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Chapter 1
Jules
Pills are better in baggies.
They’re quieter. Everyone pictures pills in orange prescription bottles, but those make too much noise. They rattle and shake, and they’re easy to find if you know what you’re looking for.
Baggies are better. They’re discreet and simpler to hide. You can wrap them up tight and slip them just about anywhere, and they’re waterproof. Hide them in a toilet tank. Tuck them somewhere outside. Bury them in the garden.
I unzipped my backpack on the sink of a quiet bathroom in a back corner of the English Department building near a few abandoned classrooms and shoved my hand into the laptop pouch. I pulled out a small plastic baggie, unzipped the top, and poured two pills onto the beige counter.
I stared at them for a long time.
My leg ached. It was a bone-deep ache like someone stood on my thigh and bounced. On good days, it was more like a dull throb, easily ignored, no big deal—but when I got stressed, or if I walked around too much, or if the freaking weather was bad, my leg felt like it was about to explode.
I picked up a pill and held it close to my nose.
It was a small thing. Pale white. Marked on both sides. I ran my finger down the familiar shape. It brought back horrible memories. The scream of broken glass. A gurgle and a gasp for air.
The bathroom door jolted open. A girl rushed in, frowned at me, and disappeared into the stall. I stood there utterly motionless wondering if she noticed what I was doing, but it didn’t matter. The pill was still in my hand, staring at me, waiting for me to give in.
I didn’t want to swallow it, but I did anyway.
It tasted bitter. I didn’t need to wash it down with water. I took it dry, frowned at the second one, and tossed it back into the baggie.
I needed to be careful with my supply. It hadn’t been easy, sneaking as much as I had with me. Papa didn’t know I took them and I had no intention of ever letting him find out. It helped that he was oblivious to everything but his business and his own self-preservation.
I threw my backpack over my shoulders and hustled out of there into the hallway. I was late for the first class of my college career, which was already a bad sign. My stomach fluttered, and as I waited for the elevator that’d take me to the top floor of the building, I felt the pill kick in.
Like heaven spreading in my bloodstream.
My leg went from a nuclear blast radiating pain up and down my spine and morphed into a soft whisper of discomfort. It was incredible how easily I could turn it off, if I really needed to. The ease was terrible though.
Too many of those pills and I’d end up an addicted wreck.
The doors dinged open and I stepped inside.
I wasn’t there yet. I hadn’t gone that far. I wasn’t dependent on them, not yet at least. I’d been careful, so careful. No more than necessary. Never for fun. Some days, I took nothing at all—but those days were rare.
I didn’t rely on the pills. But I needed something to help me get through the days. I rubbed absently at my leg and ignored the other kids shoved into the tiny elevator with me. These comfortable, pampered kids had no clue what it was like trying to exist with a wrecked and broken body.
College was overwhelming. I’d never been around so many strangers in my life. Back in Mexico, living in my father’s house, I was surrounded by guards and house staff but never people I didn’t recognize. My father carefully hand-selected and vetted the people he let anywhere near our home, and he made sure I was introduced to them all. Every face was familiar, known, and quantified.
But out here, I was alone in a sea of strangers and it set my heart racing. My skin was clammy and pale, and I was worried I might have a panic attack before I even sat in my seat.
When I stepped off the elevator, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I wanted this. I let the other students flow around me like water in a stream and I centered myself. I took long, slow breaths, like Luca had taught me all those years ago. Thinking of him used to be painful, but it wasn’t so bad anymore. I only felt a slight pang of longing in my chest that was there and gone in moments, like a flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
I begged my father to let me leave the family compound to attend school in America. I argued that it would be safer, that his enemies wouldn’t dare hurt me on Texan soil, and he’d agreed. It was easier to find and kill people in Mexico, but they’d have much more trouble up north. None of them wanted to piss off the FBI or the CIA or something like that, which meant they wouldn’t resort to outright violence.
