Back on track.

Do they really believe that that’s what I’m doing? I suppose I’ve been successful at making it look like I am. I’ve put up a good front, learning how to force smiles and appear reserved versus emotionally unstable. I ask polite questions. The trick is to ask open-ended ones that force others to talk. And then just keep asking questions. That way they think you’re having a conversation. It’s hard and tiring, because my mind keeps drifting.

I’ve also made myself look busy. I kill my mornings on mindless graphic design program courses, my afternoons on undemanding design projects from my mom, my evenings at the local gym, and long hours sleeping and thinking about the red-haired girl that I don’t have the guts to face, before I hit repeat. One never-ending stream.

I threw the rhythm off just twice: once, on the one-year anniversary of the car accident. That day I sat in the cemetery with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, babbling to Sasha’s tombstone; the second time was to appease my mother and go on a blind date that Fitz set me up on. A friend of his sister’s. Nice enough girl, but I think she was going in with the impression that she could turn my life around. For about four minutes, while I f**ked her in the backseat of my car, I thought maybe she could too. Then reality came crashing down with a vengeance. I haven’t called her since.

I’m better off sticking to my simple schedule. A schedule that doesn’t allow me to let any of this go, but at least gives me something to focus on while I burn time. Just waiting for the knots in my stomach and the hollowness in my chest to go away.

Just waiting until I can be like everyone else, and move on.

Well, maybe not everyone.

Has Kacey moved on too, yet?

“A change of scenery may be good for you. You should come visit me sometime, Cole.”

I grit my teeth at the name. That’s one of the reasons I spend so much time at the gym. I’m only Trent Emerson there.

My dad must see my reaction. He opens his mouth but hesitates. He ends with, “Think about it.”

And then I watch my dad officially separate from my mom after twenty-five years of marriage.

Chapter 11

February 2010

“Come on! It’ll be a good time.” Rich slaps my back as we climb a set of stairs that I didn’t think I’d ever be climbing again. The big house looks exactly the same—colorful flags plastering the walls, kegs lining the entranceway, drunk freshmen looking to hook up. Sasha, Derek, and I experienced our first MSU frat party within these very walls. And the front lawn . . . well, Derek later painted that with too many shots of Fireball.

“We’re too old for this.” I pull my baseball cap down lower. Though there are a few upper years here, and of course the frat brothers, at twenty-two and with my solid frame, I stand out.

“No, I’m too old for this. You’re borderline.”

I can’t believe I’m back here. I can’t believe I’m crashing in my old room, now vacant again. It feels both like no time and an eternity have passed, the wounds that never healed somehow torn wide open. But I’m numb to the fresh wave of pain because I haven’t felt anything but that in almost two years.

Rich phoned me two weeks ago and begged me to come out to visit. My mom overheard and interpreted the conversation, and then prodded me until I agreed. I can see now that I should have just dug my heels in, but I do pretty much whatever my mother asks me to. It keeps her happy.

Thirty seconds in the door and I’m already exhausted. I’m used to solitude now. Not two hundred freshmen bumping into me from all sides. Something I would never have noticed when I was drunk but that irritates the shit out of me now that I’m sober. Luckily, I can see over the sea of heads.

That’s how I spot her.

There’s no doubt that it’s her; I’ve memorized her face.

Leaning against a wall on the opposite side, her lips wrapped around a clear bottle filled with clear liquor, her fiery red hair a wild mane against the stark white wall, a tight black T-shirt showing off toned arms. She’s in no rush to part with that bottle, guzzling back a good portion before she hands it off to someone, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her eyes at half-mast.

She’s wasted.

My heart starts racing. What the hell is Kacey Cleary doing here? By my calculation, she’s probably finishing her last year of high school, having lost at least half a year while recovering.

I tug my cap down even farther, though I doubt she can see two feet in front of her.

Shit. What if she does recognize me? How would she react? Does she know my real name? What I look like? I can’t say for sure that my face wasn’t printed in a newspaper somewhere. She could have Googled my name and found a dozen game shots with me in them. I have my helmet on in most of them, but you can find a profile picture of me easily enough if you’re looking.

I don’t know that she was, though. I wonder if Kacey Cleary gives a f**k about anything anymore. Her Facebook account is inactive. She hasn’t posted a single word and the well-wishes have dwindled, as everyone moves on.

I do know that she shouldn’t be at a party in this state. I’ve heard of bad things happening when girls get that drunk. Especially when they don’t care.

But what do I do?

A blond stumbles into my chest with two beers in hand. “Hey, do you go here? What’s your name?” She’s tipping her head back way farther than necessary to look up at me, telling me she’s trying to flirt but is too drunk to do it right.

I smile down at her anyway. She’s a good cover. I can stand right here and watch Kacey. “I’m Trent, and I used to go here.”

“Really? When’d you graduate?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Kacey shift from the wall and begin climbing the stairs, her arm hooked around the railing to help her. Two guys following her.

Shit. “Uh . . . two years ago.”

“Cool. I’m Kimmy, by the way. Here.” She shoves the beer toward me, splashing some onto my chest.

Just what I want. To smell like a brewery. I take it anyway, because you just don’t come to a keg party and not drink. I suffer through another few minutes of conversation, worrying about where Kacey went and what’s going on, when Kimmy asks, “So, who did you come here with?”

Perfect. My out. Rich has disappeared into the crowd. He’s like his cousin—a social butterfly. “A friend. Actually, if you don’t mind, I need to go find him.” I flash her a smile. No reason to be a dick to her. “It was nice talking to you, Kimmy.”

I don’t wait for her response before I push my way through the crowd to the stairs, my pace picking up with each step. “Where’d the redhead go?” I ask the guys leaning against the railing at the top of the landing, waiting in line for the can. A head nod directs me to the closed door at the end of the hall.

The locked, closed door.

I start hammering against it with my fist.

I can just make out a male voice hollering, “Busy!” from inside.

“Open the damn door. She needs to get home. Now.” It’s a risky move. I don’t know how she’s going to react to any of this. I half-expect her to throw the door open herself and tell me to f**k off. But when she doesn’t, I start hammering against the door again. I’ve earned a small audience by now but I don’t care. “You’ve got exactly ten seconds before I bust this door down!” And I can. Easily. I’ll probably end up with a dozen frat guys jumping onto my back, too, but oh well.

“Whoa! Wait up!” someone yells behind me. A dark-haired guy steps in beside me. “Cole?”

It takes me a moment to recognize him. “Vance. Right?” A fellow Spartan who joined the team two years after me.

“Yeah.” He flashes a crooked smile. “How’ve you been?”

I brush his question off. “I need to get this girl out. She’s not up for whatever’s going on in there.”

He starts banging on the door. “Griff. Open up! It’s Vance.”

There’s a long pause, and then I see the handle jiggle.

“Hey!” a guy hollers as I barrel into him, pushing my way through and into the room.

To find Kacey lying on the bed in her black bra and panties, her jeans hanging off one leg. Unconscious. Or close to it, with her eyes shut, her limbs lax, her lips moving ever so feebly.

And two ass**les in the room with her. Ready to do God knows what.

Rage ignites in me and I lunge for the guy closest to me, the one who opened the door. The one with his shirt off and his belt undone. Vance jumps in between to stop me, but I send him flying with ease. “What the hell is she on? Did you slip her something?”

“No! Nothing! She was into it five minutes ago.” The guy’s hands fly up in surrender, fear touching his eyes as I seize his shirt. “She grabbed both of us and said she wanted it. But now she’s like that. We weren’t gonna do anything to her.”

“Right.”

A crowd has gathered by the door. I kick the door shut in their faces.

Vance has regained his footing and steps in between again, along with the third guy. “Look, everyone’s been drinking. Let’s not get out of hand here.” I know that’s directed at me. We may have played ball together but these guys are obviously his buddies, and he’s going to defend them no matter what. He juts his chin toward Kacey. “You know her?”

“Yeah.” After staring at her picture every day for almost two years, I can honestly say that I do know her. I know the curve of her slender nose. I know the kaleidoscopic pattern of her pale blue irises. I know how, when she smiles, it’s slightly crooked, earning a deeper dimple on the left side. I know the minuscule scar at her right temple.

“’Kay. Can you get her out of here?”

A wave of nausea hits me. Am I really going to do this? “Yup.” I know where she lives.

He hesitates. “You good to drive, man?”

My glare answers.

In seconds, I’m alone in a room with Kacey Cleary.

And I need to remind myself how to breathe.

She’s here, lying on the bed right in front of me, in a drug- and alcohol-induced unconsciousness. How often does she do this?

I don’t know if those guys were telling the truth or not, but I’m sure she’s been in other situations like this. And I’m also sure there was no one there to stop it. Even now, though I know it’s wrong, I can’t help but look at her face, at her body, as chiseled and beautiful as it is.

Even with countless thin surgical white scars running along the right side of her body. From her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs, her waist, her hips, disappearing behind a flock of black ravens tattooed on her thigh. Ravens symbolize death; I know because my grandfather was highly superstitious and used to shake his fist at any raven that flew by.

There are one . . . two . . . three . . . four of them on her creamy pale skin. Four ravens for the four people in her life that died that night, maybe? No, wait . . . A black tip peeks out from where the top of her jeans sit on her right leg. I nudge them down with a finger.

A fifth raven.

Five ravens.

There were five in her car.

A chill runs down my back as I peer down at my fellow survivor. Maybe she didn’t truly make it out of that car alive either.

Her eyes flicker open and I suck in my breath. “Youuuuu,” she murmurs softly, and her lips fall back into an intoxicated smirk. A second of panic hits me, but then her eyes start rolling around. She can’t even focus on me. There’s no way she recognizes me.

How much did she drink? Enough to poison her bloodstream? Definitely enough that she may be puking within the hour. I don’t really want that to start here.

With shaky hands, I crouch down to slip the loose pant leg over her foot.

She pulls it away with a small moan. “Come on . . . what’s taking so long,” she says in garbled speech, her lips barely moving. I’m surprised I can even understand it. Her hands slide across her taut belly and pelvis.

And she begins pushing her black panties down.

“Jesus! No.” I dive for her hands to stop them from going any farther and shut my eyes, my heart nearly exploding in my chest. Wouldn’t this be a sight for anyone walking in, after the trouble I gave those two idiots!

She shakes her hands away from mine with surprising force, allowing me a chance to slide her panties back up. She doesn’t fight me anymore as I manage to get her leg back into her jeans and tug them up over her hips. Finding her shirt on the floor, I work it over her head and then reach for her hand to guide it into the sleeve.

She jerks it away. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

“I need to get your shirt on, Kacey,” I whisper, reaching for her hand once again.

“No!” It’s a bellow now, from deep within her. Her hand flies from mine once again. “No hands . . . No hands . . . No hands . . .” Over and over again, her distress rising.

“Okay! Okay. No hands,” I promise, frowning. What is that about?