“Don’t sweat it. Any friend of Dessa’s is a friend of mine.” My lips tilt up with her nickname, so unserious and casual. “Are you hungry?” Looking back to where he stood moments ago, I find him gone and see he’s ventured into the kitchen.
“I’m always hungry these days.” Rising off the couch, I stumble into the small kitchen where it looks like he’s making up plates for the both of us. The light casts across his face, and there’s something familiar in his features I can’t quite place.
It’s bugging the shit out of me. I’m trailing my eyes over every dip and curve of his features, shuffling through my brain tofigure outwhy.
“Do you stare at everybody like that?” His question pulls me out of the trance, and I accept the plate he offers wordlessly.
“Sorry, you just look familiar,” I admit.
“Haven’t heard that one before,” he mumbles under his breath, and my eyebrows pinch together in confusion. Letting the comment roll off my back, we sit in the living room and eat our sandwiches in silence.
“So, have you always lived here?” My voice ricochets off the walls as I look around the cozy home.
Pink flushes his cheeks—with embarrassment or anger, I can’t be sure.
“For the most part. It’s been just me for a while,” he admits, sounding somber.
Something else—someoneelse—takes over my body, and the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “What about your parents?” We’re both shocked because it is absolutely none of my business.
“Dead.” My cheeks instantly heat with embarrassment. This is going well.
“I also have a sister. She stayed here with me after our parents passed. But she went missing, and it’s been just me ever since.”
My heart plummets out of my ass, and I let out a shaky breath before I dare ask the question, “What’s her name?”
Then time slows all at once. His lips form the name I so desperately didn’t want him to utter. “Serena.”
The walls seem to cave in, and the room turns into a whirlpool I can’t escape out of.
Warring with the tears fighting their way to the surface, I lose the battle, and they release in steady streams down my cheeks. All the moments we shared, from the beginning to the very brutal end, play in my head. And no matter how much I will them to stop, they don’t. Atticus stares at me like a deer inheadlights, not knowing what to do.
“Sorry, I just thought—” But my sentence is cut short by a wave of heaving. Serena. “I can’t stay here. Thank you, really, for the offer, but I’ll find somewhere else.” Quickly standing, my legs wobble, and Atticus reaches out to steady me.
“Did I say something?” Concern etches across his face, and I lose it all over again, bile rising in my throat. I can’t let him comfort me—not when I’m the reason his sister is dead.
There’s no oxygen left to take in. All of it is being sucked from the room, far out of reach. Shoving away his hand, I back away until my back hits the nearest wall.
“Twins.” That one word is barely audible, but I can tell it reaches him from the look of uncertainty contouring his face. But there isn’t time for him to respond. I don’t think I would be able to handle it if he did. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. You look just like her.” My eyes meet his, and I watch all the emotions play out in them, like a gateway into his innermost thoughts.
“You knew her.” Pain, hurt, disbelief are all present in those few words. Atticus takes a hesitant step toward me, and instantly, I coat myself in flames, using it like my own personal armor.
Unable to speak, I nod my head in reply, the word getting lodged in my throat. Fisting his hands at his sides, he looks murderous, and I have no idea if it’s directed at me. I wouldn’t blame him if it was.
“Tell me.” He sounds calmer than he looks—aside from the clenched jaw and balled-up fists—but I can’t stop the tears from flowing or the feel of a boulder sitting in my esophagus. So I wait for the ocean to calm, the waves to steady, before I let the flames die out on my flesh and join Atticus, who is waiting for me on the couch.
My eyes stay downcast as I shuffle my feet to the chair. OnceI’m seated, I finally build up the nerve to look him in the eye, and the waterworks start all over again.
“She was brilliant. Someone I looked forward to seeing every day.” My gaze flits down to my hands resting in my lap. “She kept me sane—well, as much as someone could stay sane in a place like that,” I admit.
When he stays silent, I hesitantly look back up, and my heart tugs at the unshed tears that sit in his eyes, and I can feel the shattering, splintered pieces of his heart in my chest.
“What happened to her?”
A breathless, lifeless chuckle escapes me. Shaking my head, the penetrating stare he sends my way is pleading. But I don’t have the heart to tell him. How can I possibly explain to him that his beloved twin sister was mutilated and tortured? That, against all odds, we were getting out. I was getting her out, and she sacrificed herself to saveme.
The words form, but I can’t release them. It should have been me who died in that hallway. And for some unknown reason, she thought my life was more valuable than her own.
Against my better judgment, that’s exactly what I tell him. Atticus absorbs every word of the confession, and when it’s all said and done, the floor opens up, ready to swallow me whole.
