“No,” I answer, but my voice sounds tight, the word forced out. A little white lie so tiny it’s easily forgotten, glanced over. Hardly there at all.

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.” And her voice rises too loud again, eyes watering at the edges, holding back tears. Yet, I see doubt in her, uncertainty shifting just behind her pupils—she’s trying to see if I could really be a murderer. If I could take someone else’s life and lie about it. If I’m a killer.

She steps back, slinking into the dark, farther away from me. “Why are they protecting you?” she asks, she shouts. “Rhett and Jasper and the others? Why are they covering up what happened?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think they’re protecting me.”

A second passes and snow collects on the carpeted floor at my feet, music screeches from downstairs, rising up through the floorboards. It feels like we’re stuck in an odd-shaped dream. In a room, in a house, where neither of us belong.

“Then what’s going on?” Her voice sounds frightened and small again. Like a tiny shell cracking open, revealing the fragile thing inside. And I want so bad to reach forward and touch her, tell her that it’s okay, that I’m not what she thinks I am. But I can’t. Because I’m not sure. I might be the monster.

I might have done something bad.

Nora clears her throat. “I don’t know what to believe,” she says, a tiny whimper against her lips. Her eyes lift and she’s about to speak again, but I move forward, pressing her up against the wall, and place my hand over her mouth—silencing her.

She tries to push against my chest, to push me back, but I put a finger to my lips—a sign to be quiet. Someone has stopped outside the bedroom door, the floorboards creaking beneath their weight. They grab the knob, like they’re checking to be sure it’s still secure. They pause and listen. Maybe they heard us talking.

If they find me in here, I don’t know what they’ll do.

My exhale stirs against her dark raven hair. We’re so close I can hear her heartbeat against her throat, the rising rhythm of her lungs with each breath. I don’t want to move away from her—I want to move closer. But I know we’re not safe in here.

The footsteps plod away, back down the hall to the stairs, and I lower my hand from her mouth. “Sorry,” I whisper, still only a few inches from her face.

She doesn’t push me back, she doesn’t yell at me, she just blinks and breathes and peers up into my eyes.

“Nora,” I say, barely above a whisper, blood rushing into my ears. “We have to leave this room.”