My cold feet carry me back inside. I close the door with a soft click and press my forehead against the wood, inhaling a trembling breath. Who was she? I haven’t seen Grayson bring any women home since his wife’s disappearance. If he’s had affairs, he’s kept them on the down low, away from Chloe.

But she’s gone now.

I hurry upstairs to my bedroom and come to a sudden halt in front of my window.

His curtains are drawn.

As I move away, the backs of my legs connect with the bed. Unable to take a full breath, I plop down, my fingers twisting the bedsheet. Is he with her right now?

More to the point, is he fucking her?

Shooting to my feet, I pace, chewing my thumbnail. Why am I so agitated? Why do I have this sudden urge to knock on his door, if only to disturb their cozy little date?

I stop pacing, instead choosing to stare through the window, then start back up. My feet burn a hole in the carpet. Back and forth, from my door to my window, then to my door again.

Is she moaning his name? Does he like it? Does he enjoy how she feels? Is he thinking of me? Of course, he’s not fucking thinking of me.

Sliding my fingers into my hair, I fist the strands tightly until my scalp prickles. Stop it, Willow! He’s Chloe’s father. You have no right to be jealous.

But I am jealous. I’m so jealous, I want to throw something. I’ve cooked him countless meals and engaged him in conversation when he was at his lowest. It’s thanks to me that he returned to work the other week. If I hadn’t encouraged him, he’d be drinking himself to death with his curtains drawn.

Now the curtains are drawn for an entirely different reason.

I resume pacing, chewing my nail to the wick.

CHAPTER 9

WILLOW

FEBRUARY 5TH, 2016

I hate everything about school these days: the classes, the teachers, the students. Even the ugly brick walls, which have been painted yellow to spruce them up. It’s not like it’s Easter all year round. I’m struggling to see the point without Chloe. Mom doesn’t care, and now that my best friend—my only friend—is gone, my grades are slipping. They resemble a landslide. It’s why I’m here with the student counselor in her tiny office with too many fake plants and framed certificates. She’s watching me from across the mahogany desk with concerned eyes.

“How are you holding up, Willow?” she asks, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses.

My throat is clogged, but not with emotion—this is something different.

When I don’t reply, she offers me a sympathetic smile, then leans forward to open her folder. “Your teachers are worried about you. That’s why I called you in here. We know it’s been a challenging time for you, losing your best friend.” Her eyes flick up to mine and she removes her glasses, placing them down on the desk. “It’s only natural that it reflects on your grades, but you’re not even trying, Willow.”