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What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?

I couldn’t go on like this. I curled up on the floor, paralyzed by the harrowing pain, desperately trying to think of a way out, trying to make it stop.

Mummy—make it stop. Please, Mummy, make it stop.

I rocked to and fro, using the rhythm to collect my thoughts and steady my breathing, trying to think through the white noise in my head.

What to do?

What to do?

Breathe, Emily.

Tablets… The sleeping tablets that I couldn’t have last night.

Yes. My breathing slowed.

Yes.

This.

Shaking, I pulled myself to my feet, my resolve hardening, as I began to see a way out.

Where did Dylan say? Top shelf. Middle cupboard?

That was too high for me to reach. I grabbed a dining room chair and hauled it over to the counter, clambered up onto the work surface, and started hunting through the top cupboards. Each was spotless and tidy, as I would expect from my meticulous uncle. It was easy to spot the see-through plastic zip-up wallet containing several bottles and packets of medicine, all carefully labeled. Stepping down onto the chair, and then back to the floor, I placed the wallet on the breakfast bar and unzipped it. Rummaging through, I took out each bottle and packet in turn. There were so many of them. I had no idea which one I was looking for.

“The Killers, eh? Good band.”

The boy’s soft-spoken words made me jump.

He leaned against the end of the kitchen island, dressed in his black shirt, jacket, and jeans, watching me, his green eyes wary. “Hello, Beauchamp. What are you doing?” he asked.

I caught a trace of the fragrance.

So it is him. How weird.

The thought was random and absentminded. The wonderful smell was strangely at odds with the suspicious boy watching me. I stared at him, vaguely aware that I should be feeling… if not fear then at least alarm.

But I felt… nothing.

He walked slowly, silently, around the island, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, until he stood facing me, the island between us.

“There are a lot of medicines here,” he said, his voice calm, but he continued to watch me like a bird of prey, his expression grave.

My brain reengaged with the rest of my body. “Who are you?” My voice was a whisper.

He ignored my question. “What are you doing?” he persisted, his expression still solemn.

I shrugged. Why do I need to tell him?

He frowned, his unease marring his lovely face, and he stroked the stubble on his chin. I gazed at him. How could I not? Despite the unrelenting white noise buzzing in my head, he was one of the most attractive young men I’d ever seen. His beauty was distracting; large green eyes with long lashes, a chiseled mouth, and full lips turned down in a disapproving scowl.

“So, Beauchamp, do you have a headache or something? Was it the champagne? Was it last night you had a shitty time?” There was an edge to his voice.

How did he know about my night? How does he know my name?

“Who are you?” I asked again, my voice faint, my throat sore from all the crying.