My throat tightened as my thoughts spiraled, as the past and present blurred together into something I couldn’t escape.

What were you trying to say, Dad?

His lips had moved. I swore they had. He had tried to tell me something, and I would never know what it was. Never. How selfish was it to want closure when I was the one who took his life?

But I had always been selfish. I was selfish at six when I felt my soul slipping away, but I fought it because I was in my real mother’s arms, and she was warm and comforting.

Then I was selfish with Arthur, begging him not to hurt me, to never leave me, to stay. I guilt-tripped him, and he took me in. Look how that ended—with me staring down at him, watching the life drain from his eyes.

And then there was Beverly. If I’d ignored her affection, none of this would have happened. If I’d never fallen in love with her, none of this would have happened.

None of it.

Knock. Knock.

Why wouldn’t she stop?

I glared at the wall, every muscle in my body tight with frustration. Because I knew that if I knocked back, if I just gave her that small, familiar thing, she would come running.

She would crawl into my bed, press her forehead to my shoulder, and wrap her arms around me like she used to.

Beverly shouldn’t touch me.

She shouldn’t love me.

Not when I had just taken her father from her.

He had been right.

We would have never worked.

We weren’t meant for forever.

I had been an idiot for ever believing otherwise.

For thinking I could love her the way she deserved.

I didn’t deserve her at all. Not her love. Not her forgiveness. Not a single damn thing in this world. Because when you take someone’s life, you don’t get the privilege of peace.

I couldn’t be here anymore.

This house was a living, breathing graveyard.

Everything inside it was a reminder of him.

The scent of his aftershave still lingered in the hallway.

His coffee mug was still sitting in the sink. His boots were still by the door, as if he would come home at any moment, step inside, shake off the day, and look at me like I was his son.

But he wasn’t coming home.

Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock.

48

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

There is death, and then there is the first morning after a breakup.

The sound of movement jolted me awake before the sun had fully risen. At first, I tried to dismiss it. Just another cruel trick of my restless mind, I told myself. But then I heard it again.

Blake’s room, usually so still it could have been abandoned, was alive with noise. Footsteps shifting against the hardwood floor. Drawers opening and shutting.