As he pours water over my hands, I notice several scratches on his wrist where his shirt sleeve has lifted.

“What’s on your wrist?” I ask.

“What?” Thane asks.

“Your wrist. It looks like you scratched yourself.” I say scratched, but what I mean is cut. It looks like he cut himself. The line is too precise. I reach for his hand and pull it toward me, twisting his palm upright and pushing back his sleeve. There, on his pale skin, are a series of angry, red marks. Some of them are scabbed over; others are fresh.

“Thane,” I breathe, and when I meet his gaze, he yanks his hand away.

“Mind your own fucking business, Anora,” he snaps and climbs into his black Charger. I scramble into the passenger side before he speeds off, heading for Shy’s.

Thane’s knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the dark road ahead. I can almost taste the air around him—shadowed and sad, tortured and adrift. I think he’s been drowning so long, he doesn’t want the comfort of solid ground beneath his feet.

When he finally speaks, his voice shakes, his hatred barely restrained.

“I was with Shy the night I found out my mom was in the accident. His mom called him, and he gave me the news. I demanded he take me to her, and when he refused, I ran there.” I must look shocked, because Thane adds, “It wasn’t far. This town isn’t very big, remember? I broke through the police barriers, calling her name, before I saw her lying motionless on the ground. She was surrounded by paramedics trying to revive her, but she was already dead. I knew because her soul stood a few steps away from me.”

He pauses a moment, and his next words are pained but thoughtful. “You know they usually wear their deaths, but she…she looked perfect.” He clears his throat, and I shiver, swallowing hard. “Later, I found out it was because her insides had exploded.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Everyone is,” he says. “But no one’s sorry enough to do anything about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“In those few moments after her death, with that perfect body, her soul could have been returned, and no one would have known the better of it. She might have been called a miracle. But no one—not Shy or Natalie or Jacobi—would help me.”

I remember what Lennon said about Thane—he wants his mother brought back to life. I shiver at the thought. Buffy the Vampire Slayer taught me resurrection is a bad idea. People always come back wrong.

“But…resurrection is illegal.”

Thane looks at me. “Keeping you from the Order is illegal too, and they don’t see that as a problem.”

“Would they even have known how to resurrect her?” I ask softly.