Page 104 of 72 Hours of You

“I just need to talk to Sydney.”

Peter puts his arm out, blocking him. “No.”

Charles looks at me, his eyes suddenly turning wild and desperate. “Please, Sydney. I just want to apologize.”

“How did you know I was here?” I whisper.

“Instagram,” he says.

Oh. Oh god. The last thing on Peter’s timeline. The two of us. Here.

“But I blocked you,” I say, weakly. As if that’s going to change anything.

“I know,” he sighs. “I used her account.”

I almost ask whose account he means. But I already know who he’s talking about. There is only one “her” to Charles.

Caroline.

I imagine him pacing, logging on to the account I set up for her, clicking away from the rainbow-colored grid of photos of little origami birds, touching the only name in her friends list. Mine. I wanted her to be able to have an account. But I wanted to keep her safe from the outside world.

God, this is all so fucked up.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says. “I don’t want to upset you. I just have a couple of things I need to say.”

“I think you’ve said enough already,” Peter says.

Charles looks from me to Peter. “Does he know? What you can do? Who you really are?”

“I …”

“Yeah. I know exactly who she is. And I also know exactly who you are, and you need to leave. Now.”

“You don’t understand,” Charles says, a familiar tremor of anguish in his voice. “I have to talk to her. Just one more time. Please.” He tries to push past Peter.

“No.”

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. And then he shoves his shoulder into Peter, hard, and pushes his way into our room. And just like that, our bubble of safety explodes.

“Please, Charles,” I say, my hands shaking. “Please. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I swear. I promise.”

“It has to be today,” he says.

Peter grabs him by the shoulder. “She said no. Do not take one more step toward her, I swear to god.”

“Peter—” We can’t waste his last minutes on Charles. This can’t be happening. He has to see his parents. I have to kiss him all over his face and tell him I love him. I’ve only told him once.

Charles turns around to face Peter and they start arguing, but I can’t hear their words. I can’t hear anything besides my own heart screaming in my ears. Because then I see it.

Tucked behind his back, into his waistband.

A gun.

I can’t breathe. Everything blurs together: the expensive yellow armchairs, the soft carpet under my feet, the smell of cold burgers and shrimp, Charles’s watch, Peter’s words … Nothing feels real. Nothing is real. Nothing except—

“Peter.” His name comes out in a croak, a plea, a prayer.

Charles turns at the sound of my voice—my stupid fucking voice—and then Peter’s entire face goes white. He sees it too.