I lifted my hand to rub my head, but my dry skin was cracked. I half-expected to see blood, but I was clean. I dropped it in my lap, and every muscle in my body tingled.

  “They gave you morphine a while ago,” my dad said, standing up from his chair. “It should wear off, but I imagine they’ll give you more.” He cupped his chin and whispered, “I’ve been monitoring what you say.”

  “I said something?”

  “Almost,” he admitted. “You were telling the nurses you weren’t allowed to be on drugs, because of the fight.”

  I was going to be sick.

  “You have to get me out of here,” I said.

  “I’m trying, but—”

  “But what?”

  My father crossed his arms and lowered his face. His complexion was paler beneath the fluorescent lights. “The doctors are determined to heal you.”

  I got it then. I was Eric Welborn − his kid − and he had money. The politics of Hayworth were astounding.

  “You’re lucky you lived, Eric,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder before continuing. “If you were human, you’d be dead.”

  “That bad?”

  He nodded.

  I groaned and stared at the ceiling. The lights didn’t burn my human vision as much as they did when I was a shade, but it reminded me of my inhibitions. I couldn’t transform, and I knew what my father had done. He had taken my powers away.

  “How long will this take?” I asked.

  He sat down before standing up again. He was pacing. “Until you heal naturally,” he said. “We can’t give them another reason to be suspicious. We don’t know who these nurses are.”

  “So, get one from the Dark.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he retorted.

  I drank more water because I had nothing else to say. We were quiet for a number of minutes before he sat down on the edge of my bed and reached for my hand. He pulled back at the last second. “I’m glad you’re okay, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  His breathing was heavy, and he turned toward the hallway. Mindy and Noah were probably at home, but they had to know. Strangely enough, I wanted to know what they thought.

  “Mindy took Noah home,” my father said, practically reading my mind. “Camille and Pierce were here earlier, but they had to train. I’m sure they’ll return tomorrow.”

  I cringed at the reminder. “What about my training?” I asked, knowing I couldn’t fight as a human, let alone an injured one.

  My father patted the bed instead of my leg. “Don’t worry about that now.”

  “But—”

  “Concentrate on getting better, Eric,” he said, locking his brown eyes on mine. Despite his harsh tone, he seemed much warmer than the man I knew as a child. “Just don’t crash again.”

  I couldn’t help the smirk from spreading onto my face. “Sounds like I have nothing to crash.”

  He chuckled. “That is a fortunate fact.”

  “I wouldn’t call it fortunate.” I tried to suppress even a light laugh. My chest hurt, but my actions disappointed me. If I’d listened to Urte, I would’ve handled my anger better, and I wouldn’t have destroyed my only possession − my pre-murder gift.

  “I am sorry.”

  “I wonder—” he began quietly, “if you crashed because you lost control or because you were trying to leave Hayworth.”

  His words clouded the hospital air worse than the sanitizers. The thought of fate controlling my life was always present, but the destruction it would use in order to succeed was unfathomable. No one knew whether an event or our everyday lives were preordained. We either had little control or none, and the idea of bringing upon an early death just by defying something was terrifying. But the worst part wasn’t even about me.

  Jessica’s parents died trying to escape, but she didn’t. She could leave whenever she wanted. She could be free.

  Jessica

  “My uncle is the one who found him,” Sarah Shrill bragged, leaning to the right of her palette. I couldn’t help but hear their conversation in art class. She was talking to Mitchell from across the room. “He couldn’t believe he was alive. His car was in pieces.”

  Mitchell blew air out of his nose. “Too bad the car is gone.”

  “He’s spoiled if you ask me,” Sarah said, pointing her brush toward him. “I guarantee he gets a new one before he’s even out of the hospital.”

  “He’s still in the hospital?”

  “He should be,” she said. “My uncle said he wasn’t in good shape. He didn’t even recognize him.”

  Mitchell cringed. “That bad, huh?”

  “I can’t believe he survived another wreck. You’d think karma would catch up with him.”

  My stomach dropped, and my eyes froze on the twist of my painting. I couldn’t continue. My fingers were shaking.

  “Abby didn’t even have a chance in the last one,” Mitchell said. “I wonder who was with him this time.”

  “No one that my uncle saw,” Sarah responded. “He was there until the ambulance team took over. They said Welborn was lucky to be breathing.”

  “I bet. How’d he crash this time?”

  My homeroom partner doing crosswords flashed through my memory, and I stared at my backpack. My crossword book was still in the front pocket, even the puzzles with his handwriting.

  “My uncle said he was speeding,” Sarah continued. Her tone disgusted me. “He guessed Eric was going over a hundred. Big surprise, right?”

  “I’ve seen him speeding before,” Mitchell added.

  “I think most people have,” she pointed out. “He’s hard to miss.”

  “Got that right,” Mitchell said. “The guy asks for it. He’s going to die young.”

  “Probably deserves it, too.”

  I didn’t want to listen to my classmates. They were heartless. I wanted to stand up and leave, but I couldn’t. The teacher was at his desk, and he would see me if I made my way to the door.

  “You okay?”

  I followed the squeaky voice to Jonathon Stone.

  “Yeah,” I hesitated to answer his question of concern. “Are you?”

  His thick eyebrows furrowed together. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You don’t normally talk to anybody,” I remarked, pointing to his little chair in the corner of the room. “You kind of keep to yourself.”

  “I’ve talked to you before.”

  “About a painting,” I retorted.

  He pushed his glasses further up his nose. “You looked so worried,” he said as his eyes − or his eye − traced across my face. “I had to ask if you were okay.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I snapped.

  Jonathon ignored my bitterness. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” he asked.

  I stared at him, wondering again how he could ask me personal questions so easily. “I’m sure.”

  “Who wants to guess how long Welborn is out of school?” Mitchell’s question gained my attention.

  “I say one month.”

  “He bounced back in a week last time,” Mitchell argued.

  Sarah twirled her brush through her fingers. “But he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Welborn enjoys sulking around too much,” Mitchell said. “He’ll be back.”

  “Good call,” Sarah agreed but shook her head. “I don’t see how someone so awesome can change so much.”

  “He used to be pretty cool,” Mitchell agreed.

  Sarah tapped her forehead. “Hit his head in too many wrecks.”

  They continued to talk, and I gripped my seat to keep myself from walking across the room and slapping them. I didn’t understand how they could be so cold.

  “Don’t worry about Welborn,” Jonathon said.

  My neck cracked when I turned to him. “What?”

  He gestured toward the gossip. “You were listening,” he said. “I figured you were worried. Are you friends with him?”

  I hesitated. Jonathon wasn’t going to give up.

  “Kind of,” I sighed. “He’s my partner in homeroom class. He wasn’t there yesterday, and I guess I wondered where he was.”

  “He’s fine,” Jonathon said, dragging his fingers over his palm as if he were drawing.

  I ignored his habit. I wanted to know about Eric. “How do you know?”

  “Our fathers are best friends,” he said. “I know Eric really well.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Not many people do,” Jonathon chuckled. “But we’re friends.”

  “I didn’t know he had friends,” I said, hoping my honesty wouldn’t come across as harsh as it felt.

  “He has lots of friends, Jess,” Jonathon said, standing this time. He walked over to his palette, and I followed him without hesitation. If he could come to me, I could do the same thing to him.

  “I didn’t mean that as a joke,” I clarified, sitting next to him.

  He picked up his paints. “Eric and I tend not to talk during school.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s just how we are,” he said. “He does his sulking thing, and I do my artist thing.” His foggy eye seemed to focus on me. “I thought you met my father.”

  “I did?”

  Jonathon’s thick glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. “George Stone? He was at Eric’s house when you two were working on your science project last year.”

  It came to me like a distant whisper − the bickering, chasing Eric down, his wit, and everything else I despised about the project. But the other memories happened like a burst of lightning − the willow tree, his house, his room. Everything was a dream I had to fight to remember, but it had only been six months.

  Remembering George Stone was a migraine. When he had opened the door, his voice had frightened me. He had longer hair, but his lack of facial hair made him look younger than I had originally thought. I didn’t think he had kids. He didn’t seem to be that kind of man.

  “I did meet him,” I managed through the headache. “Weird.”

  Jonathon turned his entire body toward me. “My dad likes to give me his autobiography every night,” he joked, explaining how he knew.

  I laughed. “Fun.”

  “Very.”

  “My uncle said the ambulance crew thought Welborn broke some ribs,” Sarah continued, louder every minute. I might as well have been sitting next to her. “He might even have permanent eye damage. It was swollen shut.”

  I focused on Jonathon. “Are you positive he’s okay?” I whispered.

  He scooted closer. “Positive as can be,” he said. “I talked to him once, but I don’t think he’ll remember. He kept drifting in and out.”

  Jonathon was not making me feel better.

  “He blacked out?” I asked.

  He snapped his mouth shut as his gaze drifted over my expression. “He’ll be okay, but he isn’t in good shape. Her uncle was right about that much.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “He was speeding in that Charger of his, and he lost control,” he confirmed Sarah’s story. “He’s not too happy about totaling his car. He loved that thing.”

  “I think I’d be more worried about my health than my car,” I said.

  Jonathon laughed under his breath. “That’s Eric for you,” he said. “He only fractured three ribs, and he has a pretty nasty black eye, but he’ll be walking around in a few days. No worries.”

  “Fractured ribs?” I cringed, but I was glad to hear his eye wasn’t permanently damaged. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Sure, but he can manage a few bumps and bruises. He’s a tough kid.”

  A part of me already knew that. Just by the look in his eyes, I knew he was tough. He was complicated, too, and I was convinced Eric was simply misunderstood. He was always nice to me, and I couldn’t help but feel the desire to be nice back to him. I wanted to make sure he was okay.

  “Do you see him tonight?” I asked.

  Jonathon’s focus returned to his palette. “I’m planning to,” he said, suddenly refusing to look at me. “Want me to say hi for you?”

  “Can you take me?” I asked, and Jonathon went rigid. My stomach twisted. “I’d like to say hi myself.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Jess,” he said, each word as deliberate as the first.

  “Please,” I begged, touching his arm. “I just want to make sure he’s okay myself.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Jonathon.” I was desperate for his help. “Please?”

  Jonathon glanced over before staring at his painting, sighing. “I guess I can’t stop you.”

  “Thank you.” I hugged Jonathon without a second thought. He felt like a friend now, and Eric, in a way, had always been one. It would be nice to see them both outside of school, even under the circumstances.

  “You’re welcome,” Jonathon said, tense beneath my arms.

  I let go. “Meet up after school?”

  “I’ll have Teresa take us,” he said.

  “Teresa?”

  “Eric’s—” Jonathon took a moment to breathe. “She’s a family friend, too.”

  The name was like my other memories – familiar, but a migraine. I repeated the name until I got a mental picture of her up on the hill, underneath the willow tree as she talked to Eric. She used to pick him up every day after lunch. “Short, black hair?”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Last year sometime.”

  “She has an old, silver BMW.” Jonathon eyed the clock. Class was almost over. “Meet me out front.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, standing as bell rang.

  Jessica

  The car door squeaked when Jonathon opened it, and Teresa was already turned around, focused on him. Jonathon’s face turned red.

  “Teresa, this is Jess,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat as I got in the back.

  She was pretty, but she was even prettier close up. Her pale skin was flawless, and her cerulean nails were as bright as her eyes. Behind the black bob, she gawked, and her bottom lip opened up. I expected her to say something, but she only put on her dark sunglasses.

  “She’s coming to the hospital with us,” Jonathon explained.

  “Jonathon—”

  “Not now,” he grumbled.

  I straightened up to peer into the rearview mirror. Teresa was tightlipped until she turned to me. “Hey, Jess.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you strapped in?” she asked, and I nodded. “Good.”

  She drove away from the cracked curb, and no one spoke. Jonathon turned up the radio to mask the awkward silence.

  It was fifteen agonizing minutes before we reached the hospital. I got out of her car as quickly as I could and followed them into the giant building. Like most people, I didn’t like hospitals, but I was willing to deal with it if it meant seeing Eric. The rumors made it sound like he would never function again.

  “He’s this way,” Teresa said, seemingly calmer, and we were buzzed into a section I didn’t even see a secretary for. I walked behind them, only stopping when they did.

  A middle-aged man stood outside of a room, and I recognized him as Eric’s father. His demeanor was so alike his son’s that I couldn’t forget him.

  “Mr. Welborn.” Jonathon gained the man’s attention.

  He looked up, and his expression dropped when he saw me. “Jess?”

  “Hi, Mr. Welborn,” I squeaked, waving. “I’m surprised you remembered my name.”

  “Well,” he cleared his throat. “Eric doesn’t have many girls over.”

  Eric’s name twisted my gut. “Is he okay?”

  “Other than his ribs, he’s perfectly fine.” His father sounded more confident than anyone else had. “They have him on a lot of painkillers, so he’s been sleeping a lot.”

  Jonathon leaned to look past Mr. Welborn. “Is he awake right now?”

  Mr. Welborn stepped aside. “Just woke up, Jonathon,” he said the boy’s name like it was a curse.

  Jonathon hung his head, and Teresa moved toward him. Their rigid movements amplified my nerves, but I fought the urge to step back. I was here to see Eric, not to worry about whatever family drama was happening.

  “You can go in and see him, Jess,” his father spoke to me like an old friend would. “He’s in there.”

  I hesitated, staring at the white curtains used for doors. Eric and I were classmates, but I still didn’t know what he would think about my visit. I looked at Jonathon and Teresa. “Don’t you guys want to see him?”

  “Believe me, Jess,” Teresa began, opening the curtain. “He’ll be more ecstatic to see you than us.” With her free hand, she pushed me toward his room. “I have to talk to his dad anyways.”

  “Are you sure?” I wanted them to come with me. “I mean, if you want to see him—”

  “I’m positive,” she insisted. “Have fun.”

  She pushed me again, causing me to stumble, and I grabbed the doorframe as if I could still hold myself back, but I couldn’t. I was in his room, and there he was, lying in bed. His brown hair matted to the pillow like it hadn’t been washed in days, and his arm was wrapped. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a giant, black ring surrounding it, and his cheek was puffy and red. The rest of his face was blotchy and pale, but I had never been happier to see him before.

  “Jessica?” he croaked, sitting up. His eyes were glazed over. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I—” I hovered in the doorway. “I’m not sure, really,” I admitted. “I heard you were in a wreck, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Eric’s brow rose, but it crumbled in seconds. I wondered if this basic expression caused him pain. He patted the bed.

  I walked across the room and sat inches away from him, and a rush of memories twisted through my mind. Last semester, we had sat on his bed when we worked on our project. He leaned against me that night, and I was nervous. This time, I was nervous for him. I didn’t want to hurt him.

  “I’m okay,” he said, managing a promising smile. “Except for the eye, that’s not so good.”

 

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