I look back toward him.

A tear slides down his left cheek and lands on the expensive carpet.

And then, just like the tear, in all its effort to escape his eye—he’s gone, the life removed from him as his eyes go dead.

I don’t even realize he’s gripping my wrist until it’s too late.

Until the police arrive minutes later and have to pry his fingers from me.

Until his wife screams that I killed him.

Until I realize that even though I’m innocent—I’m guilty.

I’m just a foster kid taken in by the perfect family.

The Perfects.

I sit in the middle of the floor while I’m questioned and realize I will never be a part of Ambrose’s life or love again.

All because I tried to right a wrong.

“What did you do!” Ambrose shouts, bringing me back to the present. “Mary-Belle, what did you do!”

I killed him.

I somehow killed him.

I stare down at my shaking hands, then back up at him; his mom is bent over sobbing.

How does a dream shatter so quickly?

How does a life just suddenly—disappear?

“M’am…” An officer walks up to me and slowly crouches down. He has a black mustache and is wearing a bulletproof vest. He’s almost blurry because of my tears. “We’re going to need to ask you a few questions, but because you’re a minor, we’ll need your guardian present.”

Ambrose’s mom cries harder.

I can’t swallow.

My tongue feels thick in my mouth.

And as he asks a few questions and writes them down on his little notepad, I turn and look at Ambrose, my eyes searching for the nice boy that told me I was his.

But when he locks eyes with me.

All I see is hatred.

And all I feel is pain.

Part Two

Spring Semester

Chapter Ten

Ambrose

Six Months Later

I hate being rich.

I hate school.

I even hate lacrosse now because it reminds me of that night, not that I even have a break from that since she lives in my stupid house, eats my food, and drinks my fucking water.

Lives in my fucking world.

That was a lot of fucks—but it hurts.

Burns from the inside out, like someone took a hot coal and shoved it down my throat, then told me that every time I swallowed, I would both think of her and feel that same burning, raging pain.

It’s been six months.

We have thirty days left until school’s out. She’s eighteen but has to get her diploma, but my mom’s promised me that she’ll be gone after that, on the streets. Who the hell cares?

She keeps to herself.

Eats at her own table in the cafeteria.

Her hair’s longer now, a bit darker, more natural.

She’s still beautiful, but beauty can be deceiving. After all, she did kill my dad, even if the experts say he had a heart attack… she was the one with him, the one who stressed him out, could have saved him, and now we have nothing.