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My stomach rolls again. But this time with something different—a strong emotion that has my throat clogged, my hand rubbing my eyes to hide the well of tears.

Grief. For time lost with my dad. With Paloma.

Stumbling, I step toward the stairs and back into my room, as quiet as I can be. Seven is still asleep at Paloma’s side, and she’s curled around him in my absence.

She’s so beautiful, and so deeply sad. Each of her tears feels like ripping my fingernails out, the pain just as great as the compulsion to do something so punishing.

How did I miss it? What is so fucking wrong with me that I couldn’t fix this? Couldn’t take care of her?

Wrong, wrong, wrong—I should’ve known.

She takes in another deep, rattling breath, like a leftover sob leaking into her sleep. I clench my fist.

Everyone I’ve ever loved has only faced demons I can’t win against—nothing physical I can lay my anger and fear into. Only things I was too late to stop. Rhys and his panic, his anxiety. My dad and his self-inflicted solitude. My mother and her self-hatred, her unsettled fear of loneliness.

Paloma.

I look at her now and I can see her as that little girl. The photo of her in the fucking case file—five years old with lopsided pigtails and mismatched bows. And the velveteen rabbit in her grip. I can see her at fifteen, confused and scared and threatened by someone who was meant to protect her. Abandoned by everyone else. I can see her at eighteen, remember her beneath my hands, wonder-eyed as we touched for the first time. Falling in love with me, so much more experienced and yet not—no one had ever held her with care.

Does she believe I abandoned her to rot in her own self-hatred? That I stood by while she hurt herself with guilt and pain, thinking that she wasn’t worth the battle?

Why can’t I get this fucking right? Why can’t I save just one of them?

I feel like I’m drowning, only this time I don’t want to come back up for air.

I feel like a failure—on the verge of a panic attack.

Breathe. I try to listen to the voice that sounds like a warbled mix of Dr. Anya and my dad. Make a list.

1.I failed Paloma. I brought her worst nightmare back into her life.

2.Paloma is still asleep in my room, for now.

3.My dad noticed something was wrong. I didn’t. I failed him and her.

4.Rhys barely came back, and I had no hand in that. He did better without me bringing him down. Is Paloma the same?

There’s only one conclusion: Everyone is hurting and I’m only making it worse.

Chapter 73

NOW

Paloma

Seven is in bed with me and Bennett is gone when I wake up. My head feels heavy enough that I roll over like I might just sleep for longer—before deciding that might be my worst idea.

The first time I met Alessia Baudelaire she let me stay at her apartment. I was too scared to go home or anywhere else—so she took care of it. Took care of me. And I remember feeling so sick the next morning, not wanting to leave or get out of bed. Terrified of what would happen next.

“Take the time you need,” she told me in that same firm but soft voice. “But then you have to get up. That’s what we do. We get up. We keep going. Women can survive anything. We’re the stronger ones—remember that when someone tries to make you feel small or weak.”

Get up. Get up.

I push up and grab for the water by the bed, realizing there are wrappers next to it. Goldfish and a protein bar, half eaten. I know I’m the one who ate them—but Bennett must’ve been in a rush if he left them here. He never leaves trash out.

That captures my attention.

I slide off his bed and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and braid my hair back.