Page 39 of What’s Left of Us

“Well, hopefully, a murderer wouldn’t have our house key.”

Hayden doesn’t reply. She’s too busy moving from one side of the kitchen to the other, noisily going through the cupboards. There are only a few ingredients on the counter, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out what she’s making.

“Margaritas?” I sit up higher on the couch. “Didn’t get enough to drink on the party bus?”

“It’s not for me.” Hayden finds what she’s looking for—a single packet of margarita mix from the back of our spice/medicine cabinet.

I lean forward and glance toward her bedroom, but the door is open.

“It’s for you,” Hayden snips. “Punishment for that ridiculous text you sent and the fact you immediately ghosted me after sending it.”

I flinch. She’s right. I forgot to call her after meeting with Atlas.

“No need to apologize,” she says, flapping her wrist. “This is going to make up for it.”

“I don’t need a margarita,” I say on a sigh. “I’ll just tell you⁠—”

“So you’ve been saying,” she interrupts. “And yet, you haven’t told me much of anything.”

“I know.” There’s nothing else to say really. I have been promising Hayden more details for a week now, but every time I get close to the truth, my insides curdle like spoiled milk. It’s too much. Too nauseating to imagine revealing all the dark truths I’ve kept locked away for so long.

Rather than respond, Hayden focuses on the task at hand, which apparently involves killing me with excess alcohol. I don’t drink often, and I certainly don’t drink extra-large wine glasses worth of margaritas. I’m in the dog house far enough that I don’t protest when Hayden presses the nearly-overflowing glass in my hands.

I sigh and lick salt off the rim. Like most things, Hayden is an expert when it comes to her bartending skills.

“You don’t have to drink it,” she says as she sits on the other end of the couch. She sets her glass of water on the coffee table and stares at me. “You don’t have to tell me anything, either. But I feel like you really do want to tell me…and maybe it’s just too hard to do it while sober.”

I stare at her, jaw clenched, fighting a sudden rush of tears. I manage a shallow breath through my nose and then drink half the glass in one go.

Chapter 16

age sixteen

The week before Christmas, the Preston family imploded in spectacular fashion. We had always lived with tension and violence and Dad’s inescapable anger, but this was different. There was the usual screaming and crying, cursing and begging. Only for the first time, Nat was at the center of it all. It was her screaming that surrounded me. Her begging me to do something.

As my life unraveled, I stood paralyzed, desperate for an undo button.

I wanted to go back to two days earlier. No, I needed to go back. I had to somehow reverse time, un-trust Atlas with the single greatest secret I never should have shared. Once I knew how to do that, my life would return to the way it was. I’d have the world’s best, most adoring boyfriend. I’d have the semblance of a picture-perfect life, at least from the outside. Most importantly, I’d have my sister at my side, rather than across enemy lines.

That was how she was looking at me now. Like I was an enemy, and maybe she was right. I hadn’t meant to betray her, honestly. I thought…well, I guessed it didn’t matter what I thought. I had put my trust in the wrong person, and much as I hated to admit it, Nat had too.

“Tell them, Violet!” She stood at the opposite end of the table, leaned against its wooden surface. She bared her teeth at me like she was a wild animal, and for the first time, I couldn’t ignore how much she’d changed.

It must have happened slowly, because it felt like I missed it. Now though, I hardly recognized my sister in the woman across from me. Nineteen years old, and thinner than she’d been in middle school. Her skin had somehow aged a decade. Her eyes looked haunted, like they contained every terrible secret in the universe.

“I didn’t tell them anything!” I sobbed. It was the truth, but it was also a lie. Because I was the only person Nat had confided in, and while I hadn’t told my parents, if they’d found out, it was because of me. “I promise. I didn’t—I wouldn’t⁠—”

“Go to your fucking room, Violet!” Dad screamed. He was drunk, which wasn’t abnormal. Neither was the cursing. But it was rare for his hands to land on me. For him to physically drag me away from the kitchen, from the crime scene.

That was how it looked. A whole collection of strange items, spread out like they were being processed at a police station. Was that what was going to happen next? Were Mom and Dad going to take the little baggies to the police? Were they going to turn Nat in and get her arrested?

Mom would never let that happen. I was sure of it. And yet, she’d been standing at the table too. Arms crossed and face streaked with tears as Nat and I walked through the door.

“Tell them they’re not mine!” Nat screamed as Dad dragged me up the stairs and out of sight. Once we hit the hallway, he slammed me against the wall, and my head smacked against one of our hanging family portraits.

Anyone who saw these pictures would never believe what happened in our house. I wanted to check if my head was bleeding, but I knew better. If I wanted to get out unscathed, it was best to do what he wanted. So I cowered in front of him, like the sad, pathetic thing I was.

“You knew?” he screamed. “You fucking know what she was doing, Violet?”