Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s about Jenna.
The words hung in the air between them, and time did something strange—stretched and compressed simultaneously, like the moment before impact when your body knows what’s coming but your mind hasn’t caught up yet.
Alyssa’s hands tightened around the coffee mug. The ceramic was warm, solid, real. She focused on that. On the physical thing she could hold while the rest of the world tilted sideways.
It’s about Jenna could mean so many things. Jenna was in trouble. Jenna was scared. Jenna had called the police, had gotten the message, had locked herself in the bathroom, and was waiting for someone to tell her it was safe to come out.
Jenna was in the hospital.
Jenna was—
Alyssa looked at Mack’s face and saw something she’d never seen before. Not in all their time together. Not even when he was deploying into places where people were actively trying to kill him.
He looked like he was about to break her.
And he knew it.
“Just say it,” she said. “Whatever it is, just say it so I can—”
“There was an attack on your apartment early this morning.” His voice was steady, careful. “The cartel was looking for you. Jenna was there.”
A pause.
She would remember that pause for the rest of her life. The space between Jenna was there and what came next. The last second of the world where Jenna Lopez still existed in her understanding of reality.
“She didn’t make it.” Mack’s voice was quieter now. “I’m sorry, Lyss.”
The words landed without meaning.
She heard them—the sounds reached her ears, her brain processed the syllables—but they didn’t connect to anything. They were just noise. Random sounds Mack was making with his mouth.
She was looking at that mouth, watching it form shapes, and trying to rewind five seconds. Ten seconds. Back to before he’d said the words, when Jenna was still alive in her head, still annoyed about the cryptic voicemail, still planning to demand a full explanation in her next text.
“What?” Her voice sounded strange. Distant, like it was coming from someone else’s body. Not because she hadn’t heard him. Because the words didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense.
“What do you mean she didn’t make it?” The mug was suddenly too heavy. She set it down. Her hands were shaking again, worse than before. Worse than they’d ever shaken. “She was supposed to lock the door. She was supposed to be asleep. She was—”
“They broke in around two.” Mack’s voice stayed level, controlled, but his eyes were sad. “They thought—”
“No.” The word came out flat. She shook her head. “No, that’s not right—she locked the door. I told her to lock the door. If she locked the door, then they couldn’t have.”
“Lyssa.”
She was cold. When had she gotten so cold? The cabin had been warm two minutes ago, and now she couldn’t feel her fingers. Couldn’t feel anything except the spreading numbness in her chest. Her ears were filled with a high-pitched sound.
Mack grabbed her hand, squeezed. “Talk to me.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.” Her voice was too high, too ragged. “Tell me exactly.”
He did. The words came in short, specific sentences. The cartel had sent a professional killer. The person had broken into the apartment—the locked door hadn’t mattered. The killer thought Jenna was Alyssa. Similar build. Similar hair. Same apartment.
There were signs of a struggle, suggesting Jenna had confronted the man.
“Of course she did,” Alyssa whispered. “That was Jenna. Brave and stupid and wonderful.”
“She died quickly,” Mack said. “She didn’t suffer. The fire was set to cover evidence.”
Each detail was another brick. Another piece of reality she couldn’t deny or logic her way around.
The wall was building around her, closing her in, and she couldn’t breathe, but she also couldn’t stop listening because if she stopped listening, then she’d have to feel it. She wasn’t ready to feel it.
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not,” Mack said. He was still sitting across the table and watching her with that careful, controlled expression.
“She died because of me.”
“She died because of the cartel.”
“She died because I walked into that room.” Her voice was rising again. The control was slipping, and she couldn’t stop it. “She died because they were looking for me. She died instead of me. How is that not my fault?”
“You couldn’t have known that would happen.”
“I called her.” She shot to her feet, unable to control the pain and the need to move coursing through her body.
“I warned her. I told her something happened. I told her to lock the door.” She was repeating herself, but she couldn’t stop.
“I should have been clearer. If I’d told her exactly what was happening instead of being vague because I didn’t want to scare her, maybe she wouldn’t have even stayed there.
If I’d just told her there were people after me… ”
“Stop, sweetheart,” Mack’s voice was soothing. His calloused hand was comforting. “You’re in shock.”
The room was tilting, and her chest was constricting, tightening; the air wouldn’t come in. There was pressure building behind her eyes that she recognized as the migraine resurfacing, but it was so much worse than a migraine, it was everything, it was—
I should have gone home instead of getting in his car.
I should never have taken the job at Rob’s party.
I should have been there.
I should have been the one—
“I need—” She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t breathe. Her free hand found the edge of the table and gripped it. “I can’t—”
Jenna’s voicemail greeting. That’s what did it. Not the fire or the gun or the professional killer or any of it.
Jenna’s voicemail greeting.
Hey, it’s Jenna! Leave me something fun!
Bright and warm and so achingly, impossibly her that Alyssa could hear it perfectly in her head. Could see Jenna’s face when she’d recorded it, laughing, making faces at herself in the mirror because that’s what Jenna did.
That greeting would never change.
Jenna’s phone was probably destroyed in the fire, but somewhere, on some server, that greeting still existed. Would keep existing. Would play for anyone who called that number until Jenna’s parents—oh God, Jenna’s parents—until someone canceled the account.
Leave me something fun.
The last thing Alyssa had left her was a warning that had failed to save her life.
The sound that came out of her throat wasn’t something she’d ever made before. It wasn’t crying, it wasn’t a scream, it was something in between that hurt. Her knees buckled, giving up. She was trying to hold on to the table, but her hands wouldn’t grip right and—
Arms.
Mack’s arms caught her before she hit the floor, guiding her down, his body sure and solid. She was on her knees on the kitchen floor, and he was kneeling next to her. His hand landed gently between her shoulder blades.
“Breathe.” His voice, close to her ear, was firm and commanding. “Lyssa. Breathe in. Now.”
She couldn’t.
He stroked her upper back. “Count with me. In for four. One…two…”
She dragged air in. It hurt. Everything hurt.
“Good. Hold it. Now out, nice and slow.”
She was crying. When had she started crying? The tears were hot and too many. She couldn’t see through them, couldn’t stop them, couldn’t do anything except make these horrible sounds that wouldn’t stop coming.
Jenna was dead.
Jenna was dead.
Her best friend. Her roommate. The person who’d moved here with her on an adventure, who’d made everything brighter just by being in the room, who’d texted her last night.
The text.
Oh God, the text.
Have fun at the fancy party! Draw me something pretty. She’d added three heart emojis.
Alyssa had read it while getting ready. Had sent back a quick will do and hadn’t thought about it again because she’d been running late, worried about the weather, and distracted by her own life.
That was the last text Jenna Lopez would ever send.
Draw me something pretty.
Alyssa was sobbing now, the kind of crying that was loud and ugly and came from somewhere she couldn’t control. It raked her ribs and her throat and made her sound like an animal. She’d never cried like this. Not when her grandparents died. Not when she’d called off the wedding. Not ever.
She was vaguely aware of Mack drawing her to him. Of him not saying anything and not trying to stop her or calm her down now. He didn’t tell her it would be okay. He was just—there. Solid. Present. Holding her.
She didn’t deserve this.
She’d walked away from him. Had broken his heart and her own. Now she was falling apart on his kitchen floor.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out broken, fractured by sobs. She pulled away, hating the lack of his embrace. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize.” He grabbed a box of tissues from the counter and handed them to her, resuming his place on the floor.
“I can’t…” She plucked tissues from the box, wiped at the tears. Her voice hiccuped. “I can’t stop.”
“You don’t have to stop.” His voice was steady, soothing. “Just let it all out.”
She pressed her palms against the floor. The wood was smooth, cool, real. She focused on that. On the physical thing that existed outside of the grief threatening to pull her under.
Jenna had to have been scared. Had she heard the killer breaking in? She’d probably called 911—had she called 911? Had she tried?
She died quickly, Mack had said.
That was supposed to help.
It didn’t.
Jenna’s thirtieth birthday was in three weeks. Alyssa had already bought the present—a vintage typewriter Jenna had been obsessing over. It was the kind she’d wanted since college, when she’d declared she was going to write the Great American Novel while teaching second graders how to read.
The typewriter was still in Alyssa’s closet, probably ruined by the fire.
Another sob tore through her. And another. And another.
Time became meaningless. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. She cried until her throat was raw, her eyes burned, and there was nothing left. Until the sobs became hiccups, and her body gave up.