"Only because her mother is buried next to mine," he stated bluntly. "She spends a lot of time at the cemetery and we've crossed paths on more than one occasion."

I grimaced, knowing exactly where Mrs. Peterson and Bobby were buried. I had attended their funeral eight years ago. I had attended Mrs. Owens's funeral, too, though that had been many years before that.

"You knew she was back and you didn’t tell me."

"Because I knew better than to bring her up to you," he shot back, unapologetically. "You were a mess after she left, D. A fucking wreck. Every time the fire came up in conversation, you wigged out. Lost your shit. Blew a goddamn fuse. Whatever you saw that night?" He shook his head. "It messed you up real bad, dude. Your mother said you had PTSD and she was right. You were fucking traumatized, dude. You might not remember how you were afterwards, but I do. I remember the shell of a person you were for months after that fire. When your mama told me that your therapist suggested me and the guys stopped talking about her, we did exactly that. And it worked. You got over it. You got better." He shrugged. "When she came back sophomore year and you didn’t react, I was glad. We all were. I thought you were finally over the girl. I didn’t realize that you genuinely didn’t know who she was."

"It was never about getting over her," I snapped, shaking. "She was my best friend."

"And losing her fucked with your head," he agreed. "It took you years to get over it." He released a heavy sigh. "Don’t let all that hard work be for nothing."

"Well, I can't ignore her now," I practically spat, glaring at him.

"Hardly," Rourke replied. "All I'm saying is don’t beat yourself up for getting on with your life."

Too late for that.

"I need to see her," I blurted out, jerking to my feet. "Talk to her…explain…fix this. Right fucking now, dammit!"

"And there he goes," Rourke grumbled, whispering now that the room was filling with our teammates. "Falling down the damn rabbit hole again."

5 Eight years ago

Molly

He was bleeding again.

I sat cross-legged on the floor with my back pressed to his bedroom door, and watched him go nuclear on his trophy wall, waiting quietly for the moment he would tire out and break.

"Fucking scumbag," Daryl hissed, using cusswords that no ten-year-old should, as he flung his trophies and medals against the wall. "I'm gonna kill him!"

His desk went next, with books scattering everywhere, followed swiftly by a picture frame that contained a portrait of his family. "I hope you fucking die!"

When his room was in complete disarray, he reached for the faithful duffel bag under his bed and began to fling random items of clothes inside.

Meanwhile, I watched his every move and counted down from five.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Four.