Jess

Jess

Even in my darkest moments over the last couple of days, even learning what Ben had got himself into, I haven’t allowed myself to imagine it. Not finding my brother like this, how I found Mum.

I sink to my knees.

It doesn’t look like my brother, the body on the mattress. It isn’t just the pale, waxy color of the skin, the sunken eye-sockets. It’s that I’ve never seen him so still. I can’t think of my brother without thinking of his quick grin, his energy.

I take in the dark, rusted crimson color of his T-shirt. I can see that elsewhere the fabric is pale. It’s a stain. It covers his entire front.

He must have been up here all along, all this time, while I’ve been scurrying around following clues, tying myself in knots. Thinking I was helping him somehow. And to think I’d seen that locked attic door on my first morning here.

Crouched here beside him, I rock back and forth as the tears begin to fall.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so bloody sorry.”

I reach down to take a hold of his hand. When was the last time we held hands, my brother and I? That day in the police station, maybe. After Mum. Before we went our separate ways. I squeeze his fingers tight.

Then I almost drop his hand in shock.

I could have sworn I felt his fingers twitch against mine. I know it’s my imagination, of course. But for a moment, I really thought—

I glance up. His eyes are open. They weren’t open before . . . were they?

I get to my feet, stand over him. Heart thundering.

“Ben?”

I’m sure I just saw him blink.

“Ben?”

Another blink. I didn’t imagine it. I can see his eyes attempting to focus on mine. And now he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Then—“Jess.” It’s little more than an exhalation, but I definitely heard him say it. He closes his eyes again, as though he’s very, very tired.

“Ben!” I say. “Come on. Hey. Sit up.” It suddenly seems very important to get him upright. I put my arms under his armpits. He’s almost a dead weight. But somehow I manage to haul him into a sitting position. He half slumps forward and his eyes are cloudy with confusion, but they are open.

“Oh, Ben.” I take hold of his shoulders—I don’t dare hug him in case he’s too badly hurt. Tears are streaming down my face now; I let them fall. “Oh my God, Ben: you’re alive . . . you’re alive.” I hear a door slam behind me. It’s the door to the attic. For a moment I had genuinely forgotten about anything and anyone else.

I turn around, slowly.

Sophie Meunier stands there. Behind her: Nick. And even though I’m reeling from everything that’s just happened, I’m still able to make out that there’s a big difference in their expressions. Sophie’s face is an intense, terrifying mask. But Nick’s, as he looks at Ben, shows surprise, horror, confusion. In fact, Nick looks—and this is the only way I can think to describe it—as though he has seen a ghost.