There was something in Mia’s hand, slick and metal and sharp, and her fingers convulsed around it as she tried to blink the world into focus.

A razor blade.

It was nestled in her palm, fresh droplets of blood gathering in its divots. It hadn’t hurt, though. That slice of its edge into her flesh when her grip had tightened. Why hadn’t it hurt?

The whimper. The whimper. There it was again. And a rustle, the drag of fingernails against wood. Another person.

Mia shifted, the starlight slipping in behind her enough so that Monroe Bell’s face was bathed in silver.

The girl was sprawled on the floor, not far from where Mia sat, her dull eyes pleading for something. Help, probably. Because of the blood. The dark sludge of it pooled beneath Monroe’s body, the wood, already saturated, unable to absorb any more.

Monroe’s lips quivered, struggling to wrap around words without success.

Maybe if Mia got closer. She pushed to her knees to cross the small space between them, but her hand slipped when she tried to brace herself. More blood. This time hers—from the weeping gash at her wrist.

“Why?” The question when it finally came was whispered, but it jolted Mia from her daze.

The razor clattered on the floor as Mia crawled toward Monroe, her knees scraping against the hardwood. It didn’t hurt. Why didn’t anything hurt?

“Come on.” Mia fumbled at Monroe’s shoulders, trying to lift her up into a sitting position, not really sure why but knowing she couldn’t just leave her like that, a broken doll, horrifying in its pliancy. “Come on.”

“Why did . . . ?” Monroe tried again, her eyes locked on Mia’s face. But she didn’t work at all to help Mia’s efforts.

“Come. On.” Mia’s fingers dug into Monroe’s shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises had there still been enough blood left in the girl’s drained body to rush to the blown capillaries. The roughness wasn’t enough to shake Monroe—she was lax, mostly unresponsive, her head lolling back and to the side. The directive—come on—had stopped making sense, if it ever had, but it was the best Mia could do. Monroe was looking for answers, and there were no answers here. None that Mia had, at least.

The last thing Mia remembered was drinking whiskey down by the black rocks. With Cash.

Cash. Nearly dropping Monroe back to the floor, Mia shifted, her eyes sweeping the small room, the corners, the shadows, the hiding spots, for signs of another body.

No. No.

Because there it was. A hand, an arm. But it wasn’t Cash.

Asher. No.

The anguished howl she just barely recognized as coming from herself pulsed against the walls, returning in vibrating waves that slammed into her chest.