I wipe my nose. “Burnt meat. Like roast pork. And blood. Sulfur.”
Irvin shakes his head.
“Are you sure, Irvin? Please tell me I’m not losing it.” I yank my hair hard, pulling a few strands out.
“Stop!” He places his hand over mine, squeezing gently. His eyes narrow. “How do you know how burnt flesh smells?”
I stare into his sage eyes. Did I tell him about Emerson, or is he guessing?
“What are you talking about?”
He lifts my chin with his fingers. “Burnt meat and blood and sulfur. The only place you get that combination is gunpowder and a dead body. You’ve been around dead flesh.”
I swallow thickly, not acknowledging his words.
It’s not important. I need to find the person who sent the message.
I watch a guy walk past wearing a hoodie. It has to be him—the killer. I rush toward him. Irvin grabs my arm once more.
“Where are you going?”
I snatch my arm away. “He’s the killer. I know it. He’s the guy who sent me the message.”
I catch up to him and yank his hood, revealing his face. His eyes are dark, his hair black and messy like a rat’s nest. He’s slender, about the same age. My pulse accelerates. It’s him. Emerson. I knew he wasn’t dead. I’m going to kill him.
I stab my finger into his hard chest. “Why did you send me that message? You did it. You attacked my friend!”
Emerson balls up his fist as if to strike me. Irvin steps in front, shielding me.
“Sorry, my wife isn’t feeling well.”
I stand up, dusting off my sweatpants. I’m going to kill Emerson. First my parents. Now Winter. Fuck him. I should have killed him myself.
Tears burn trails down my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I was crying.
“I thought you died! You son of a bitch! And you hurt my friend!”
“Get this bitch away from me!” Emerson yells, but his voice is raspier than I remember.
I shake my head. His face morphs—copper hair, angelic features, not the rough, muscular Emerson I knew.
“Keep your bitch on a leash. She put her ha—”
Irvin grabs him by the throat, thrusting him toward the ER double doors. “Enough. She’s sorry. Get the fuck out before I slit your throat and throw your body in the ocean.”
The man’s eyes widen, and he stumbles out of the parking lot.
Irvin scoops me into his arms and carries me to the car. I cry buckets. He sits me in the seat, strapping my seatbelt over me.
“I-I’m so sorry, Irvin. I really am.”
He strokes the back of my head. “There isn’t anything to be sorry about.”
What happened back there? Was I really losing it? I check the phone—no new message. Did I imagine it, like the locket? I even thought the guy back there was Emerson. I feel worn out as so many emotions swirl through me.
Once we arrive home, Irvin carries me upstairs and lays me on the bed. He brings the blanket over me, then hurries to the bathroom, showers, puts on fresh pajamas, and climbs into bed, pulling me close.
I rest my head on his chest and cry. My chest burns. My limbs feel exhausted. My mind feels like it’s been in a blender.
