“Of course you’d say that.” Barry breaks back through the crowd, flanked by the sheriff and my father. All three of their faces are bloodred—livid. I realize Ever and I are talking so close we look like we’re embracing, and step back.
“You killed them all, you sicko.” Barry’s voice soars. “Even your daddy. You’re a goddamn psychopath.”
The crowd explodes.
“Barry,” the sheriff barks, shoving him back. “Stand down, Deputy.”
“What’swrongwith you, Barry?” I whirl to Ever. “I’m so sorry.”
But he already senses it: Barry’s words have inflamed the crowd. Any moment now, their shock and horror could ignite into violence. He starts backing away.
“It’s not too late for you,” he says, then turns and pushes through the crowd. People stumble away to let him through.
Heart pounding, I watch his car peel out of the parking lot, grateful he’s escaping even if I never will. It was, after all, the price of my bargain.
29
AUGUST, NINETEEN YEARS OLD
I closed my eyes against the water and turned it up as hot as it would go, as hard as it would hit. Molten heat pummeled me from the showerhead, but I closed my eyes and bore it. I’d taken too many showers lately, driven by an impulse to get clean, though the scouring I craved was stronger than a shower could accomplish. I stood under the waterfall and imagined a great knife carving off my skin and muscle until it got to bone. That’s when I’d be clean enough. When I was small and fragile again, unburdened of the monstrous layers I’d grown.
The heat finally grew too much. I turned off the shower, stepped out, and toweled off, twisting water out of my hair. I wrapped myself in my white robe and padded down the hall, opening my bedroom door.
Everett leaned against my desk. The window was open beside him, letting in sticky August air thick as honey and so humid rain would surely start any minute. His right arm was in a makeshift sling he’d made for himself. The large bruise that shadowed his right eye was finally starting to yellow, the cut slicing his lower lip scabbed and healing. I used to read books with heroes who got wounded in wars or in fights defending the woman they loved and pictured their bruises as romantic swipes of color. But I’ve since learned better. There was nothingromantic about what had happened to Ever. I was surprised he could still make it through my window.
I stopped midstep. “My parents are downstairs.”
He cocked his head. Confused, probably, about my tone. I’d never minded him climbing in my room before. “I know,” he said slowly, drawing out the words. “That’s why I took the private route.”
I shut the door quickly and cast my eyes to the carpet, folding my arms tightly over my chest, wishing I was wearing anything other than this thin, flimsy robe.
It hurt to look at him.
“What’s wrong?” I could hear the frown in his voice.
“Nothing.” Warm water beaded steadily down my back. “How’s your arm?”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Your eye is looking better.”
“I told you I’d be fine.”
The words were a knife through my rib cage, whether he meant them to be or not. The message was clear: once again, I’d overreacted.
But I swallowed my protest. Everett was allowed to be rude these days. Because two weeks ago, he’d come home to find his father lying dead on the floor, a bottle of vodka next to him. Since then, Ever’s life had consisted of a confusing maelstrom of end-of-life paperwork and tense interactions with the sheriff’s office, the latter entirely my fault, though he didn’t know that. Once, he’d told me he was glad I never walked on eggshells around him. But now I was doing worse than walking on eggshells. Facing him now required a magician’s prowess, an immense sleight of hand to keep his attention where I wanted it and away from where I didn’t. “Right,” I acquiesced. “I forgot how fast you heal. Silly me.”
His voice grew more concerned. “Ruth, if I did something…”
I glanced at him, then back down. Looking for too long was dangerous.It was too soon, too raw. The hurt on his face, combined with the bruises and cuts—mixed with everything he’d been going through lately, losing his dad—could be my undoing. I cleared my throat. “Have the church folks stopped bothering you yet?”
Outside, thunder cracked—and just like that, rain began to fall, small drops sprinkling through the window. A breeze ruffled the curtains, cutting the oppressive heat.
Ever walked to the window and stuck out his uninjured hand, catching rain in his palm. “No. They’re still coming by to tell me alcohol poisoning was what my dad deserved, and now he’s most assuredly reigning in Hell. Pretty much every day someone comes by. I think it’s the most visitors that house has ever had.”
I walked to my dresser and pulled out a drawer. I needed to put clothes on—layers of sweaters, maybe, to build a barrier between us.
Ever’s voice turned teasing. “They don’t like it when I agree. Messes with their minds. It’s pretty fun, actually. If your dad wants to send any more over…”
