curls inward, clenching, twitching with the onslaught.

My ass hits the damp, hard pavement, with Jeremy crashing to his knees, his upper body practically collapsing in my lap. Holding him to me, I bury my face in his hair, my own grief and anger and disbelief shoved to the backburner, making room for nothing other than the need to keep him here. Right here. In my arms and safe enough to shatter.

"I'm sorry," I hear myself murmur, too quiet for him to hear over the screams that have now broken into chest-heaving sobs.

His face is buried in my chest—his tears hot and damp through my thin t-shirt. My arms loop around his upper back, hugging his slim, quaking body to me tight.

It takes me a moment to realize the wetness sliding down my cheeks is from more than just the rain falling down on us. Sniffing, I squeeze my eyes shut, ducking my head into his neck.

Like that, we stay there, lost in the cyclone of our grief—of misplaced anger and misplaced blame and misplaced heartache.

He holds me like I'd imagine he'd hold his sister if she was here.

And I hold him like I'd hold my girlfriend, whispering sorrys in her hair.

Apologies for not doing enough to find her—irrational that that may be.

Apologies for being so weak and selfish lately…for being relieved when I thought, tonight, that she'd finally found peace, and that we could too…

Apologies for that brief moment I had inside where I blamed it all on the boy in my arms, the one we always vowed to protect.

All for one, and one for all…

"I'm so sorry."

Fingers dig into my neck. "M-make it stop," he sobs.

I hold him tighter, rock him. "I can't, I can't…"

I can't fix this.

I can't protect him from this.

The sound he makes against my chest is unlike anything I've ever heard—inhuman and terrifying in its devastation.

And I find myself pleading. Praying.

For once not for her…

But for him.

Make it stop.

Please, make it stop.

This can't be happening

It can't.

She can't be dead.

He won't survive it…

We won't survive it.