This was ridiculous, creeping into her own house. Back before the fire, when she’d lived around the corner from Becca, everything had been on the ground level, and she hadn’t needed to pass anyone to get in and out of her room. The window had worked fine for that. And while their house had never been large, everyone had their own room.

This bullshit with Jake was infuriating.

Even now, the living room was empty and dim. Her mother must have been in the bedroom, or hell, maybe she’d gone out, too. But Quinn could see light beneath her own bedroom door. She could hear them in there—but barely, with the racket her heart was kicking up.

She wanted to turn and run through the door and tell Tyler all her clothes had been stolen.

And then what would she do? Go back to his place with her dance shorts and her worn fleece pullover? Wear that to school?

She hated that her life had devolved to the point where she had to choose the lesser of two evils.

But . . . maybe Tyler wasn’t evil at all. She still couldn’t tell. The kiss, the admission that he’d wanted to ensure she was free before making a move . . . she couldn’t wrap her head around it.

God, she was stalling. Ridiculous. She needed her stuff and she was going to walk in there and get it. She straightened her spine, stalked over to her bedroom door, and threw it open.

The room smelled acrid and foul. She stumbled back. Jake sat on the floor with three of his friends. They all looked up when she entered.

Two guys looked dazed and confused. She’d never seen them before. Heavy-lidded and slack-jawed, they were leaning up against her bed like they had no intention of moving. Ever.

The other guy, sitting next to Jake, looked interested, and not in a good way. In a don’t-touch-me-you-creep way. He also looked filthy, like he hadn’t showered in three days. Lank dark hair clung to his forehead, and he wore a tank top and shorts despite the fact that it was getting below freezing at night. A glass pipe sat in his hands.

Nice.

Jake got to his feet, a little unsteadily. He was tall and lanky and muscled, befitting a star basketball player. But whereas he’d once been quite a looker with blue eyes and that shock of blond hair, now he looked drawn and washed out. His eyes were bloodshot. And paranoid. “Get the fuck out of here, Quinn.”

“I just want my stuff,” she said.

Greasy tank top snorted. “She’s cute, J, where’ve you been hiding her?”

She expected his voice to be lazy and drawling, to match the boys who could barely hold themselves upright, but it wasn’t. His tone was too interested. Too alert. It made her skin crawl.