5. FIVE

FIVE

I wake early the following morning, something I got used to over the past three months. After I pull myself out of bed, I catch my reflection in the mirror and, with a heavy sigh, pull an old t-shirt from my drawer and throw it on over my tank top before heading downstairs.

I miss the clothes River bought for me. I wonder what happened to them.

"Hey, Mom," I say, crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator.

"Hey, Teagan. There's some croissants over here if you want one."

I grab a take-out container with leftover egg rolls instead. "No thanks, I'll just have these. Hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Before I left, I was supposed to interview to work with Austin."

"Yeah, that's not going to work," Mom says. "I've already spoken to him; they won't hire you now."

"What if I can't get a job anywhere?" I ask, remembering how the phantom mocked me. "What if no one will hire me because of what happened to me? Look at what happened when we tried on dresses the other day."

And when I tried to bang some fuck boy.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she says.

"Maybe I could work with you guys?"

She shakes her head. "Teagan, you're not qualified to work in pharmaceutical sales. And with your history, I don't think it'd be a good fit anyway."

"Maybe…you could talk to Blakely. Ask her to give me back the money Luca gave her—"

"I can't believe you would even suggest that," she says. "No. Don't bring any of them up to me again."

"Well, I need new clothes. I have nothing to wear; I'm going to need money," I tell her. "Does my car have gas in it? Where are the keys?"

"They're in a drawer in the credenza by the front door. And it has about half a tank." She opens her wallet and places two one hundred dollar bills on the table in front of me. "Make that last. Use it on gas, and get a nice outfit to wear on job interviews—something that covers your body. Maybe you could change your hair."

"I don't want to," I tell her.

"Well, you may have to. I'll ask around and see what I can figure out about scar removal, too."

I don't want that, either. I won't do it.

Subconsciously, I bring my hand to my heart and trace the 'L' through my t-shirt. I realize what I'm doing when her eyes fall in that same spot, her lip turning up in disgust.

"I'll be home before dinner. I'll text you," she says, taking her coffee and leaving through the garage door.

I pour a cup for myself. I have plans today, but they don't involve shopping.

It's only nine in the morning. The drive is around five and a half hours, but if I don't stay for long, I could be back by ten like I'm supposed to. It'll be a long day, but when was the last time I drove a car on the freeway with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers?

Who am I kidding? I know exactly when it was; it feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.

Before all of this, the idea of spending so much time in a car in one day would have made me sick. After my extended holiday at Rancho San Flores, it sounds invigorating. I throw on a pair of jean shorts and a bra under my t-shirt, grab the money my mom told me to spend on an interview outfit, and then find my keys and head to the car.

It's parked just around the corner like she said it would be. I perk up a little when I see it—a small piece of me, something that still feels entirely mine, even if I don't feel entirely like myself. I climb into the grey Toyota, turn the key in the ignition, and connect my phone to the car's Bluetooth. A song I've never heard before by an artist I used to love fills the vehicle. It's catchy; I wonder what else I've missed over the past three months.

I wonder what I'd do if his voice suddenly echoed through the car. But, of course, I know it won't happen. I'm not sure if it's a comfort or not.

It's eighty-five degrees, but still, I roll down the windows just to feel the wind in my hair. Just to feel something .

It's around three-thirty and 110 degrees when I park in the cul-de-sac near the bungalow in Glendale. It's definitely the right house—it's the same porch, the same swing. The same chipped yellow paint on the stucco. With the AC up and the music turned down, I've sat here for about ten minutes now.

I'm freaking the fuck out.

I barely survived the past three months, and a big part of that survival was my ability to think of what happened with the people I used to call my family as sort of an alternate reality—a fever dream, something untouchable, unreachable. But if River and Hazel are here, only yards away inside that bungalow, then it was real. And that means Declan and Luca are real, too.

And I'm really a murderer.

I take a deep breath and, with shaky hands, exit the vehicle, my heart in my throat as I cross the empty cul-de-sac and walk up the steps. I feel lightheaded by the time I reach the door and ring the bell.

What if they're not here?

But as soon as I think it, the knob begins to turn, and the door opens just a crack—just enough for whoever's inside to peek out.

"Teagan?" River says. "Is that you?"

I think I'm going to vomit. "Yeah," I say.

She opens the door another foot, then reaches out, grabs me by my arm, and pulls me inside, closing and locking the door again behind me.

"What are you doing here?" she almost whispers. "How did you find us?"

"I—I don't know," I tell her. "I just…I saw Hazel on TV, and then I saw this video online, and…I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I miss you."

She pulls me into a hug, and I bury my head into her now-dark hair, closing my eyes and inhaling.

Lavender and honey. Just like before.

"I missed you, too," she says.

"We're not." I look up and see Hazel standing in the living room. Her formerly pink hair is also brown with thick bangs across her forehead, and she's wearing glasses. It's a good disguise…for anyone who doesn't know the exact curve of her chin or that she has two freckles exactly two inches apart under her right collarbone. As suspected, the blonde hair from the interview must have been a wig. "We're not okay. At all."

"Hi, Hazel," I say weakly.

"Come sit down, Teagan," River says. She looks at Hazel before adding, "Just for a few minutes."

"Yeah, I can't stay long anyway. I have a fucking curfew."

"Yeah?" Hazel says, gesturing toward her ankle monitor. "Us, too."

"It's not Teagan's fault," River says. "She's a victim, too."

Is that what we are? Are we victims? Did Hazel mean everything she said on TV?

"Did you bring a phone in here?" Hazel asks, mouthing the word 'phone' instead of saying it aloud.

"Yeah…I did."

She holds out her hand and gestures for me to hand it over, so I do. Then, she opens the living room window and tosses my phone outside before closing it.

"You can grab that on your way out," she says before dropping down into an armchair. My expression twists with confusion.

"I know what you're thinking—and you're right. We are paranoid fuckers now," Hazel says.

I sit beside River on the sofa. "What's going on?" I ask.

"We're not safe," Hazel says. "The shit we've been dealing with…" She pauses, scoffing. "Not all of us have rich parents to come to our rescue and send us to some mountain retreat."

"It wasn't a retreat," I say. "It was a mental hospital, Hazel."

"Hazel, calm down," River says. "Do you want some water, Teagan? It's hot as fuck; we can't seem to get this place under seventy-eight degrees even though the AC is running on high all day."

"That's okay, River. I'm fine. But…what happened to you guys? Where have you been? What's up with the phone?"

"They're following us," River says softly as if there's someone nearby who might hear. "Watching us. Have you seen them?"

"Seen who?" I swallow hard, the air in the room suddenly becomes heavy, holding me in place as my pulse picks up again. I can't move my arms.

"Oh my god," Hazel says. "She thinks you mean Declan and Luca. No, Teagan. Think a little harder—think less big dicked, manipulative assholes and more…cut you up and stuff you in a suitcase."

Oh… them.

"Yep…there you go," Hazel says once she sees the realization on my face.

"I just got out. I haven't noticed anyone following me."

I'm not sure if it's a lie. I don't know if what I've seen is real. It doesn't seem real.

And River says they're being watched. That's not how I'd describe what's happening to me.

"Teagan," River says, "you need to be careful. Be careful what you say, and be careful what you do. Maybe just…go back to Rancho San Flores."

"What? It's a glorified jail cell."

"But you were safe."

"That's not how it felt. And I thought about you…every day. Not knowing where you were…I hated it."

"Well, we were in jail, mostly," River says.

"We sat in that jail for over a month, Teagan," Hazel says. "No one came for us, and they wouldn't let us see each other. If it weren't for that last part, I'd say we were better off there, too."

"It was awful," River adds.

"I had no idea if River was even there, let alone if she was okay. They told me that if I'd just tell them the truth about Declan and Luca, they'd let us go, but I just kept thinking if I waited long enough, Declan would come and save me—save us —just like always," Hazel says, her eyes pooling with tears. "Obviously, that didn't happen. It was the fans who put together a GoFundMe and paid our bail and our lawyer. And now…we're pretty sure these fancy ankle bracelets are the only things keeping us alive. They are everywhere , Teagan—everywhere we go. And talking to you now is a violation of our probation."

"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "I had no idea."

"It hurt," River says. "It hurt a lot. The police got us before we made it to the back of the hangar. We didn't even know about Brady and Rhett; we didn't know how they just left us until we saw it on TV. The funny thing is…I wasn't even worried when we were in jail. I was just waiting, like Hazel, because I was so sure they wouldn't leave us. Because I thought they loved us. It broke our hearts."

"Mine, too. I just…I still don't understand how it could have been fake. How do you fake that?"

"He's a fucking professional," Hazel says. "I'm just angry now. And I feel bad—for Layla, for Heidi, for me and Riv. I feel bad for all those fans who hurt themselves for something that wasn't real. And I feel bad for you, Teagan, because you still believe in him. I can see it in your eyes."

"So, you meant it, then?" I ask. "Everything you said on TV? You don't think any of it was real?"

Hazel shakes her head. "Declan De Rossi is not a god, Teagan. He never was. He's just a sick man with a lot of money who gets off on controlling the people around him. And what better way to control people than with love and affection, the promise of a family and a place to belong? Especially people like us who have spent their whole lives searching for exactly that…who would do anything to keep it."

"You believe this, too?" I ask River.

"Yeah," she says, nodding as her blue eyes meet mine. "I do."

"I know you're right—on some level, I do. But…he said he loved me," I tell them. "He let me carve my initial into his chest. It was real to me. We were a family. Nothing has ever felt so real in my entire life."

"But it wasn't real, Teagan. The only person Declan De Rossi loves is himself—maybe Luca, too, but only as an extension of himself. In reality, spilling his blood must have meant nothing to him. There was still a small part of you that wasn't completely under his thumb, and he knew that was the best way to fix it. That's all."

"It broke my heart, too," I cry. "I waited, too. Every day, I waited for him to come back. He promised he'd never leave me—that I'd never have to be alone again. It was the last thing he said to me." Close your eyes and count to thirty. "But I am…I'm completely alone."

"Hazel's right, Teagan. You need to move on—forget about them the way they forgot about us. Look out for yourself…that's what we're doing. We're not going to wait around for them to kill us."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"We're getting out."

"Come with us," River says, taking my hand in hers.

"I don't know—" Hazel starts.

"Why not?" River asks. "She's right. It was real for us, too, and we were a family. And she's in trouble—she's not safe, either. We can't leave her."

Hazel looks between the two of us, then leans forward in her chair and sighs. "There is one person…who really did care about us," she says, lowering her voice. "We're going to make it look like we killed ourselves—it's not that far-fetched, right? Everyone knows bloodsluts love to kill themselves. And he's going to help us get new identities and disappear somewhere in the Canadian wilderness."

"Eli?" I ask.

"We could talk to him," River says. "He'd help you, too. We wouldn't be able to go together—it would be too obvious—but we could be together."

"I don't know. I mean, how do you know they're going to kill you? Why would they?"

"Loose ends," Hazel says. "For fun, because that's what they do. You've seen it, Teagan, haven't you? I have."

"Yeah," I tell her. "I've seen it…in Portland."

"I saw it in Germany. This isn't a love story, Teagan. It's a survival story."

"Even if they are just watching us, we can't even get jobs, Teagan," River says. "No one will hire me, and everywhere needs nurses. We're almost out of money—that's why Hazel did the show."

"Yep, and they made sure I knew they were there, too."

"We'll have to choose between air conditioning and groceries soon," Riv adds.

"And I've tried everything, too," Hazel says. "I can't even get a job packing boxes at a warehouse or as an overnight store clerk making minimum wage. You know what I did before all of this? I worked for an airline; it was a good job. I don't know what I was thinking. It feels like—"

"A dream," I finish. "That's how it feels for me, too."

But beyond that, it feels like my entire foundation has been turned upside-down to the point that everything looks and feels foreign.

"Come with us," River says. "Fuck this place, fuck the gold-faced assholes, and fuck Declan fucking De Rossi."

"I…can't," I tell her. "I love you—both of you—but I can't."

"Why not?" she asks.

I don't really know how to answer. It's not that I can't picture it—I can. The three of us living in a small cabin in the Northern Canadian Rockies. A big garden, maybe a greenhouse, a couple of dogs and no wifi. River would probably take up knitting, and I'd read old books—the really dense ones that take weeks to finish on account of the constant need to stop and translate the old English. Hazel could teach me how to cook; we'd farm honey and make our own essential oils and medicines, and in the evenings, we'd run barefoot in the woods and call it witchcraft.

And it sounds kind of perfect. Except…there's still a part of me that can't let go, and what if they can't find me?

"She still thinks he might come for her," Hazel says. "That's why."

"Teagan…" River says, shaking her head. "No."

I think about denying it. I open my mouth and try to do just that, but when no sound comes out, I give up. "I can't help it," I tell them. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes again. "I just love them so much."

"Luca is dead, Teagan," River says. "And Declan doesn't love you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Look around!" River snaps. "How can you not be? Look at what he's done to us. Even if he did come back, how could you forgive him for what he did?"

If I were in her position, maybe I'd see things differently. But I haven't been in reality, watching it all unfold. I've been sheltered from it all, unable to watch the news, unaware of what was happening outside that electric fence. And maybe more importantly, I've been alone. If I had someone to lean on—someone who understood—maybe I'd see things more clearly.

But I don't see things clearly. I don't see things for what they are at all. I see things that aren't really there and ask them to hold me at night. Sometimes, they say no.

"She doesn't want to hear it," Hazel says. "She's not ready. And if she's not ready, there's nothing we can do to save her. It'll kill you, Teagan—one way or another."

"When will you go?" I ask.

"As soon as we can," River says. "As soon as everything is ready."

"How will I know if you're safe? How will I know you made it and someone didn't…"

Kill you. I can't even say the words.

"You won't," Hazel says. "But we're survivors. I'd bet on it."

I smile just a little. "Yeah, I would, too."

"We're cockroaches," River says. "Declan used to say that in the end, it would be the violent who survive; he was wrong. After they all kill each other, it'll be us."

I wonder which one I am—the killer or the cockroach. I don't think it matters because Hazel is probably right, and I'll be dead either way.

"And you can take solace in the knowledge that if we did die, we didn't make it easy," Hazel adds. "You better not make it easy on them, either."

"I won't."

"Teag, I'm so sorry, but…we're expecting a visit from our lawyer in about twenty minutes," River says. "I'd ask you to stay, but—"

"It's fine. I can't stay anyway. Curfew, you know."

"You're going to regret this," River says. "Not coming with us. You won't be able to change your mind."

"Probably," I admit, shrugging as I pull myself up from the couch. "I regret a lot of things, what's one more?"

"You're going to miss me."

"I already miss you."

"Teagan…" she says, shaking her head before pulling my body into hers again. "Please take care of yourself."

"I will," I tell her. "I don't regret meeting you. You saved my life, remember?"

"Of course I do," River says.

Hazels stands and walks toward us. "Come here, Teagan," she says.

I wrap my arms around her. Sniffling, I say, "Your hair looks pretty."

"I fucking hate it," she says. "It's not me—at all—but thanks. You should change yours, too, by the way."

"I'll consider it. Thanks for opening the door."

"He won't come back for you, Teagan," River says. "He's a liar. Promise me you won't just wait for him, and you'll try to live your life."

"I won't," I tell her. "I'm trying. I'm looking for a job, and I'm going to my sister's wedding in Mexico. I'm going to do normal things, go through the motions until it feels real again—until I'm better at telling the difference again."

"I hope it's soon," she says.

"Me, too."

She hugs me one last time, kissing me softly on the lips, and I try not to cry again when she leans her forehead against mine and, looking into my eyes, says, "I love you, Teagan. Take care of yourself. Think of yourself."

"I love you, too." I swallow the lump in my throat. "I'll think of you, too. Both of you."

"Bye, Teagan," Hazel says.

"Bye."

Holding my breath, I turn the knob and walk out the door, closing it softly behind me. The girl I hoped I could be again—the one who never cried—loses as I walk around the side of the house and retrieve my phone from the gravel under the window. She loses when I get into the car, leaving that bungalow and the people inside it behind me. She loses when I pull out onto the interstate and my chest cavity aches with the knowledge that I'll never see them again, either, but they'll be better off without someone like me.

Someone who's brought them nothing but grief.

And after stopping in Blythe to fill my tank, she loses again. My phone buzzes with a news notification as I pull back onto the highway, and I catch the headline, reading New Song Allegedly from Infamous Rock Band, Gods of Tomorrow, Leaked from Russian VPN Today.

Tunnel vision sets in when I turn back to the road. I white-knuckle the steering wheel with sweaty palms for a minute, willing it to pass, before giving in and pulling onto the shoulder.

It's not them, I think, clicking the link. There's no way it's them.

I push play on the video.

"Is it a hoax?" the news anchor asks. "The internet is divided over whether this single, leaked onto the internet from a secure Russian VPN earlier today, is really the work of infamous rockstar, Declan De Rossi, the front man for Gods of Tomorrow, who is wanted on several federal criminal charges in the US, including murder, or if it's nothing but a ruse."

"I'm going to go with ruse, Pete," his co-anchor says.

"Really? Why are you so sure, Sasha?"

"Because we've had so many of these," she says. "Sightings all over the world, hundreds of false reports all for the same reason—to keep the absolute chaos going. I mean, we've never seen anything like this. And the song itself is so different from the rest of their work. Why this song? Why now? If De Rossi wanted to send a message to the fans, I don't think this would be it."

"I don't know," Pete says. "Let's take a listen. The track is titled 'Pretty Poisoned.' Let us know what you think in the comments—real or hoax?"

Bile rises in my throat as the screen goes dark, and Luca strums the intro to the song he wrote for me. The familiar lyrics in white letters scroll across the screen as Declan sings the first lines of the song.

And I can't breathe. All I can do is hurt. It hurts like a kick to the ribs from a steel-toed boot after the man who said he'd always take care of you tells you to close your eyes and leaves you alone, sobbing in the dirt on an abandoned airfield.

But one was an addict The other black licorice-laced cocaine I knew this batch was poison but shot straight into the vein

I drop my head onto the steering wheel and sob through the entire song. Declan didn't even change it—Luca said he always changes his lyrics, but it's exactly the way I remember.

Up until the very last verse.

But don't worry, angel Everything dies It's better to be poisoned Than trapped living half-lives

And you should see the sequel, baby Because in that one, I survive I put your heart back in your chest, and we get away with our crimes We only fight when we're fucking, and we're fucking alive

The road to ruined is paved with good intentions And you were always mine

The video cuts back to the anchors' voices, but I can't make out what they're saying because I'm climbing into the passenger seat, throwing open the door, and crawling out head-first into the ditch, retching and dry-heaving while my body attempts to expel the contents of my empty stomach. When it finally stops, I wipe my chin with the top of my hand, roll over onto my back in the dirt, and stare up at the stars. My own voice echoes in my head as my mind takes me back to the tour bus that last night, sitting at the edge of the bed after Luca, with a guitar, a sling, and a bad side with a bullet hole, promised me the world and sang me a sad song.

Maybe in the sequel, it doesn't kill them. They get away with murder and take a nice, long vacation. Spend every day on the beach, swimming and sleeping and fucking and bleeding and…screaming but never fighting except for when they're fucking and they never get caught—not even by Death—for a very, very long time.

No, that wasn't a hoax. That was real. It had to be real.

And even if Luca had written the lyrics down somewhere where Declan or some internet troll got ahold of them, no one heard me say those things to him. We were alone.

Luca is alive.

It took me an hour to climb out of that ditch and get back behind the wheel, my entire body shaking from adrenaline for most of the drive. I barely make it back before my curfew, parking on that side street and walking back to my family's home. My mother sits on the sofa with her laptop open in front of her and papers spread out across the cushion beside her.

"Hey, Teagan," she says. "Where were you? You've been gone all day. I called a couple of times. We were starting to worry you weren't coming back."

"Yeah, sorry. I just wanted to be out," I lie. "I went to Spectrum, looked for some new clothes, and tried to get my old job back at Yard House. Then I went to the beach—the quiet one with that old lighthouse in Laguna—and sat there until the sun went down."

"Hmm…" she says. "So, did you get either one?"

"Either one what?"

"New clothes or your job back?"

"Oh…no. I didn't get either."

"Well, that's too bad. Keep trying."

"Right. I'll just grab something to eat and go to bed."

I force a smile before making my way to the kitchen. I grab one of the croissants from the counter, make a sandwich, then stuff a bottle of wine under my shirt before heading upstairs.

I close and lock my bedroom door, and then sit in front of my laptop with my headphones, alternating between scarfing down food and sipping wine as I do the one thing I promised not to do…

I go right down the rabbit hole.

I open Reddit and scroll through fan theory after fan theory. I read and listen to AI lyrics analysis and compare someone's AI-generated Declan voice to the one on the track. Most agree they sound the same, but there's one hole in that theory.

That song was written for me . And no one else in the world knows it.

I laugh. I don't need to worry anymore. Not about getting a job or blending in. Not about whether I'm human or a thing or a monster. Because Luca is alive, and he won't leave me. To him, I'm an angel. He wrote that song for me; he's coming back for me.

And I think maybe he's coming back tomorrow night—on his birthday, at a warehouse on Evelyn, just like that fucking bloodslut nurse said.

"You can go away now, Bone Saw," I say aloud when I crawl under the covers. "I don't need you anymore, either."