If she didn’t work in the emergency room. If she didn’t have a thousand stories of overdose victims suffering unspeakable pain and life-shattering consequences, she might have gathered up all those bottles of pills on Phoebe’s end tables. On one of the bad nights, maybe she might have tried one. Just to help her sleep. To take the edge off. Maybe that’s how it would have started.

But she knew enough about it that she scooped every last bottle into a box the day after Phoebe died. I sat in the passenger seat as she drove them to the fire station for disposal. When I asked why we had to do it right then, she shook her head. Just once.

“Don’t want them in the house. Don’t want that in my head for even a second.”

In some way, it could have been me, too. Not hard to come by illegal substances in San Diego, but I’ve got an unreasonable terror of pills and a propensity for puking after anything strange enters my system. Plus, I knew right away what I had to do after Phoebe died. I had to be strong for Mom. I still have to be strong for Mom.

But if I didn’t?

Another version of me might have ended up where Kayla is now.

I guess I got lucky.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I know it doesn’t change anything. I know when you lose someone… I just know it doesn’t matter. But I’m sorry all the same.”

Kayla doesn’t respond, so I turn for one of the stalls, wondering what the hell I’d even hoped to accomplish coming in here.

“Mira?”

“Yeah?”

She’s still fingering her brother’s bracelet. Still staring at the wall across from her with her jaw clenched and eyes watery.

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean? What for?”

She looks up at me and her eyes are colorless. “For everything.”

Chapter Twenty

Kayla’s words send goose bumps up my arms, but she doesn’t elaborate. She slides off the sink and sways heavily, catching herself on the wall next to the sink. Then she pads outside, leaving me to stare at my ashen face in the mirror.

I’m sorry. For everything.

A chill rolls through my reflection in a shiver. I don’t need to use the restroom, but I don’t want to be out there yet. I need a minute. Maybe several of them.

I take a deep breath; my exhale is slow and shaky. I need to pull it together. The flat of my palms are cool against the tile on either side of the sink. Shadows circle the soft flesh beneath my eyes, and my lips are chapped and cracked.

“What is she sorry for?”