Owen is the only one from home who knows what I’ve been doing, because I told him when he called me last. I didn’t even think about it: I was shocked from the news of Cormac’s death, fresh off several failed exorcisms, and overly nostalgic to be hearing from one of my childhood best friends after four years of self-imposed silence.

I gave him my address in Glasgow so he could forward anything Cormac had left me. And now apparently he’s given it to Isla, so she can burst into my life and harass me about the person I hate most.

There’s no bad blood between Owen and I, but the invasion of my privacy makes syrupy anger ooze down my lungs. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised — he’s shit at lying and never could keep a secret.

“What do you want from me?” I ask Isla. It’s not a cold question. Just a tired one.

“I’ve telt you,” she replies, squinting at me like I’m an idiot. “Kit is missing, and I want your help.”

“Why would I help?”

My question seems to catch her off guard, like it never once occurred to her that I wouldn’t immediately drop my entire life and race to Kit’s side. Like she expects me to upend my life for the man who knowingly added to my nightmares.

“Because he’s your best friend,” she says, her earnest confidence slipping. “And he needs your help.”

“Kit isn’t my best friend. Kit isn’t anything to me, not anymore.”

“But he was once,” Isla argues, undeterred. “He’s told me how close you were growing up. Best friends and in love and everything else. He would help, if you were missing.”

She has no idea how every word she says sends a spike of panic flooding through me.

“Kit tried to kill me,” I spit, the anger finally breaking through my anxiety and quieting my migraine for a moment. “Whatever he and I used to be, that’s gone now.” I take a deep breath and push my glasses up my nose. “I don’t know who you are or how you know him, but he clearly left out that detail when telling you our story. I’m sorry he’s missing, and I don’t wish him ill, but I don’t owe him my help.”

My hands are shaking, and now I do roll down the sleeves of my shirt, covering my arms and hiding my scars from view. I close my eyes and take another deep breath, determined not to think back to that night, crouched in the corner of his bedroom: my arms over my face, the sting of cool metal, the drops of hot blood—

Shaking my head, I open my eyes. No. I’m not going there.