I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
And I didn’t, just then. I felt like I was walking in a dream. Only the sharp edges of the metal frame digging into my skin made me realize it was real. I slowly let my arm fall then slide behind my back, counting off seconds in my head to make sure I wasn’t being too obvious about it.
Our eyes met again and I realized this was the moment when I could tell him everything. I could show him the photo and the frame and admit all that I’d held back. It was probably my last chance to share it all and have him still forgive me for keeping it secret. My heart sped up at the thought, and I caught myself studying his eyes, like anyone could see anything in a person’s eyes. Like they wouldn’t just tell me what I wanted to hear. Like somehow the look of his eyes would make me say what I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Perhaps I could have, if only there were more than one of the group left. But he’d waste all his time thinking the Blue-Haired Girl was the killer, and I knew better. I knew she was in danger. But more important, she was my last tie to the version of my mom from the picture. And I had to know her secrets. I couldn’t live my life not knowing.
He’d have to understand that someday.
I parted my lips to speak and closed them again. And before I could say anything, I threw my arm around his neck and kissed him. The skin on his back was cold, but everywhere his body pressed against mine was warm. I held him close even after our kiss ended, rubbed my uninjured fingers across his shoulder, as if I could warm him in that way.
“Why did you leave?” he whispered.
“I was coming back.” I kissed his temple and reached up to smooth down his hair. “I’ll always come back.” I don’t know why I said it. It was one of those stupid unkeepable promises that are worth nothing. But the words made him grin, so they were at least worth that. “I need fresh clothes.”
“We have nowhere to be. Besides, you look good in my shirt.”
I smiled. It was too tempting to hide in his room for a day. For two. Forever. I kissed the cold tip of Lock’s nose and said again, “I need fresh clothes.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I shook my head. “Stay here, so we have warning if he comes home. I’ll just be a minute.”
Lock stared after me as I ran up the stairs, and our eyes met just before he turned to face the closed front door as sentry and I turned the corner toward my room. I stopped in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as I washed my face and then dressed my wound. But I slipped up when I brushed my teeth and came face-to-face with my swollen cheek, my cut and swollen lip, the darkening bruise on my temple that was spreading down to my chin. I didn’t even look like myself. Didn’t feel like myself either, so maybe it was for the best. I had this sudden feeling that I was on the verge of something—-that something big was about to happen. That if I wasn’t prepared, it would run me over or pass me by, and I couldn’t decide which was worse.
I shook off the thought and escaped across the hall to pack an overnight bag and change out of his ruined shirt. I pulled the shirt tight around me for a few seconds before taking it off. It was cold in my room—a cold that wouldn’t go away, even after I’d changed into my own clothes.
Nowhere in my room seemed a safe enough hiding place, but it wasn’t like I could carry the frame around. At the last minute I tucked it into my overnight bag and headed out, grabbing an oversize hoodie from a hook by my door for Lock. I froze when I heard the front door slam and practically ran into Sherlock, who was suddenly in the hall. I grabbed him and yanked him into my room, then stood by the door.
I didn’t even have to see my dad. It was like my body reacted to his presence without my say-so. My fingernails dug into my palms. My jaw clenched. And I was angry, so angry I was calm. Still. Like a still pool of molten lava, burning from my insides out. I knew if I moved even an inch, it would take me over. If he moved even an inch closer . . .
His bedroom door slammed shut, and the burning broke like a wave, leaving me a trembling mess. I stood at my door listening, counting off the time it might take him to start up that wretched song, but he didn’t. The woman in the photo was safe for another day.
I turned, still leaning against the doorjamb, desperate for Lock not to notice my breakdown. He wasn’t looking at me. Lock sat on my bed, staring at the program for my mother’s memorial, propped between the alarm clock and lamp. He lifted his hand like he was going to touch it, and I said, “I keep it there so—”
“I know why.” With his eyes still on the program, he reached up to take my hand. “Of course I know why.” I stayed silent, my gaze on him, his on the program, for a long, awkward minute before he asked, “Does it work?”
“What do you mean?”