“Emmett.”
“I can explain.” But how? How could he justify it—a body found in his abandoned car the same night he lied about having been in an accident—without telling Lizette the whole truth?
“I’m coming home,” she said.
“Wait—”
The line went dead.
Twenty minutes later Lizette stormed into the apartment, her voice booming down the hall to Emmett’s bedroom: “Emmett Gregory Truesdale, ven aquí now!”
He groaned low under his breath, needles of fear pinning him down to the mattress.
The door flew open. That Lizette hadn’t even gotten dressed properly—still wearing Armando’s band tee from the night before, face bare, hair up in a tornadic bun—told him he was right to be afraid. “Out!”
He followed her into the living room, his heart hammering.
“Sit.”
Emmett dropped onto the couch. She faced him. “Talk.”
“This—this is going to sound insane,” he murmured.
“I don’t fucking care.”
“You’re going to hate me.”
“Only if you lie to me again.”
“Just promise you’ll believe me, okay?” His voice buckled under the weight of his fear and anxiety. “I just need—”
“That’s not even a question. I believe you. Just tell me.”
Emmett breathed in, then let it all out.
Once he started purging, he couldn’t stop. He told her about thelost hours and his strange cravings, the times he’d woken up covered in blood and the disappearances that followed, the body in his trunk and his voracious animal binge of it.
Lizette remained uncharacteristically quiet, communicating her understanding through muted nods and swallowed shivers. She seemed to be holding something back. It made Emmett more anxious than the over-the-top reaction he’d expected; at least then he would know what was going through her head.
“What’s wrong with me?” he sobbed.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Lizette said, though it seemed to cost her some effort. “It’s the drug.”
“You think?”
“Obviouslyit’s the drug.” She paced around the room. “I should’ve realized something was up when you brought home that fucking carpet cleaner. Emmettito, why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve figured something out, gotten rid of your car.”
“They’re gonna figure out it’s mine. I’m dead.”
“Maybe not. Did you remove the plates?”
“Of course, but aren’t there other ways to trace it to me?”
“The VIN. It’s on the inside of the door and I think somewhere on the engine, but—”
“Fuck.” Emmett gripped his head. “I completely forgot about that!”
“But the article said they couldn’t find a VIN on the car. It melted off in the fire.”
