I need to get out of here, call the police, find Tate, and warn him. No matter what he’s done to me, I can’t let him come home to this—another unstable fan. One who might hurt him, instead of herself.
“You can have him,” I say. But her face hardens and grows even paler, if that’s possible. She takes another step toward me.
“I will.” And then adds, “Once you’re gone.”
My fingers finally coil around my keys, buried at the bottom of my purse. I whip around, jamming the key into the lock, and grab for the door handle. Time moves in fast-forward yet I am in slow motion: I yank open the door but she’s too quick, rushing at me, and her hands clamp down against my throat. The door bangs shut again. My lungs constrict, gasping for air. For a second I’m so stunned that my arms are limp at my sides, my vision already starting to smudge out. But then panic crawls up from my stomach and I slam my hands against her face, trying to push her backward. We stumble sideways, to the front of the car, hands around each other, my heels shuffling on the wet pavement.
We’re moving too fast, the momentum driving us along the side of my car, sliding across the fender, and then we are stumbling out away from it, across the driveway, into the dark. But we don’t make it to the edge of the driveway; the force of her body is too great, and I feel my feet catch beneath me, and then we’re both falling.
We thud hard against the ground, the concrete rising up to meet me. Little white spots blur my vision and I realize the back of my head is throbbing, heat spreading over my scalp.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell her to stop, but there is no air to form the words.
I meet her eyes, only inches from mine, coal-black pupils magnified like she’s staring straight through me to the other side—hollow but also satisfied. Her hands close even tighter around my throat: pressing, digging, fighting to push the life out of me. And everything begins to slow. I gasp and kick and claw at her, but her face twists into a sagging grin, caught somewhere between laughter and tears.
My nails dig into her cheeks, pulling away skin, but soon I feel the strength start to leave my limbs. And my vision blots with speckles of red.
Everything is slipping away, fading like a vast black curtain billowing over the top of Tate’s house and settling down over me.
The sky is beautiful. The clouds receding, drifting away. It’s now black and dotted with tiny lights. Stars.
Nothing but the stars. It’s all I see. They burn as they fall, raining down and touching my skin, making everything white.
The sky dims. Spots bursting.
The world turns shallow, out of focus.
And then nothing but dark.
*
My heartbeat is the first thing I feel: hammering every joint, every bone connected by tissue. Knocking my body apart.
I peel my eyelids open, sticky and watery.
The sky shakes above me.
There is a flash of dark hair—the girl, still above me. And then a sudden release of pressure—of her body being lifted from mine, hands leaving my throat. But I can’t move. My legs are like anchors. My arms tingle. My head throbs worse than before.
Someone screams: the girl, I think.
Movement, feet against the concrete, hands clawing, scraping.
I realize my eyelids have slipped closed again and I force them open. A face rises into view. I flinch, expecting the girl again—back to finish things. To kill me this time. But it’s not her.
It’s Tate.
His lips are moving. His eyes are like a bottomless ocean, and I want to sink down into them and never come up again. He’s speaking but my mind is unable to parse the words. And then his arms are beneath me, lifting me up, and I feel empty of anything but air, and I let him carry me, my head pressed to his chest.
The black descends once more, only the sound of Tate’s heartbeat thumping against my ear chasing me into the darkness.
*
The steady beeping of a heart monitor rouses me from sleep. Am I in a hospital? When I open my eyes I see Tate. Relief washes over me, until I remember what happened.
“Hey,” I say, my voice a sandpapery rasp.
“Hey.” He tries to smile, but it’s strained. “How do you feel?”
I close my eyes and take stock. The aches are there—my head, my throat, my back where I hit the concrete—but duller, not the agony I remember. I glance at the IV in my hand—yep, hospital. “I’ve had better days. How long have I been here?”
“A few hours. You have some bruising on your throat and maybe a concussion, so they want to keep you overnight, but they said considering everything, you’re really lucky.” His mouth twists, like he can hardly say the word. “Your family’s up front with Hank, talking to the police. I... Do you need anything? A doctor? I should tell them you’re awake.”