“Don’t you?”

When Joshua didn’t answer, I turned to find him watching me intently. Catching my lower lip between my teeth, I finally allowed myself to meet his gaze.

The second our eyes met, my poor, mixed-up heart did a little flip. It had only been one day—albeit an incredibly long, afterlife-changing day—but I couldn’t believe how much I’d missed his eyes.

We stared at each other for a long, quiet moment until Joshua gestured with one arm toward the door.

“The third-floor shower really is the best one in the house. And it works. Promise.”

I couldn’t help but groan happily. “A shower sounds amazing. You have no idea how badly I’ve missed those.”

Joshua grinned broadly and waved one hand in front of his nose. “You have no idea how badly you need one after tonight.”

“Hey.” I laughed, and then fought the urge to give him a playful nudge.

After all, I couldn’t nudge him, even if I tried. And besides, given the events of the past few days, it felt strange to laugh with him again. Not wrong, necessarily. Just strange.

“So,” I said quietly, fidgeting with the edge of my tank. Flattening the hem against my thighs although that might have been the only portion of the tank that had survived tonight unscathed.

Joshua noticed my anxious movements, and his grin widened. “So … upstairs?”

“Definitely,” I said, nodding with a confidence I didn’t actually feel.

As I followed him into the house, I didn’t know whether to feel relief or regret about how we were interacting right now: calm; normal; without any discussion of the wild few days we’d just had. Was that a good thing? Bad? My mouth twisted in frustration as I walked behind him in the foyer. I was so lost in thought, I almost didn’t look into the crowded dining room.

But at the last second I turned and saw Annabel sitting at the head of the dining table, flanked by Drew and Hayley. Annabel had her head in her hands, massaging her temples in an effort to get rid of what must have been a wicked serpentwood hangover. The moment our eyes met, she frowned miserably. Drew and Hayley followed her gaze; and when they saw me, their expressions mirrored Annabel’s.

For a second I thought about storming over to them and delivering some whispered rebuke about how stupid they’d been to trust Alex. But I just couldn’t bring myself to blame them. Nor did I have the energy to rush over and wrap them in a forgiving hug, either. So instead, I gave the group a very slight nod and moved on through the foyer, toward the stairs that Joshua had already started to ascend.

By the time he and I hit the second landing, my thighs stung from the effort of the climb. Too much adrenaline burned tonight, too much running and fighting had left me absolutely spent. Wiped of almost every last drop of energy.

When we finally made it to the third floor, I leaned heavily against the wall outside the bathroom door. Joshua moved around me to turn the doorknob, but I placed my hand on the wood just above his.

“That’s okay, I’ll do it.”

He paused and then lifted one eyebrow, staring intently at me. “So … it’s true?”

I released a ragged sigh. I expected this conversation—in fact, I wanted to have it—but I wasn’t sure I had the strength to discuss everything right now.

“It’s true. I’ll tell you everything, if you want.”

Fortunately, Joshua shook his head no. “Later,” he offered. “After you’ve had time to rest.”

“Thank you,” I said, sighing in relief. “Just give me a chance to take a shower and change. Then we can talk.”

He nodded, moving away from the door to go toward the stairs. Before he descended them, Joshua looked back at me.

“Amelia?” he called, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him. Despite his hushed tone, and despite my crushing exhaustion, the sound of my name on his lips still made my heart wrench.

“Yes?” I whispered back.

Joshua opened his mouth, about to say something, then shut it and shook his head. “Never mind,” he whispered. “Enjoy your shower.”

Without a backward glance, he took the stairs two steps at a time, as if he needed to get away from me. Fast.

Watching him, I frowned.

Normally, I wouldn’t have let him go. I would have run after him, confessed everything in a jumbled rush, and then waited breathlessly for his answer.

But tonight it took every ounce of my energy to stay upright long enough to twist the knob and push the door open with one shoulder. I dropped my overnight bag in the hallway, closed the door behind me, and turned to face the tiny, white-tiled room.

Inside, the bathroom smelled pleasantly of soap and lavender. I took a deep breath of the scent and felt my muscles relax for the first time in hours. Then I pushed back the shower curtain and groaned. Staring blankly at the bath fixtures, I couldn’t remember which was hot or cold, and they weren’t labeled. I gave up and began spinning the knobs ineptly until the hottest combination of water came pouring out of the faucet. Then I switched it to the shower spout and stepped back as steam began to fill the bathroom.

For a while I just stood in the steam, letting it envelop me. In the small mirror over the sink, I watched as my reflection—dirty face, matted hair, wide green eyes—slowly vanished. Once the wet fog had completely erased my image, I undressed, easing out of the tall boots (still in decent shape, thank goodness) and the skinny-jeans. I took off the white tank last, laying it gently on top of the pile of discarded clothes. Staring down at its careful beading, its delicate fabric, I felt something clench inside me; and I looked away quickly, back to the steaming shower.

I drew aside the curtain and stepped into the tub, where scalding hot water waited. When I moved under the spray, the heat stung my skin and began to redden it almost immediately. Even so, I luxuriated in the water, running my hands across my face and through my hair. Washing away that day, that week.

That decade.

In the roar of the shower, I almost couldn’t hear myself think. If I concentrated hard enough on the pressure of the water—the burn of it—I could nearly block out those agonizing words of fault and grief that my brain had started to whisper to me. I kept my eyes shut tight in the hope that sheer force and blistering hot water could protect me from my own thoughts.

Some time later I pulled back the curtain and prepared to step out of the tub. But even through the fog, I caught the tiniest glimpse of that white tank, cast off and dirty. The thing that had clenched inside me earlier returned in full force, writhing and twisting until I dropped to the floor of the tub, breathless.

There I sat, for God knows how much longer, sobbing uncontrollably in the hot water.

Mourning Gabrielle Callioux.

Mourning my friend.

Chapter

THIRTY-TWO

Long after the water turned cold and the steam evaporated, I wrapped myself in one of the spare robes and stepped out of the bathroom, carrying a pile of dirty clothes in one hand and lifting up my overnight bag with the other. I shifted everything to one arm so that I could open a nearby door, where the stairwell to Joshua’s attic bedroom waited.

I’d expected to find the room empty. But after I climbed the stairs and entered the attic, I found Joshua lying on the bed, reading a thick paperback book in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. His eyes caught mine, and he set the book aside.

“Feel better?”

“Sort of,” I said, my voice thick from all the crying.

Judging by the glint of worry in his eyes, Joshua didn’t miss the significance of my tone. But instead of pressing the issue, he gave me an intentionally casual smile.