Mason gives me a rueful smile, wiping away another tear with the pad of his thumb. “You still have me,” he assures me softly, removing his hand from my face to tuck a section of my hair behind my ear. “I think you’ve had me ever since we were kids, but I didn’t realize it until now. I’m very much yours.”

His admission causes my lips to curve upward gently, a fluttering sensation growing in my belly. After a little while, we settle back under the covers, and despite our conversation, I curl up next to him, my head on his chest, and he doesn’t protest, wrapping his arms around me in a protective embrace.

“You know,” I muse. “You’re the only one who always calls me Alina. Why is that?”

“Hm.” He runs his fingers down the length of my arm, before murmuring, “I suppose I wanted something that was mine.”

Warmth blooms in my chest as he presses a kiss to my hair, and for a moment, after I close my eyes, I pretend I’m an ordinary person who stumbled into some semblance of love, instead of someone too frightened to be alone, with the threat of death looming over them like a creeping shadow, and the delusion stays with me until I drift into another sleep free of nightmares.

20 | Prelude

The following Friday, one week after the assembly, I find Iris Wen sitting on the front steps of the school at lunch, hunched over a sketchbook.

Her short black hair is pulled into a tiny ponytail at the back of her head, and circular gold frames perch on her nose as she scrawls on the page. She doesn’t notice me approaching until I casually take a seat next to her.

I don’t know much about Iris; besides the information I gathered just by looking at her Instagram feed, I’ve learned that her parents are frequently away, making her empty house the de facto venue for weekend parties. For the most part, she blends into the flow of the other students and surprisingly spends most of her lunches outside on the steps by herself, drawing.

Until now, I hadn’t really thought to seek her out—from my understanding, the party she hosted on the night of my accident was large, and I don’t expect her to know anything more than the average partygoer. But I’m so close to finding the bitter truth about what happened that night; even the tiniest bit of information could help.

“Allie, hey,” she says, surprise evident in her voice.

“You’re Iris, right?”

“Yeah.” She pauses, visibly troubled, before blurting, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”