Chapter 29
Gio
"Gio, wait," Adrian says, reaching for me again. I dodge him, shoving past Cole. The crowd parts, a sea of terrified faces parting for the monster. Behind me, I hear Adrian shouting, the scramble of footsteps as they try to follow, but I don't care.
My gaze locks with Zoë. She stands there, anchored in the chaos. I'm going to drag her into the dark with me, and I don't care if it burns us both alive. I shove past a junior, knocking his drink out of his hand. The red cup hits the floor, splashing beer over my boots, but I don't stop. I have eyes only for the landing.
Zoë sees me coming. She straightens her spine, a subtle adjustment that prepares for impact rather than retreat. Clara steps in front of her, a human shield. "Gio, don't."
I shoulder Clara aside, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to move her. She gasps, stumbling back into Talia. I reach Zoë and clamp my hand around her wrist. Her skin is hot, her pulse hammering against my thumb. "Come with me."
"No," she says, planting her feet, and locking her knees. She looks at me like I'm a problem she hasn't calculated for yet.
"I don't have time for your shit right now," I snarl, tightening my grip. "Get your hands off me," she says, her voice low and lethal. "Or I will scream."
"Scream all you want." I yank her forward. She stumbles, falling into step beside me because the alternative is hitting the floor. I drag her through the cluster of girls—Maya, Genny, Talia—ignoring their shocked gasps and the collective intake of breath that follows us like a wake.
"Gio!" Adrian shouts from behind me. "Stop!"
"Let him go," I hear Dante say to someone, likely a freshman trying to play hero. "He's not in his right fucking mind."
I haul Zoë toward the staircase, the wood slippery under my boots. She's fighting me now, digging her heels in, trying to wrench her arm from my grip. She's strong, but I'm desperate. Desperation is a kind of strength that doesn't give a fuck about leverage.
"You are making a scene," she hisses, clutching the banister as we hit the first step.
"Good." I pull her up the stairs, two at a time.
The music from the DJ booth is a dull throb in my chest, drowning out the whispers. "Murderer." "Psycho." I hear the words, but they're just noise. The only thing that matters is the woman in my hand.
We hit the landing. I scan the hallway. Closed doors. Muffled sounds behind them. I kick open the first door I see. An empty guest room. A bed. A desk. I shove Zoë inside and follow her in,kicking the door shut with my heel. The lock clicks into place, loud and final in the sudden quiet.
Zoë spins around, backing up until her spine hits the wall. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling under that silky top. Her eyes are wide with fury. "If you touch me," she says, her voice shaking, "I will end you."
I lean back against the door, sliding the deadbolt home. "I'm not going to touch you."
"Then why are we here?" She gestures around the small room. "Why did you drag me away like a—"
"Because they think I did it," I interrupt, the words tearing out of my throat. "Adrian. Declan. All of them. They looked at that report and they saw a killer."
Zoë goes still. The anger in her eyes sharpens into assessment. "Do you blame them?" she asks quietly.
"It doesn't matter what I blame," I say, sliding down the door until I hit the floor. I bury my face in my hands. "It matters what they see."
"And what do you see?" she asks.
I look up at her. "I see a way out," I say. "Or I see the end."
"Then start talking," she says. She stands there like a judge waiting for the testimony, arms crossed over her chest.
"I wasn't driving," I say. The words scrape my throat. The silence in the room stretches, thin and brittle. Zoë just watches me, her gaze dissecting my face for cracks. "The report says you were," she says. "It says your blood alcohol was—"
"The report is a fucking fabrication," I snap. "It's a fairy tale written by my father."
I push myself up, just enough to dig into my pocket. My hand shakes as I pull out my phone. My screen is cracked, a spiderweb of glass over the Briarcliff Whisper headline. With clumsy fingers, I unlock it, navigating to the gallery. The scan comes up. That's the real one. It's the one that's supposed to beburied. Then I toss the phone onto the rug. It slides across the floor, stopping at her feet. "Pick it up," I say.
Zoë crouches, her movements fluid and controlled. With careful fingers, she picks up the phone, squinting at the screen. Zoë reads, her brow furrowing. "It's... blurry. I can't make out the first name, but the last name is Vance."
"Rylan Vance," I say. "My cousin. He was driving. He was drunk. It was his third strike, and he was seventeen."
