Ivy stood alone with her back to the dresser, arms over her middle, and her head bowed. Before her, on the floor slumped upright against the bed, was Kisten.

My eyes closed, and a lump filled my throat. Grief slammed into me, and I staggered to stand against the doorframe. He was dead. And it hadn’t been easy.

Edden’s soft curse behind me cut through my awareness, and I took a gasping breath. “You son of a bitch,” I whispered to no one. “You son of a bitch bastard.” I was far too late.

Kisten’s barefoot body was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a shirt I’d never seen. His neck and body had been savaged, and his arms and torso were torn as if he had tried to defend himself. Silvered blue eyes told me he had died undead, but the blood pooled in his legs and heels said that he hadn’t been drained, simply killed twice. Dark blood matted his once-bright hair, and his smile was gone.

I took another breath, trying to keep upright, though the room was starting to waver.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Edden said softly, his hand landing on my shoulder in a show of comfort. “I know he meant a lot to you. This wasn’t your fault.”

At that the tears started to dribble out, one by one. “Kisten?” I warbled, not wanting to believe he was gone. I had been here. I had tried to keep him alive. I must have. But I hadn’t been able to, and the guilt must have been why I’d tried to forget.

I took a helpless step closer, wanting to fall on my knees and pull him to me. “I’m sorry, Kisten.” I started to cry in earnest. “I must have tried. I must have.”

From behind me in the hall, Ford said, “You did.”

Both Ivy and I turned. He looked ragged as both of our personal hells resonated in him. “It’s in your thoughts,” he said, and I just about lost it. Giving up, I sank to my knees before Kisten, the tears flowing unchecked as I tried to arrange his shirt collar to hide his ravaged skin.

“I don’t remember,” I gushed. “I don’t remember any of it. Tell me what happened.”

Ford’s voice was strained. “I don’t know. But you’re feeling guilt and remorse. There’s hatred, but not at him. Someone made you forget.”

I looked up, wanting to believe. Everything was blurry, unreal.

“You didn’t forget because you couldn’t handle it,” he said, guilt in his voice for having labeled me weak. “Someone made you forget against your will. It’s all there in your emotions.”