PROLOGUE
BELLAMY
AGE SIXTEEN
The cop carssit half on the curb, half in the street, lights on but sirens off.
That’s the first thing I notice. Not the number of them—three, maybe four—but the fact that they’re quiet. Just white doors and black lettering, idling as if they belong here.
Which they kind of do.
Our block gets visits like this. Noise complaints. Domestics. Someone selling something they shouldn’t out of a second-story window. It’s not unusual enough to make me slow down.
I adjust my backpack strap and keep walking.
The apartment building squats at the end of the block, concrete and tired, its front steps chipped and uneven. Someone’s left the front door propped open with a milk crate. A paramedic van sits crooked out front, hazard lights blinking a lazy orange.
Still, I think nothing of it.
My stomach growls as I trudge up the stairs. I picture the half-empty box of Lucky Charms on top of the fridge, the milkcarton I'd shaken yesterday—three swallows left, maybe. Mom's voice this morning: “I'll hit the grocery after my shift, Bellamy.” The same promise as Tuesday.
“Miss Hale?”
I freeze mid-step. A uniform blocks our doorway—navy blue, a silver badge catching hallway light. Our apartment door gapes open, wider than we ever leave it. Yellow light spills out, casting strange shadows across the hall carpet.
The officer's hand rises between us, palm out, fingers slightly spread. “I'm sorry. You can't go in there right now.”
I blink at him. “This is my apartment.”
The cop's eyes flick over his shoulder, then back to mine. His Adam's apple bobs once. The corners of his mouth twitch downward before he forces them level again.
“Let's step over here for a second,” he says, voice dropping half an octave.
His fingers brush my elbow, steering me toward the stairwell.
I follow, my sneakers dragging against the carpet as if they've suddenly gained twenty pounds each.
My ears ring. Cars honk three blocks away but sound underwater. A pigeon flaps past, wings beating in slow motion. My eyes catch on a crack in the sidewalk—jagged like lightning—then fix on a single red Converse sneaker tipped against the dumpster, its laces trailing like dead worms. Something sweet-sour hangs in the air. Cough syrup and bleach.
The stretcher wheels squeak against the doorframe. Two paramedics grip the sides, their movements smooth as dancers. A sheet drapes over lumps and valleys. Not quite far enough. One arm dangles off the edge, swaying with each bump. Pale. Blue-veined. Fingers half-curled like they're still reaching for something just beyond grasp.
The floor tilts beneath my feet. My vision narrows to the pale fingers dangling from the stretcher—fingers with chipped purple nail polish that don't belong to my mother. Can't belong to her.
“Miss?” The cop's voice comes from somewhere far away. “Are you—should I get you a chair?”
The stretcher wheels catch on the metal threshold strip with a sound like a fork against teeth. The paramedics adjust their grip and lift slightly. Those fingers sway with the movement.
“Who is that?” The question leaves my mouth like someone else is asking it. Someone calm. Someone standing on solid ground.
My ribs seem to crack open, something cold rushing in where my lungs should be. If I move—even breathe too deeply—I might shatter completely, might never find all the pieces again.
The cop's hand lands on my shoulder, heavy as an anchor.
I stare at his hand on my shoulder. Five thick fingers, a silver wedding band, clean fingernails. The weight of it anchors me to the sidewalk when everything else feels like it might float away.
I roll my shoulder until he lets go.
His hand retreats to his belt. “I'm sorry,” he says again, voice softer than before. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
