That it’s not love if it doesn’t.

We believed our tragedies were romantic. We believed what didn’t kill us made us stronger. We believed our wounds made us special, because in a strange and awful way, maybe they were proof that we were loved.

Trauma has a gravity of its own, but so does love—an invisible force, an unseen tether. How easy it is, then, to feel the pull of one and confuse it with the other.

61.

Vera comes by in the afternoon with an update. She opens with, “I have some news.” She’s spoken with a friend in the DA’s office. “It appears unlikely they’ll pursue any charges related to Jack’s death.”

“What?” I say, breathless with shock. “How? Why?”

“It’s not official,” she cautions. “And even if they decline to press charges now, they could still bring them years down the line if something changes. But unofficially, they’re probably not going to press any charges right now.”

I’m too stunned to speak.

“Prosecutors don’t like to try cases they might lose. And in this instance, the law is on Elise’s side. He was near the doorway. It was dark. It was her house. He didn’t tell her he’d be there.” Vera goes on for a while, explaining the technical details of the case. Apparently, Elise would make an extremely sympathetic defendant. “No jury’s going to see those pictures of her beaten up and convict.” She keeps going but my mind is spinning.

I did it, I think. I protected her. Collapsing to the ground, I begin to sob. Vera kneels to comfort me with an arm around my shoulders. She thinks these are tears of joy, of relief. But I don’t feel any relief. I just feel like I’m drowning.

This was what I’d hoped for. This means we’re free. Only I don’t feel free at all.

THURSDAY // AUGUST 31 // DAY 356

62.

I need to see her.

It’s been four days since she killed Jack, four days without my phone, without any contact with her. My car keys have been confiscated. There’s talk of switching schools or homeschooling, and I’m basically under house arrest until they figure it out.

But still. I have to see her. She’s the only one who has all the answers, who knows what really happened that night. So when my mom comes home late on Thursday, I wait until she’s in the shower before I snatch her keys and make my getaway.

“Remy?” It’s Elise, as if appearing out of thin air before I even have a chance to unlock the car door. It’s surreal seeing her here on my driveway.

“How are you here right now?” I whisper, my throat still scratchy and raw. I want to run into her arms as much as I want to run in the opposite direction. I love her, but I am horrified by her.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, clearly relieved and oblivious to my growing distress. “I’ve been basically camped out here hoping to catch you.”