Crack.
The world went white.
She blinked several times, tried to orient herself. She was on the floor, legs sprawled out before her. He’d thrown her down. The back of her head throbbed where she’d hit the wall.
“I never wanted this life!” he roared at her. “I never wanted you.”
Simple words.
It was always those small, simple words.
This was what it felt like to fall apart. It began somewhere in her hands—they were cold, unfeeling, and the numb sensation seemed to travel up her arms, into her chest. It felt like her organs were shutting down; she was cold, but she wasn’t shaking, wasn’t reacting like living people did when cold. She wondered if shehaddied—if Cal and Cora were right, if she was a soulless zombie wandering around. But wouldn’t she have felt something, she thought. If she was dead, there should have been a sign, a way of knowing.
Or maybe she’d been dead long before a demon ripped out her heart.
“Dee?”
It was a new voice that spoke. A familiar voice.
James.
His faded plaid shirt and absurd leather jacket were so familiar and comforting that she felt her eyes well up. Seeing him made the whole thing real. Pain spiked through her chest. She didn’t want him to see this, see the ugliness of her past behind her carefully constructed facade.
This—this wasn’t fair.
She didn’t have a heart. She didn’t have a heart. It shouldn’t be able to break.
“I heard shouting,” James said, uncertain.
Mr. Moreno stared at him, at his clothes, at his mussed hair. “Who the fuck are you?”
James’s gaze flicked between Mr. Moreno and Dee, still on the floor. He seemed to change. It wasn’t that he grew taller or more intimidating, but something in his face hardened. One of his hands balled up. “Dee?”
Dee opened her mouth, ready to tell him it was fine—it wasfine—itwasfine—
Nothing came out.
“Dee,” said James. He walked to Dee, but Mr. Moreno angled forward. James took a step, shifted so that he squarely faced the older man. He didn’t say a word, but the challenge was there.
“No,” she whispered. The word came out so quiet she wondered how anyone heard it, but James did. He glanced back at her, questioning. Waiting for her to take the lead.
She didn’t want them to fight. For one thing, she wasn’t sure James could win.
“I need to leave,” she whispered. She heard a noise from the doorway, where Mrs. Moreno lingered.
James knelt beside her and then his hands were on her, gentle and warm, helping her stand. She shuffled toward the door, her gaze fallen to the floor. She knew it was James who angled himself between her and her father, and she hated how grateful she felt. She shouldn’t have let him—she should’ve handled this. She’d been handling this, she was the only one who knew how to handle this—
“Dee,” pleaded Mrs. Moreno, and it nearly broke her.
Not my responsibility. Not my responsibility.
She couldn’t be responsible for them anymore. Not when she could barely see straight.
James kept his hand on her back until they reached his car. She slid into the passenger’s seat, but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything. Not James’s hands running over her shoulders and arms, as if searching for injury. When his fingertips probed the back of her head, she drew in a sharp breath and he murmured an apology.
“Dee,” he said, and she didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“Deirdre,” he said, his voice low and insistent. It was the first time he had ever said her full name.
