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Dead.

The silence that followed was almost shocking. Just the steady drip of water from the ceiling, the whine of the tap I’d forgotten to turn off, the quiet hum of something electrical in the walls.

We looked at each other—Emma and me—dripping, breathing hard, eyes bright. We were so fucking proud. Not just of what we’d done, but of how we’d done it. Efficient. Creative. Memorable.

Then we bolted.

Out of the room, out of the hotel, out into the night air that felt too cold and too clean after all that heat and steam. We didn’t look back. We didn’t talk about it on the way home. We didn’t mention it the next day. Or the day after.

We never spoke about it again.

We didn’t even let ourselves think about it.

And now, years later, standing here with these newspapers spread out in front of me, glue under my fingernails and the air thick with the sour reek of paste, it all feels both distant and too close at the same time.

The memories aren’t softer. Time hasn’t dulled them the way people like to promise it will. They’re just quieter now, deeper, buried under years of other sins and distractions. But all it takes is a headline, a name, a black-and-white face, and they push back up through the surface like something that refuses to stay drowned.

They’re still there.

Pressed between headlines and dates.

Waiting for me to unfold them again.

CHAPTER 4

EMMA

My mother once told me that to succeed in life, you often have to fail first. The only way to truly stand out is to sink to the lowest point and claw your way back up—that’s how respect is earned. What she never told me is that, in doing so, I would still be seen as nothing more than someone meant for the kitchen or someone to be controlled, faced down while a man’s hands hold me down.

I’ll never forget the day I walked home from school. The sun was out, and I had my headphones in, listening to the new One Direction song on repeat. But then, when I opened the front door, the air felt gloomy, like a shadow had taken all the light away. I called for my mom. Still, she never answered, and worry built inside me, more frustrating than ever. Dad was on a work trip for six months. I crept upstairs, you could only hear the creak of each step I had taken, and then, on the landing, I took three steps before I opened her door. I knew something was wrong, and there it was: she had hung herself from her ceiling fan. The worst part was that it was still hanging from the fan that never stopped turning. I didn’t know what to do: call the police, or stop the fan. I was in such shock that I ran and never looked back. I have been on my own since that day.

That day, I stopped feeling sorry for people. I changed into someone who takes what she wants. I’m not a good person, and anyone who thinks so would be wrong.

I kill for the adrenaline, not because they deserve it. I don’t even have a reason; I do it just because I’m bored. I’m still stuck in the universe, and this is my way of dealing with it. This is why I love the yearly scare fest that Uriah organizes. Max and I were asked to help organize it, but we declined because I prefer not to take on that responsibility. I just want to kill, and this gives me the perfect opportunity to do so, and no one can stop me, not even Max. He’s just as fucked up as I am. If you think the way I kill is wrong, wait till he really gets into his Halloween costume. But right now, at this moment, I’m sitting in the living room, sprawled on the couch with Vampire Diaries playing while I drool over Damon Salvatore. At the same time, the masks hang drying upstairs. The faint sound of water dripping is what makes me look to the side. Max appears at the top of the stairs, a white towel wrapped around his waist, one wrong move and everything would be on show; a sight I wouldn’t be mad about glimpsing.

“Keep looking at me like that and people might think you like me.” I bite my lip, choking on what little saliva I have left in my throat, not even taking a second to draw myself up to him. His six-pack is dripping water onto the floor, and normally, I would get mad, but instead I’m super horny.

“Ha, imagine.” I scoff, shaking my head.

I glance towards the stairs just as footsteps echo from above. A moment later, Max appears at the bottom, his gaze immediately locking onto me.

I push myself off the couch, smoothing down my clothes as I straighten.

I take a step toward the door, but Max is already moving.

He crosses the room quickly, reaching me before I can get any further. His hand fists in my hair and jerks me backwards. I stumble, forced to turn as my back slams against the wall.

Max catches both my wrists, dragging my arms above my head and pinning them against the wall.

I lick my lips, then bite down hard enough to taste blood. I don't care.

All I can focus on is his eyes.

They aren't green anymore.

They're darker, burning with something I can't name.

Passion.