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The word home felt heavy. In my mind, it sounded more like prison. A place where I could be watched. A place where the animal could be studied properly. Not just by Damian, but by all of the cops who thought I was guilty.

The problem was: I was guilty.

I was torn between this world and the one that I couldn’t escape. The one in my head.

And I wanted nothing more than to just quiet its screaming. Put myself in a place away from the sounds of this hospital, away from the memories of the rape, away from Damian’s expectations, away from the feelings beginning to build inside me for both Silas…and Delane.

A place of silence.

Blackness.

Nothingness.

Chapter eight

Borrowed Time

DELANE

Mania.

I didn’t know exactly how it was defined by the books. But I wondered briefly if that was what I was experiencing as I re-packed my duffle bag. I had packed it three times already, each time removing the clothes and starting again, folding it just a bit differently, changing out the socks for a different pair, checking to make sure I added a tooth brush. I had only three hours of sleep, but felt like I could run a marathon.

The officers told me that my dad was dead.

Maybe it hadn’t hit yet. I hadn’t cried. I wasn’t sure why.

Maybe when I got there, they’d realize they’d made a mistake. Told the wrong name to the wrong daughter, maybe.

I called my dad’s number from my cell phone again, hoping he’d answer. If he did, I wouldn’t have to waste the money on the flight. I could chew him out for being so irresponsible, and tell him about what the cops had said.

He didn’t pick up. I checked the time.

I had to get on a plane.

The cops let me know that my mom was in critical condition. My aunt had flown in to be with her, but since I had no other family here, she had made a call to the local police department so that they could inform me. I was basically dressed in a paper sack when they told me. They had asked if I needed to sit down, but I wasn’t going to invite them in.

“Get on a plane as soon as you can,” they had said. “She doesn’t have much time.”

Funny thing—my parents were on their way home to me when it happened. On the way to the airport when a drunk driver crashed into them. He didn’t survive either.

At least, that’s what I was told.

I was still convinced, somewhere, deep down, that it wasn’t my family. A huge mix up. We’d laugh about it later, I knew. This stuff doesn’t happen to people. It was too cinematic, the odds weren’t there.

I hadn’t even told my mom about Noah yet. Or what had happened to me. But the cops said my mom was running out of time? That had to be impossible. I thought I’d have my mom in my life forever. Or at least until I was married with children, getting to see her be a grandma. Watching her grow old.

My phone rang and I jumped, snatching it up and answering it before even looking at the screen.

“Dad?”

“No babe,” Chelsea’s voice answered back and my stomach sank. “It’s me. I am here. Out front.”

“The door’s unlocked,” I whispered, ending the call.

Had I packed all that I needed? How long would I be there? Two days? Three? The numbers wouldn’t stop racing through my head.

The sound of the door opened. Closed. Chelsea rounded the corner slowly, leaning quietly against the doorframe to peer in at me.