“After that, the hospital called the police.”
“The police?” Every word coming out of Charlie’s mouth seems foreign. Strange and guttural syllables, unfamiliar vocabulary, cryptic context clues. My own voice sounds odd repeating the words, a child trying out a new language she’s not sure she wants to learn.
I squeeze my eyes shut until color spirals out behind my lids. My fingers curl around the comforter, blood pulsing into the tips. The mattress moves as Charlie shifts. Next thing I know, there’s a warm weight on my thighs. I look down to see Charlie kneeling on the floor in front of me, her forearms resting on my legs.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
But I can’t. I need command of that foreign language, words to explain this black thing leaking into my blood. I’m not even sure what it’s made of. I can’t think about Owen. I can’t attach his name to Hannah on a hospital bed, bandages on her wrist, tears on her lovely face.
I can’t. Every name in this horror story is a separate thing, each a disconnected vignette. So I close Owen’s chapter and flip to Hannah’s, to Charlie’s.
My hands find hers resting lightly on my hips and I tangle our fingers together. “I’m so sorry.”
She tilts her head, and her eyes have a rare sheen to them.
“I should’ve been there,” I say. “I should’ve been with you, with Hannah. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry you had to help her alone.”
“Hey.” She pushes herself to her knees so we’re eye level. She leans into my space, her fingers tightening on mine, our foreheads inches from resting against each other. “This is not your fault. It’s not like any of us had any clue this would happen. Owen is—”
“He’s my brother. He didn’t do this and I’m the one who should’ve been there. Not Tess.”
Charlie frowns and puts some space between us. “Is that what this is about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tess.”
“No. I’m just saying, I wish I had been there.”
She shakes her head and untangles her hands from mine before pulling herself to her feet. “Well, yeah, I wish a lot of things.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m always a little mad at you, aren’t I?”
I search for a smile on her lips, but it’s not there. They’re pressed into a colorless line. Since the first hour of our meeting freshman year, Charlie’s always considered me adorably infuriating. Every time we argue—?over what music we play in the car, what movie to watch, what topping to order on our pizza—?she usually relents because I make a point of being a pain in the ass. I’m always a little mad at you has become a theme in our relationship.
But this time there’s no humor in it, no flirty wink, no affectionate grin.
“This isn’t about you and me or Tess or whoever,” she says. “I mean, do you get this? Do you understand what’s happening, Mara?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but I can’t, because I don’t. There’s no way this happened, no way my brother did this. He’s not even capable of it and I can’t understand how anyone could think he is.
“Fuck,” Charlie sighs out, shoving her hands into her hair. “I’m sorry. This is . . . I don’t know what to say.”
I nod and stand up, a helplessness settling on my bones like age. “I guess I should go.”
“Mara—”
But whatever she was about to say, she swallows it. I wait for her to go on, to stop me from leaving, but she doesn’t. At her door, I pause, keeping my eyes fixed on the painted white wood.
“Is Hannah okay?” I ask.
A beat. “No. She’s not.”
We let the question and answer settle between us, the dark and clouded sounds finally giving way to a shimmer of meaning.
Chapter Five
