Page 181 of Trailer Trash

Behind me, Jagger opens each door, checking the rooms.

I reach the end, and peek through the small crack.

My heart stumbles.

Diagonal from me, Killian stares into a bathroom mirror. His cheek — his scarred side — is ripped open from the corner of his mouth toward his cheekbone. Blood runs down his jaw and neck like a red curtain. The sliced muscle and flesh fold over, revealing his bottom teeth and gums.

It’s gruesome.

The glint of a blade catches my eye. He lifts his chin, exposing the column of his throat. His tattooed hand presses the steel edge against his jugular.

I open the door wider, causing it to groan loudly. In the mirror, his gaze snaps to me.

“Only pussies commit suicide,” I say. “That’s what you told me the day we met.”

“Harlow,” he whispers.

Except my name is barely discernible. His mouth is too damaged to enunciate well.

He blinks several times.

“Yep.” My voice is soft, and my steps cautious. I inch closer, palms up. “It’s really me.”

“You’re dead.” He points next to himself. “Like Asher.”

There’s no one beside him.

“Killian, put down the knife. Okay?”

“No,” he says.

As I get closer, my gaze veers away. My mind wants to protect me from seeing his face ripped open. The worst part is, he isn’t acting like it’s painful, as if it didn’t even happen.

Once close, I summon the strength to keep my eyes on his, despite the carnage just beneath his cheekbone. I reach up and cup the other side of his jaw.

“Look what you did to yourself, baby. Why?”

“You died. I can’t smile. Now I can.”

“I’m right here. I’m real.”

“Mm-hm,” he says, then looks back at the mirror.

“I’m not dead, Killian.”

Nothing.

“She isn’t dead,” says Jagger, who appears behind us in the doorway. “I brought Harlow with me.”

He lifts the knife once more toward his neck. I grapple his wrist.

“Killian! Look at me. Touch me. I’m here!”

He fights me. He’s too strong. He shoves me backward, and I’m flung onto the floor. He doesn’t notice.

He’s going to do it!

I panic.