Chapter 8
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— Holden —
D anny’s face. That smile. That fucking smile as the light left his eyes.
I proved myself, right?
I jerk awake, gasping, reaching for something that isn’t there. My hands are shaking.
I’m in the chair. When did I sit down in the chair? I remember the bed. I remember Bea’s arms. I remember lying down.
The bottle is on the floor beside me. Empty.
The room is wrong somehow.
I’m in sweats. Not my gear. I don’t remember changing.
I close my eyes again. Too tired. Body won’t respond.
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Voices, maybe — low, brief — somewhere near the door. I don’t open my eyes. Can’t. My body has stopped taking instructions.
Cold. My face is cold.
The door. Did someone open it?
Doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
Danny’s dead.
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I jerk awake again.
Still in the chair.
My neck is wrecked. My mouth has that taste. Too much, not enough. The light at the window is gray-blue. Early. The room is very quiet.
I breathe.
In.
Out.
My hands are still shaking.
I got back to the clubhouse the way you get somewhere when you’re not entirely in your body — aware of motion, aware of the road, not really there for any of it.
Someone handed me a drink. Or I found one. The sequence stopped making sense early.
I remember Bea’s voice at some point. I love you. Quiet, like she wasn’t sure I could hear her. I could hear her.
I remember Colt sitting next to me for a while without saying anything. I remember thinking I should eat something and not being able to make myself get up.
I remember the shower. The water too hot. Standing under it and not caring. Bea pressing the sweats into my hands without a word.
My gear. The jacket. The blood on it. Where is it? I remember— Nothing. She would have handled it. She knew what to do.
I know I was horizontal at some point. The ceiling above me. I remember her beside me and the sound of her breathing.
I don’t remember anything after that.
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I jerk awake again.
Bea. Where’s Bea?
She isn’t here. The room is empty in a way that registers as wrong before I’m fully awake — some part of me reaching for her before the rest of me has caught up.
Then I remember. Lindsay. Danny’s mother. I asked her to go.
She went. Because I asked her to, even though she’d have wanted to stay.
That’s Bea. She always puts everyone else first.
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The bed.
The sheets are wrong.
I’m in the chair — but I was in the bed. Wasn’t I? I remember Bea, her weight, her warmth. I remember the ceiling. Then —
Nothing. A wall. Hours just gone.
The sheets are tangled in a way I didn’t leave them. Twisted to the far side. Pillow pushed against the wall.
I sit forward in the chair and make myself look.
There’s a note on the nightstand. Her handwriting. Keeping my promise. Call me when you wake up. I love you.
I look at it for a moment. Then I look at the bed.
There’s a smell in the room I don’t recognize. Sweet. Not Bea. Not mine.
I look at the bed for a long time.
I try to run it back. The hours I can’t account for. There’s nothing. Not even a partial. Just the gap, and the bed in front of me looking wrong.
I don’t move for a long time.
I just sit in the chair and look at the bed. The light gets brighter. I don’t do anything.
I should get up. Get in the bed. Call Bea.
I should do a lot of things.
I try to make my body move. It doesn’t.
The darkness takes me again.