Conor smirks. “Nah, man. Ever since eighth grade, he’s been trying to nudge his way between you and me. He’s already managed to do it with you and Rosa….” He trails off when he sees my expression.

“He can have her,” I mutter under my breath, like I don’t care. Because I don’t—mostly.

Conor sighs. “The thing that gets me about all this is how nobody seems to remember your mom’s cases from before. Like how she stepped in when my dad got those DUIs and kept him out of jail. She helped keep me out of fucking foster care, man.” He sets his mouth in a hard, tight line. “It’s messed up that nobody remembers that shit.”

“Yeah, well. She only did that ’cause I forced her to,” I protest. “I’m surprised she even took the time—”

Conor levels me with a glare. “I know you have some beef with your mom, but lay off her just this once, okay?”

“Fine.” I turn away from him and keep packing up his shit like the obedient little boy I am.

When we leave the room, Conor’s back to trying to convince me that everything with May will be all right, but I know it won’t be. It never is.

Chapter Nine

I’m chased by nightmares the two nights after Lucy’s audition. The kind of nightmares the meds McMillen put me on last fall are supposed to stamp out. The dreams are brought on, I’m sure, by the fat envelope that was waiting for me in the mailbox when I got home on Monday night, which I stuffed next to the last one, in the back of my closet. I’ve never gotten two back to back before. They’re usually separated by weeks, with just enough time between their arrivals that I start to let my guard down.

It’s been a while since I had a nightmare this bad, where I wake with a jolt, panting, bathed in sweat, on the verge of screaming, David’s face flickering on the edge of my brain. Right after the shooting, I had them every night—dreams about walking into that closet, about the noises I heard coming from the other room, the realization that Jordan was still out there, the ache of my arm muscles squeezing hard against my legs, the pain from the scream held tight inside my throat, and then there’s a bang and I jolt upright out of bed.

Both nights I wake up confused, disoriented, brain scrambled, bathed in sweat, arms aching. The only way I manage to pull myself back to reality is with the grounding techniques that McMillen taught me over the summer, where I list everything I see, touch, smell, feel, hear, and finally my brain is back in the present moment and out of that closet.