Four hours later, the sky newly dark, streetlights flickering on, we pulled FtypeBaby into my complex. When we stepped off the elevator, his fingers were looped through mine, the swing of our hands in tune with our steps down the hall. I moved my thumb slightly and it brushed against his knuckles. He glanced down, at our hands, then at my face, and smiled. “I love you.”

My next step cut off his path, my free hand moving up and pushing at his chest, his resistance weak, his back hitting the wall at the same time as my lips met his. I released his hand and grabbed at his shirt, gripping the blue fabric and pulling it out of place, his mouth responsive against mine, pushing back, the palm of one hand sliding down my back and into my jeans, squeezing the top of my ass as he leaned against me and deepened the kiss. When I pulled off, he smiled at me from under the brim of his baseball cap.

“I love you too.” I grabbed his hand and pulled, his back lifting from the wall as he followed me. I couldn’t help myself, not when he said those words I so desperately craved. And yeah, a part of me wished that the hall rat saw us. Saw the connection that she had no chance of breaking.

I kept his hand in mine those final steps. As I twisted the knob and shouldered the door open. As I stepped inside, I pulled him toward the bed, one imminent goal in mind.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know that it would be our last moment.

CHAPTER 56

Present

THE POLICE CAR smells, the handcuffs put my wrists at an uncomfortable position, digging into my spine, and I can’t evade the glare of the afternoon sun. None of it matters. I close my eyes against the sun and rest my head back, the hell in my head drifting down into a muted chaos. I climb the mountain of thoughts in my head and try to find the top. A lie. Brenda had lied. Deanna Madden, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Jeremy Pacer. No. Never. Attempted murder. He is not dead. One good current in a sea of bad.

Seconds pass in the silence of the car. I turn my head and shift in the seat. Rotate and crane until I can see the huddle of cops, Chelsea on its flank. The car I sit in is on Glenvale Street, the front of Mulholland Oaks stretched out in all of its depressing squalor along the side of the car. We’ve got blood. The man had yelled from the front of the building, from the place around the corner of where they now stand, looking behind the pitiful bushes that lie in front of the brick, in the thin alley of nothing where bums like to sleep and cigarette butts and beer bottles collect like leaves in a neglected gutter. We’ve got blood. There?

I think of the cop, her point, focus, examination of my window. The slow turn and stare she had given me. We’ve got blood. Oh. The tumblers of my mind finally line up, the pieces turning into place, the door to awareness opening. I lift my eyes from the group, traveling slowly up the building, my stomach dropping as my eyes rise. They think he jumped. They think he fell. They think he was… pushed? A cop turns away from the group, ziplock bag in hand. Evidence. I lean closer, my breath fogging the glass, my eyes burning as I try to focus, try to see… a flash of metal, a bit of yellowwwwww… no no no no no no noooooo… my Spyderco Pacific. A bright yellow handle, short sharp blade. Online reviews swore it was one of the sharpest knives on the market, with an added bonus of being rust-free. I hadn’t expected a true rust-free product, my mind pushing that aside with the exuberant joy of its razor-sharp edge. It’s one of my favorite knives and it’s in an evidence bag. We’ve got blood. I had to unlock the safe in preparation for the cops. I had to unlock the safe to pack up its contents and ship them to Mike. I had, at some point in the night that Jeremy broke my nose, locked the safe. The Spyderco Pacific, at some point in that night, had ended up outside my apartment. Covered, best I could tell from my awkward place three parking spots up, in blood. I turn away from the window and drop my head against the seat. My window. My knife. We’ve got blood. Deanna Madden, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Jeremy Pacer. Attempted. He is not dead. Attempted. He is still alive.

The doors open and shut with quick efficiency, the two detectives getting in. I wait for the car to start, for the pull away from the curb. Sit on my question for three blocks, then speak. “Where is he?” A question I’ve been asking myself for two days and I may have finally found someone with the answer. The car turns left and my body rolls right, my right sneaker pushing out and finding the floor to brace myself. I was locked in all night. Before, I thought that proved my innocence. Now, with him lying underneath my window, everything in my world is unsteady. I need to remember, I need to find my footing, but I’m worried that there is nothing solid and good for me to stand on.

“Hillcrest South.”

I swallow. “And he’s alive?” You know he’ll die. That’s what she had muttered to me on their first visit.

“He’s in a coma.”

A coma. My heart falls another story. “From what?”

“I’m sorry?” the woman turns her head and her profile is ugly.

“What caused his coma?” I roll my lips and inhale a deep breath. My nose screams in pain.

“A six-story fall from your window, along with six stab wounds.”

The fall I survive, the stab wounds pry open my chest and ravage my soul. My Spyderco. Stab wounds. I run my whole life and end up slamming into my enemy head-on. Anything but stab wounds. My Spyderco, covered in blood.

The bitch reads my mind. “You like knives, Deanna?”

They’ll find the order; I paid with a credit card. Even worse, my prints are all over that baby. I look out the window. “My mother did.”

“But you don’t?”

“I avoid them.” When I can.

“Interesting choice of words.”

I turn my head and see her watching me in the rearview mirror. “I’d like to speak to his doctor.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”

She laughs and pushes on the brake, the car jerking to a stop at a red light. “That’s funny, Deanna. I feel the exact same way about you.”

A car pulls up next to us and I turn my head, a boy in the backseat leaning forward, his breath fogging the glass, his eyes widening when they meet mine, a criminal in the backseat of a police cruiser. “I’ve never lied to you, Brenda.”

“Maybe because I haven’t asked the hard questions.”

The car pulls forward, and I lose sight of the boy.

CHAPTER 57

Present

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Brenda felt it before, felt deep in her gut that the girl was guilty, the girl was evil. But now… having her in cuffs, in the back of the car… something is off. She turns into the precinct’s parking lot and glances at David. He winks at her and rubs his hand on the knee of his pants. He always loves a collar. She parks and turns the key, looking up and into the rearview mirror, at the side profile of the girl.

I’ve never lied to you, Brenda.

She is too old and too smart to be jerked around. Huffing out an irritated breath, she shoves the door open and kicks a black-toed boot outside. Time to get this bitch behind bars.