12. Never

TWELVE

Never

I curled into my seat, fighting the whirlwind of violent urges that were bubbling uncomfortably beneath my skin. My body didn't know how to process the liquid fire in my blood, leaving me to shift around awkwardly while Nicholai took all the right turns to get to Summer Estate.

Of course he knew where I lived.

That should have been creepy, but really, it was just him. Practical. Exacting. I mean, sure, he tossed me into the ocean. But that just made him unhinged. He had a whole bucket of loose screws rattling around his brain, but the only creep here was me . I was the one who had touched him inappropriately. I had pushed him. With anyone else, that kiss might have meant something different, but with me … Nicholai had known, somehow, that it would stop things from go ing too far. It would frighten me and force me to back down.

God, I hated him .

"I could get you fired for that," I said conversationally.

"Go ahead," he muttered back, barely even giving my threat a second of consideration.

"I'm serious." I stared blankly out of the front windshield, blinking against the rage-fuelled tears that were threatening to spill from my eyes.

I wouldn't cry in front of him. No way in hell. Not about this .

"I always knew there was a risk of that," he admitted tonelessly. "I told you that, didn't I? I'm willing to accept the consequences of everything I do. That's the difference between me and you, Mika. I take full responsibility, and you just run."

I didn't reply. He didn't deserve a reply. Instead, I gripped the handle of the passenger door, my knuckles turning white, and as soon as he pulled into the visitor's lot at the front of Summer Estate, I jumped out and slammed the door on him.

I strode away, the slightest limp in my walk, refusing to look back. His engine remained idling, the sound following me, mocking me, until I finally passed through one of the tree-lined paths, and the noise faded into the distance. I wasn't paying any attention to my surroundings, my head locked up in thoughts of Nicholai and the kiss, and how badly I wanted to punish him for punishing me … so I missed the woman standing right in front of me—just outside my front door—until I was directly before her.

"Hello," I muttered reflexively, stepping back with a wince and carrying my eyes up to her face.

Alicia.

Shit .

"Hello, Grey. Can I come in?" She had a guarded look on her face. A hint of coldness, but also a hint of concern. She also looked tired—which was hardly a surprise, since she must have been awake most of the night.

I nodded, wrenching open the door and stepping up the short distance to the boxy kitchen area. A ball of grey-brown fur appeared out of nowhere, pouncing into the trailer and disappearing under my bed.

Alicia followed, and I took a moment to open a can of cat food and set it on the floor at the edge of the bed. Satan peered out, his slightly wonky eyes switching between me and the can, waiting for me to leave the trailer so that he could eat. Stubborn asshole.

I ignored him and sat down, slipping behind the little kitchen table that bridged the centre of the U-shaped couch. She slid in on the other side, placing her handbag beside her. The door was still swinging open, admitting the morning sunlight. It crawled across the linoleum floor, highlighting the scuff marks that someone had tried to scrub clean. Nicholai would have hated the floor. It was too imperfect, wearing its scars right on the outside for everyone to see and walk all over.

"I heard about your parents, Grey." Alicia laid her hands on the table, hesitating for a second before reaching over the small space, resting one of her hands on my shoulder, her brown eyes peering earnestly into mine. "I'm so sorry."

There wasn't a single ounce of suspicion in her face. None. No accusation, either.

"You don't think I'm a murderer, like everyone else?" I asked casually, even though the panic was once again clawing up my throat, threatening to pull me under.

"I'm a social worker—I've spent plenty of time in prison programs for reformed criminals. I know a killer when I see one."

I shook my head. She didn't know anything.

"Why are you here?" I asked. Part of me suspected that Jean or Marcus had asked her to come. Had asked her to save me.

It bothered me that they cared enough to interfere.

"It's not just the killers that I recognise," she told me gently, drawing away and lowering her hands to her lap. There . There was the accusation I was looking for. She continued, "I want to help you."

"You can't help me. Nobody can help me. Not you, not Nicholai. Not Jean, or Marcus, or?—"

"Because you don't want to be helped, yes, I know. But I'm going to change your mind. I'm going to show you that what happened wasn't your fault. Many people blame themselves after the death of a loved one?—"

"Get out." I stood, edging out from behind the table. Alicia blinked, shocked at my sudden outburst. I shook my head again, moving for the doorway. "Never mind. Stay. I don't care. I'm leaving."

I shot out of the door and hurried through the trees, heading toward the one place where nobody ever asked anything of me, where there was no chance for salvation.

Duke's trailer.

I knocked on the door and waited, but there was no answer. I went around to the kitchen window but couldn't see any movement inside. I tried the door, but unlike me, Duke actually bothered to lock it. A frustrated growl caught in my throat as I walked around to the side, where there was a bedroom window just big enough for me to push open and climb through.

I went straight to the fridge, made myself a cheese sandwich, and then collapsed on the bed, half-heartedly dragging the covers up my legs.

"Come here, Mika."

"What is it, Daddy?"

He picked me up, standing me on the chair that was pushed up against the rustic wooden counter. Before us, the valley sloped downward, wildness lurking in the subtle shift of brush, the faint buzz of life.

"Hands up here." He guided my small fingers to wrap around the gun, the second and third fingers of my right hand trembling over the trigger—I didn't feel like I could pull it with just one finger.

It wasn't the first time I had fired the gun, but something was different this time. He was different. His usual, charismatic smile was missing; the twinkle of mischief in his eyes had turned to stone.

"Point it down there." He repositioned the barrel and then stood back, the comforting circle of his arms falling away.

The gun felt too heavy. I didn't want to fire it. The sound scared me, and it hurt my shoulder. The first time, it had been exciting. My heart had raced, and my father had laughed.

"I don't want to, Daddy ? — "

"Fire."

The command was almost a reprimand. He was disappointed in me and using the frustrated tone of voice that he sometimes used. There was something wrong. I wanted to ask, but I didn't know if I could. Would he tell me? Would he shout at me?

"Mika. Fire the gun. Just point it into the trees and pull the trigger."

"I don't want ? —"

"FIRE THE DAMN GUN, MIKA!"

I pulled on the trigger, the impact kicking me back and the barrel jerking off to the side. I didn't understand what was happening at first. The world was tilting, the big gun was still swinging to the side, propelled by the shot that had gone haywire. I toppled backwards off the stool, a squeak of fear breaking from my throat. My father managed to catch me as I fell off the back of the stool, taking the gun out of my hands and setting me on my feet simultaneously. He placed it carefully aside, his mouth firming into a grim line as he swiped a thumb over my cheek, gruffly wiping away the tears that were now flowing freely.

"Come on, love. We can have ice cream." He picked me up, sitting me on his hip.

All was forgotten.

"Where's Mama?" I asked, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand .

"Don't do that." He pulled my hand away and swiped a tissue on the way into the kitchen, sitting me on the counter and nudging the tissue into my hand. "Mama is busy."

"What is she busy with?"

"She's working."

"She's always working."

He slammed the door of the freezer closed and then walked out of the kitchen.

"Daddy!" I called out, the tears threatening to spill over again. "You said we could …"

I heard the front door slam shut, and I stared down at the floor, shock making my feet tingle the same way they tingled when I sat cross-legged for too long. I was too scared to cry. Too scared to be angry. Too scared to find a way down from the counter and run after him.

That was when it started.

The numbing, tingling fear.

I awoke to the sounds of high-pitched giggling, and I pulled myself upright, my head spinning dizzily. I looked around the room, shielding my eyes against the sudden onslaught of light from the doorway. There were two people silhouetted against the opening: one was tall with a stocky build, and the other was feminine, but somewhat lanky.

"This is a happy coincidence," a familiar voice sneered.

I scrambled to my knees, working to untangle myself from the sheets. Fear shot through me, burning hot and flashing behind my eyelids. It took me several disoriented seconds to realise that the emotion was left over from my dream. It was dark outside. The brightness that had woken me up had been from the overhead light.

Where's Mama? My own child-like voice echoed in my ears, drugging me with panic as the form in the doorway took a step toward me.

"I was going to burn Dick's place down the same way he burned my dad's shop down." Trip's face finally caught some of the light from the kitchen as he walked along the side of the bed, stopping right beside me. "But maybe you want to do something to stop me?"

His eyes dropped to my chin, following the line of my jaw before skimming along the crinkled neckline of my dress. There wasn't any actual interest in his face. His eyes weren't leering, but threatening.

I worked to pull myself away from my dream, to find my voice, and when the emotion was securely locked away once again, I raised my chin and met his stare. The girl in the doorway had grown quiet. She no longer found this situation funny. I wondered what had caused her to lose her humour, but quickly lost interest in the train of thought.

This had nothing to do with me, but Trip was determined to drag me into his war with Duke, and I was just desperate enough for a distraction to rise to the challenge.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked him, pulling myself to the edge of the bed. I didn't want to get off and stand on the floor, because that would put him higher than me. Instead, I hovered right on the edge, raised up on my knees, staring directly into his eyes.

"Want another taste do you, pup?" He smiled humourlessly, his fingers slipping beneath the strap hanging onto my right shoulder.

He flicked it, and it slipped down my arm, catching just below my shoulder.

"Careful, Trip." I didn't even flinch, but my eyes narrowed a fraction, and I could feel the atmosphere become suddenly thick with tension. It cracked dangerously in the air. Trip must have noticed it, too, because he became suddenly still.

"Why?" His words pressed into me as he shifted forward. He didn't reach out to touch me again, but he was close enough that he almost didn't need to.

"Don't you know who I am?" My voice was becoming toneless, my face falling into something blank. Relaxed . I felt at complete ease all of a sudden. I could forget the dream. Forget why I was there. I stepped off the bed, turning my face up to Trip's. "You think I'm going to let you fuck me just because?—"

"Because you want to destroy yourself as much as I want to destroy you?" he interrupted, shoving against my chest. "We all know you. Everyone at school. Better than you seem to know yourself."

I fell back onto the bed but pushed myself to my feet again just as quickly, returning his attack by driving my fist into his chest, forcing him a step backward so that he was against the wall of Duke's trailer.

"Don't make it so easy ," I snarled. "I could ruin your life in a second —but you don't stand a chance of affecting me." I stepped around him before he could respond, walking toward the door. "Burn the stupid place down. I couldn't care less."

The girl scrambled out of my way like I might attack her. I walked directly up to the kitchen table, where a can of gasoline and a lighter were waiting. I picked up the can and emptied it onto the kitchen floor, watching the oily liquid slosh against the cracked linoleum. It slicked over my feet and followed a dip in the flooring toward the bedroom. The girl was transfixed, climbing up onto one of the bench seats behind the table to watch the steady crawl along the floor. It was heading straight for Trip, who filled the doorway to the bedroom.

"When you're done playing games," I said, tossing the half-full can aside and locking my eyes onto his again, "come and find me. I'm in the mood to play … just not the kind of game you were thinking."

I left the trailer, wiping my gasoline-slicked feet against the grass outside. I still had the lighter in my hand, and I distractedly ran my thumbnail over the cold, metallic surface. Up. Down. Up. Across. I found a groove. The lid. I flicked it open, and then the small wheel was pressing into my skin, begging me to flick it down.

So I did.

And then I let it go, tossing the lighter to the grass harmlessly while I turned away. I made my way through the darkness to my trailer without a thought to spare for Trip and his friend.

Satan was sitting on the top step by the front door, mewling aggravatedly. I opened the door, and he darted inside but then turned and hissed when I tried to follow him.

"No," I snapped, "don't you pull this shit with me right now."

He hissed again, swiping at me. I quickly closed the screen door so that he caught that with his ragged claws instead of me. He gave me a lofty sort of look and then darted away, and I heard him devouring the tin of food I had opened for him earlier.

I sighed, leaning my head against the screen door and waiting for the tell-tale sound of him vaulting the can against one of the kitchen cabinets before I stepped inside.

There was a note on the table, but I refused to read it. I grabbed my things and walked to the shower block, stripping off my clothes in one of the shower cubicles and leaning my head against the wall as the water washed over me.

Why was I acting like this?

It seemed like an important question, but as soon as it flickered into my mind, there was a part of me that forced it right back out again.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, but all I could see was Trip's hand against my leg. All I could feel was Duke's mouth against mine. I wanted to see Nicholai's hand instead. I wanted it to wash away the memory of Trip. I wanted to feel Nicholai's mouth instead. I wanted it to wash away the memory of Duke.

But already, I had forgotten.

That was the real me—the angry girl who lashed out in his car. I wasn't that girl anymore. I had slipped into the stranger who had been inhabiting my body ever since the incident. All she could think about was Trip and Duke. About touches and kisses that burned in the bad way.

I opened my eyes and glared down at my thigh. My right hand was still bunched up into a fist, so I laid it against my skin. And then I punched.

Again.

Again.

Again. Again. Again. Again …

I stopped when my arm started to tingle with numbness. I stared at the swollen, red patch that I had created. I was disappointed, because I wanted bruises. I wanted to block out the image of my own smooth, golden-brown skin, kissed by the sun and touched by a hand I hadn't placed there—but bruises would take time to form, and I didn't have time.

I took a single step out of the water and almost fell over. My knee-jerk reaction had been to leave, to pull on my clothes and to start running again … but my leg wasn't cooperating. Too much abuse in too short a period of time. I was slowly destroying myself, and I couldn't even begin to care. I slumped back against the wall and dropped my head into my hands as though I might cry.

Instead, I only closed my eyes and stood there. I stayed as the water turned cold and then longer, as my body grew numb. I stayed until the lights flickered off and only stirred when the cleaner knocked on the door to the shower stall.

After that, I dressed and made my way back to the trailer. I dug my phone out of the cutlery drawer, but it was dead. I stared at it for a long time, the faint reflection of my own face showing in the black screen. An eerie sort of calm had descended over me. It was different to my usual numbness, almost like an after-effect. An emotional hangover. I had broken down, pushed myself too hard, acted out, and hurt myself.

My spirals were getting worse.

The red was no longer chasing me … I was chasing it .

I cursed quietly and hunted through the bedside table for my charger, plugging it in and waiting for the light to come on. There were three messages from Shel, one from Fred, and one from an unknown number.

Shel: Would you like to come over for dinner this Friday? -Aunt Shel

Shel: I haven't received a reply. I tried calling. -Aunt Shel

Fred: Your aunt is worried about you. -Uncle Fred

Shel: We've done so much for you, and this is how you repay us? Fine. If you want to be left alone, we will leave you alone. -Shel

Unknown number: Heard you sucked-off half the football team for a few dollars. That's fucked, Grey. You should get yourself checked out. For mental disabilities. And STDs.

I clasped the phone tighter in my hand, trying to stop myself from tossing it at the small bedroom window. It reminded me of one of those tiny porthole windows in a ship, except that it looked onto the trees at the back of Fred and Shel's lot instead of a vast ocean of possibilities. My possibilities were about six feet long, and they ended at the tree line. They changed after that, becoming less like possibilities and more like inevitabilities. For the space of six feet, I had a chance to change. After that, I was doomed.

I navigated to the internet, looked up the number for the hospital, and when someone picked up, I requested my own emergency contact details. I saved the number they gave me into my phone and then ended the call, staring at the innocent little digits.

Six feet of possibility.

I hit the call button.

He answered on the fifth ring, sounding distracted. "This is Nicholai." There was no background noise, only the echo of his name.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the silence was reaching right through my phone and catching in my throat, filling my lips with the shape of his name.

"Nicholai."

It spilled out before I could stop it, and I heard his sudden intake of breath. I waited for him to hang up or to reprimand me. To ask me again whether he needed to be worried about me.

Instead, he asked, "Are you safe?"

I glanced around my trailer, barely able to make out any details. It was still dark, and I hadn't turned on any of the lights.

How long had I been staring at his number?

The door was closed, and the lock latched. That was odd. I never latched the door.

"Yes," I finally answered, my hand brushing the curtain over my porthole window aside. The whole of Summer Estate was cloaked in darkness—no lights shining through the trees. Either it was far later than I had realised, or else the power had gone off. "I just … never mind. I'm sorry I called."

I'm sorry . Was I calling to apologise? I wasn't sure anymore.

"What do you need, Mika?" He wasn't asking me how I got his number. He didn't sound suspicious.

"I'm scared." My voice didn't tremble. I was just as emotionless as he was. I didn't sound scared, and when my statement was met with silence, I started to wonder if maybe he thought I was lying. Faking it. Trying to manipulate him the way I had tried to manipulate him in the car .

It was the first time I had reached for him.

It was the first time I was asking him for help.

And he was going to push me awa?—

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, his tone softening slightly.

Myself .

I tried to say it, but I couldn't.

"I don't know," I finally choked out. "The space beyond the possibility. We only have a small measure of it—I can't stop thinking about that. My small measure of possibility. What happens when it runs out? Will I let it run out?"

"What are you afraid of?" he asked again. Quieter this time. Softer still.

"Six feet. That's how much possibility I have. Six feet. Did you know that's how deep a grave is? They needed it that deep to keep the animals away from the bodies. That's where the animals are. In the trees. Six feet away. They'll be there when my possibilities run out."

"What are you afraid of?" A third time.

" What I see when I close my eyes ." The words rushed out of me on an exhale, so faint that I thought he might not hear me.

"You need to sleep." There was a quality to his voice that I had never heard before. Maybe this was him forgiving me. Maybe it was him dismissing me .

"It's late," I agreed. I could feel my throat growing tight. My eyes felt hot.

"Put the phone down, Mika, and go to sleep."

"Okay," I muttered. "Bye."

I felt stupid. I slapped the cell down onto the bedside table and stared at the lit-up screen, waiting for the numbers to stop counting up, to stop logging the length of the call that he didn't want to be on. They looked so mocking to me. He couldn't even stand to talk to me for more than two minutes and fifteen seconds. I didn't blame him. Not after what I had done to him in the car—or what he had done to me.

He was insane, there was no doubt in my mind about that … but I had lashed out and treated him badly, even though he had tried to help me in his own, insane way.

Two minutes and twenty seconds.

Two minutes and twenty-one seconds.

Two minutes and twenty-five seconds.

Two minutes and thirty seconds.

Three minutes and five seconds.

Five minutes and ten seconds

I stared at the numbers until they grew blurry. The tears were finally escaping, slipping down my cheeks and falling into the crease between my lips. I could taste them. They only seemed to make the burn at the back of my throat worse .

He wasn't hanging up.

He wasn't abandoning me.

I pulled my clothes off and slipped on a sweatshirt, climbing between the sheets. Satan jumped lightly onto the end of the bed, nosing my leg like he wanted me to fuck off so that he could have the bed all to himself. When he couldn't budge me, he curled up into an indignant little grey-brown ball and began to aggressively purr.

Ten minutes and forty-five seconds .

Nicholai hadn't moved or said a word in ten minutes. I was sure of that—it was so quiet inside the trailer that I would have heard the sound from my phone. I pulled the sheets up to my chin and curled into myself, wincing at the uncomfortable pull in my leg.

I had hurt myself.

But he was staying with me.

He wasn't going to let me do it again.

Not tonight.