Page 24

I cannot, under any circumstance, allow this to alter the course of tonight. I have a schedule. I’ve sacrificed my health, my school, my friendships—all for this singular moment. I’m positive my roommate hates me, which is…

Another issue for another time.

Something to unpack when I’m not so damn busy.

I keep my foot on his chest, his breathing ragged and uneven beneath my sole, and tighten the belt in my hands. I slip it around his neck. His fingers try to come up, try to find the gap between skin and leather, but I grab the other end. Tighten the belt until all I can hear is his choking gasp.

The rabbit rounds us and crouches near my art piece’s head. Then reaches out and pokes Henry’s forehead. Clenching my teeth, I drop my voice until it rumbles in my chest.

“Stop touching my things.”

The mask looks up at me, and he holds his hands up in silent surrender. His tattoos are objectively beautiful—even with the bad lighting—but the rest of him should be burned at the stake. Someone with more brain cells can dissect him and figure out what the fuck he was thinking when he got dressed in the dark.

Henry’s arms go slack first. Most people believe someone dies instantly when their oxygen is cut off, but it takes an extraordinary amount of time. Their body gives up in pieces, starting with the smallest. Fingers, toes, arms, legs. They fight until the very end because some buried part of their psyche forces them to.

By the time his eyes glaze over, the frustration has left my body. I’m not thinking about the rabbit or the intrusion. I’ve already jumped to the next steps—cataloguing the furniture in the bedroom, considering what pose would best suit the young businessman. My heart slows, and my grip on the belt relaxes until I let one end slip from my hands.

Something pink is floating in front of my face.

I focus my eyes to look up.

The rabbit is holding out a pink Sharpie to me in a trembling palm. There’s dirt lodged under his nails.

Everything clicks into place, one after another.

Pink Sharpie.

Disruptive.

Amateur.

This is who posted the Polaroid?

I’m not sure who I expected—maybe someone who looks more like me. But someone who looks like me wouldn’t use every knife in the cutlery drawer to murder one man in his forties.

He looks back at the body. The next time I blink, he has both skinny arms underneath Henry’s shoulders. My jaw clicks, and I step over the body, ripping his hands away. I keep my grip on one fragile wrist, bringing it up between us.

“Stop.”

Instead of listening—nodding, showing some capacity of brain power—he slides two frozen fingers under my ski mask.

I slam him back against the bedroom window hard enough to rattle the alarm clock off the nightstand. His teeth snap together beneath the mask, head tilting back on impact—I wrap my free hand around his neck without thinking.

“I’m not warning you again,” I growl.

One cold hand clutches the skin beneath my glove. I feel him swallow, Adam’s apple bumping against the thick fabric on my palm.

Finally, he gives one jerky nod, and the stupid ears on the rabbit mask jiggle.

I let go of him completely. He sags against the window, palms pressed flat against it. The backlit, moonlight glow makes his hair look almost orange next to all the neons.

Tonight is a mockery of everything I've done the last two years.

I turn around and drop into a crouch to fix Henry’s body. But I stop before touching him. Standing once more, I take one step backwards and tilt my head to the left. Then the right.

Henry’s arms are outstretched above his head in almost a circle, one knee folded in toward his other thigh. His eyes are still open, staring at the ceiling without seeing it anymore.

He looks… angelic.