He looks down at our hands, hands that might have touched in another life but will never meet in this one.
“I know I’ve been”—Finn lifts his hand and palms the back of his neck—“kind of an asshole about this whole thing. I’m sorry. I—”He stops. Huffs.“When I woke up…like this…I spent all my time looking for answers. And then there was Sloane and Aisha, with the same hopes I had, that they could figure out what happened to us, give us some closure, help us move into the light or whatever. But each time we thought we found something, it ran right into a dead end. Hope is dangerous. And even when you think you have nothing left tolose, hope can take whatever’s left. I can’t put them through that any longer.”
“I understand not wanting to get their hopes up,” I say. “But I can do things you and Sloane and Aisha can’t. I’m—”
“Real?”
The word slices like a barb through my skin. “Alive,” I say.
He flinches, as I knew he would, and it only stings a little bit.
“I’m going to head back.” I climb to my feet, not bothering to wait for Finn.
I don’t have to look back to know he’s following me.
I may have been harsh earlier, but it was true.
Whatever I do, Finn can’t physically stop me.
Eighteen
It’s only a car.
Aunt Paige hasn’t even started the engine on her little Prius before my heart is racing and sweat is trickling down my spine.
“Ready to go?” Paige asks. She starts the car, and even the quiet engine sound makes me taste metal.
“Uh-huh,” I say. I grip the fabric of the seat with my right hand, beside my leg where Paige can’t see it.
The radio blares to life, a pop ballad, and I jump. Paige lunges to turn down the volume.
“Sorry,” she says. “You know how I like my music.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “Earsplitting.” She smiles, and I force a smile back.
I triple-check my seat belt. Paige purses her lips and looks at me for another few seconds, and I do my best to look like I’m not wondering whether my aunt has a barf bag somewhere in her car. She eases the car into reverse, painstakingly cautious in her movements. She backs us out of the driveway and onto the road.
I dig my fingers into the seat again. Images of pale skin spattered with dark blood flash behind my eyes. The radio still playing as we hit the ditch.
I can’t do this. I almost tell Paige to pull the car over, but a voice echoes in my head. Harper’s.
When we went through lifeguard training a few summers back, I was sure I’d fail out when we got to the treading test. It was meant to be the easiest part: twenty minutes treading water. A test of stamina, physical and mental.
You can survive anything for thirty seconds. And when you get to the end of the first thirty, you start the next, Harper told me.
I take a deep breath. I count to thirty once, twice, five times. Only when Paige slows the car to a stop and puts it in park do I open my eyes.
Instantly, whatever calm I managed to slip into at the end of the drive dissipates at the sight of a cop car parked right outside the bookstore. A man leans against the hood.
The detectives back home were always dressed up in fancy, pressed suits. They radiated cop before they showed a badge. It’s Gonzales, the detective I saw in the store a few weeks back. He’s outfitted similarly, in a jacket and tie. His badge is on his belt, conveniently visible whenever he moves.
The breakfast I forced down threatens to resurface.
Paige shuts off the engine and stares out the window at the cop. She doesn’t say anything, but her distaste fills the car like fog. Her lips purse and her eyes narrow.
“Do you know him?” I ask, hoping my voice comes out even.
“Gonzales? Yeah. It’s his partner I’m less thrilled with,” she says. Her frown deepens with every syllable.
“Not a fan?”
