by Tijan
Taylor.
She was all that mattered.
She needed me. Only me.
It didn’t make sense, but I knew it. I felt it. I almost thirsted for it.
My feet were a dull sound, stampeding up the stairs, like I wasn’t hearing them, like I wasn’t even there anymore. I was beyond, already searching the doors, looking for Taylor.
I threw open Nate’s door.
Nothing.
His bed was empty.
I tore open the closet—the clothes he’d left behind fell off a hanger. Nothing. I could see every inch of the closet. There was nowhere to hide.
She wasn’t there.
His bathroom next. No. The shower door was transparent; I could see inside, and it was empty.
On to the next room. I was leaving Nate’s when Mason shot past me. He tore into the extra bathroom there—but it was the same. Empty. We didn’t even have a curtain hanging over the tub in there. No one used it. The drawers were too small. A body couldn’t be folded up in them.
I glimpsed someone standing behind me, paused at the top of the stairs, and I whirled around. A scream stuck in my throat. It was Heather. Keep going, Sam. I need you. A voice spoke to me in my head. It was soft, low, soothing.
It wasn’t mine. It was Taylor’s.
Mason opened the hallway closet, but no. Again, no. Always no. It would always be no.
The last door was to Logan’s loft. He locked it sometimes, if we had people over, or if there was a big party going on. That was the only time he locked it. We all had locks on our doors so our stuff wouldn’t get stolen.
I yanked at the door handle. The door didn’t move.
Someone gasped. It might’ve been me. I didn’t care. I whirled around, already feeling Mason behind me, and I stepped aside.
He rammed into the door and it crashed open. It tore from the hinges—a second door, lost. That thought was in the back of my mind, and a part of me, the part that was in the back of my mind, that was too afraid to come forward, started giggling at that. It was funny to her. It wasn’t to me. I was acting on pure blind rage at this moment.
Mason went first, barking at me to stay back.
No. If she was up there, I was too. If he was going there, I would too. I was with both of them. I wasn’t staying behind. But I knew—just at the sight of how Mason’s shoulders sagged—she wasn’t there.
There was one last spot. Mason stopped in the middle of the room. I veered around him. Logan and Taylor used a bathroom that was attached to the far side of the room.
I crashed through the door. She was going to be there. I had visions of her in the bathtub, her throat slashed. Blood dripping down her body, coating it even, and those eyes . . . I shuddered. They’d be glazed over and lifeless.
Nothing.
I stopped in shock.
Absolutely nothing.
The bathtub was spotless. Two towels were folded on the side. A bar of soap next to them. It looked like a hotel. The shower was spotless as well.
Wait . . . what? I had known. It was in my bones. I’d known I would find her here.
I stepped back, stepping into Mason, whose hands came to my shoulders. I shook my head. “I thought she’d be there.”
His fingers tightened. He started to say something, when a blood-curdling scream ripped from beneath us.
Mason and I both tore out of there. I could outrun him in long-distance runs, but not sprinting. He dominated—it’s what he did for a living—but not that day, and not in that house. I ducked around him, pushing forward with a burst of speed I’d never used.
I raced down the loft’s small set of stairs, through the second-floor hallway—Heather was gone. I noted that in the back of my mind, but I kept going. That scream was beneath us. I barely touched the stairs.
Beneath us.
I kept repeating that in my head.
Beneath us on the first floor.
The hallway led to my room with Mason. There was a guest bathroom. Storage closets. Then our room.
No, that voice in my head said. She wasn’t giggling anymore. She wasn’t soothing. She just sounded sad. She added, The basement, Sam.
The basement door was open. I touched down on the stairs, leaping my way down—and there was Heather. She was backed up against the wall, her eyes glued to the bathroom, her hands cupped over her mouth, but she kept screaming. I didn’t think she’d ever stop. Not anymore.
And I knew.
I faltered now, coming to the open door. I reached for the handle to brace myself.
I looked in—that voice in my head said, Right spot, wrong bathroom—and there she was.
She was just like how I knew she would be. Taylor was slumped in the tub, her head propped against the wall, eyes wide open to look at us, like she’d been looking at her killer.
I couldn’t—another gut-wrenching scream. This one wasn’t from Heather. It was me, and that voice, that person who was in the back of my mind, pulled away from me.
It wasn’t safe to be in my body right now.
I crumpled to the floor, still screaming.
And I pulled away.
I passed Mason, who sprinted behind me, his hand automatically reaching to comfort me, but also to steady himself.
I was floating backward.
Away from them.
Up the stairs.
Through the house.
Out the front door.
Past Mason’s Escalade.
All the way down the street.
And then I heard that voice in my head again, but it wasn’t Taylor’s and it wasn’t mine anymore. It wasn’t sad, or soothing, or laughing. It was someone else’s.
He said, Come to me, Samantha.
Chapter 12
Taylor was dead.
I couldn’t make sense out of that or comprehend it. I don’t think I wanted to. No, she wasn’t. She was alive. She lied to Logan when she said she was with us because . . . I searched for reasons. Because she wanted to surprise him? Because she wanted to shop for a secret gift for him? Because—any reason, except the real one. Then she’d be alive. Then she’d be breathing and sitting next to me. She wouldn’t be covered in a blanket, and I wouldn’t be sitting in a neighbor’s living room, having a detective ask me questions that I couldn’t understand either.
I became a robot. That’s the only way I could keep going.
Mason was wringing his hands together. He was in the kitchen, just behind me. Heather was in a bedroom somewhere. They’d separated us and got a different detective to ask each of us what I was assuming were the same questions.
I told them what I knew.
Why hadn’t I gone and searched for her if I thought I’d heard her phone? They’d asked me that four times now. Every time felt like another knife plunged into my stomach. I could physically feel it, and they would stop, adjust their grip on it, and yank it all the way through me. I would split in half.
But every time they asked, I said the same thing.
I wish I had.
God, I wished I had.
I was probably crying. They didn’t care. I didn’t care. My hands were wet, so I assumed it was from that, but maybe I should have stopped assuming things. I had assumed Taylor wasn’t upstairs.
I’d been wrong.
What else had I assumed that was wrong?
A bubble worked past the two halves of my body, where they kept putting their knife in, and found its way in my throat, then up and over the lump that I had to stop trying to shove down. It came out, and when I heard what that bubble was, I was cringing again.
Hysterical laughter that bordered on mania.
I was a lunatic. And once the first bubble escaped, more kept coming. I couldn’t stop them.
The two detectives standing over me shared a look. I saw the sudden suspicion in their gazes. I mean, it had been there already, but it went to a whole other level now that they heard me laughing. I was having a gay old time. I was going on a rollercoaster. I was at an amusement park—the laughter sto
pped then.
Taylor and Logan fell in love on an abandoned roller coaster.
Yes.
The tears came again. A heavy wave each time, and they were cascading down my face.
How did I get here? How did Taylor end up dead? Who did this? Why hadn’t I looked upstairs?
I whispered, “This is all my fault.”
The cops were talking to each other. Their heads snapped to mine. One bent down, resting his hands on his knees. He was peering down at me, almost on my level, but not. Just above. He still had to maintain his intimidating height. He couldn’t do that if I started thinking he was on my level, that he was kind to me, that he cared about me.
He asked, “What did you say?”
I looked up, not giving one damn what they thought of me. I was Taylor. She was dead. So was I. “This is my fault.”
The second detective moved quickly. He made a gesture behind his back. A uniformed policeman brought one of the kitchen chairs over, and he sat on it. He softened his tone, but I knew it was a farce. All of this was a facade. He asked, as if he did actually care, “What do you mean when you say it’s your fault?”
“I heard her phone. If I looked, she might be alive.” She would be alive.
“No, Sam.”
Mason overheard me, and he left the kitchen. Four police got in his way, but he pushed against them. His eyes were only on me. He was holding an ice pack to his arm, like he’d been hurt. I frowned. When had he gotten hurt?
He shook his head. “This isn’t your fault. You could’ve been killed too. You have no idea.”
“But you were here.” I clung to his eyes. They were the only part of him I could hold on to at that moment. “You were in the car. Heather was too. If I’d gone in, you would’ve come looking for me.”
“And whoever did this could’ve gutted you.”
I flinched at that word—gut. But it was used correctly. She had been gutted. We all saw.
“Don’t blame yourself, Sam. Please don’t.” He was whispering. He was so agonized over what I was feeling.
Another reason among so many others why I loved him.
But he was wrong. I whispered, my throat burning, “I could’ve saved her.” I knew I was right. I could’ve, and I hadn’t.
All of this was my fault.
It wasn’t long, but it seemed to take forever for the authorities to show up when they did. We didn’t call them. One of the neighbors dialed 911 because of the screaming. We were still there, all still in our same positions when they came inside. Guns were drawn, then holstered when they saw there was no threat.
Time blurred after that.
I was led away, brought upstairs, and taken outside. I registered the feel of the air, and that I was crossing the street, then going into another home. Someone else lived there. I felt the aliveness of it. It was warm and loving, giving. It was what our house would never be again. At some point, I was shivering or trembling. Or, I don’t know. A blanket was draped over me at some point, but I don’t think it was because I was cold. They sat me in this living room chair and I wasn’t allowed to leave.
I could see outside, but I didn’t want to. I was waiting now.
Cop cars were everywhere, lighting up the street. An ambulance came. I didn’t know why. No one was hurt—wait, no. Mason had an ice pack, maybe he’d been the hurt one. Or maybe that was how they transported her body? That made more sense. They’d have to take her to get examined, because this was a crime. The morgue wouldn’t come to take her for a funeral.
She’d been murdered.
Our house was a crime scene.
We’d have to go to a hotel? I glanced up. The detectives were so suspicious of me. Would they even allow that? Maybe I’d sit in a cell? The thought of it almost warmed me. That made sense. I wasn’t going to sleep anyways. I didn’t think I’d sleep for the rest of my life. I could go there, be close to them for questioning, and I’d wait until they gave me answers. Who had done this? Why? Those were the most pressing ones.
I heard the screech of tires.
I’d been waiting for this, and I looked outside again.
Mason looked over—he’d been waiting as well.
A yellow Escalade careened to a stop. The door was thrust open and Logan launched himself out of the vehicle. I was sure the keys were still in there. The engine probably hadn’t been turned off.
I tensed.
Waiting.
Then—there it was. Another blood-curdling scream from inside the house.
I closed my eyes, knowing who the owner was, and held my breath. If he got in there, they wouldn’t let him get far.
“TAYLOR!”
I looked. I didn’t want to, but I did. There was an agony that stripped all the way down to my soul. The sound would be in my nightmares, along with Taylor’s body, and when I opened my eyes, I stood.
The cops buzzed around me, alarmed by my sudden movement. Mason was moving too, but we weren’t going anywhere.
Logan was dragged outside, with five cops holding him back. Another two were in front of them, like a backup wall if he got loose. He wasn’t who I was watching, though.
They were bringing her out.
Her body was on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. Some of the blood had soaked through. I took another step toward the window. I raised my hand, touching the glass. This was her last farewell.
“Sam.” Mason’s arms wrapped around me. His chin lowered to rest on my shoulder, and we watched as a member of our family was taken away.
We wouldn’t be whole again.
There was now someone gone, and she couldn’t come back.
Chapter 13
We were released, or that was the word the cops used. We weren’t allowed to go back into the house. We had to give them a list of what we needed to stay at a hotel. After they looked through our phones, we got those back.
Channing came moments later, and he hadn’t left Heather’s side since she came back out from wherever the cops had taken her.
The ride to the hotel was the quietest, longest, and worst ride of my life. I’d remember it forever: the moment when we pulled away from the house, away from the flashing red and blue lights. I looked back and it was like I was seeing it in slow motion. Channing drove Heather, Mason, and me. Nate drove Logan.
I couldn’t deal with it. Any of it.
Once we got to the hotel, a hot shower didn’t help. I kept seeing her. The screams were ricocheting in my head. Heather’s scream. Logan’s. Mine. They all melded together and became Taylor’s voice.
I shook my head; I was curled up in a hotel robe on the bed. I’d finished my shower, but left the light off. Felt appropriate.
Channing and Heather got their own room, but Nate, Logan, Mason, and I all got a suite together. We had a main living area with our own bedrooms. Our bedroom door was open, just a small inch, and I could hear Mason’s voice. I didn’t know who he was talking to. I guessed Logan, because Logan wasn’t responding. No one was responding.
God.
I choked back a sob, burying my head in the robe’s sleeve.
How had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to, at least not to her.
I didn’t know how to handle this grief.
Hating my mother. The knowledge that your father isn’t really your father. Losing friends. That grief was mine. I was an expert at handling that, but this—really losing someone—I was floundering.
Big fat tears were rolling down my face, but I didn’t move. What the hell would I do? What now? And Logan—I couldn’t face him. He thought she had been with me. That made her my responsibility. He was my family, the third member of our fearsome threesome, and I’d done this to him. It was like I’d gutted him and left him to bleed out.
“Sam?”
I looked up. I didn’t sit up from the bed. I remained in my curled fetal position, but I merely moved my head back so I could see who stood in the door.
Channing glanced over his shoulder, then back. His hesitation w
as obvious. “Uh.” His hand curled around the doorframe. “Mason said I could just come over and knock.” His eyes fell to my robe. “I can come back, if you want.”
“No.” I was dressed underneath. It didn’t matter. I sat up now, pulling my knees close to me. “What’s up? How’s Heather?”
“That’s why I came in. She . . .” another pause. He looked down. “She’s not doing that well. I was wondering . . .” His hand went to the top of his head. It rested there before falling back down. “I shouldn’t be asking this of you. You were closer to the gi—her. Never mind. Sorry.”
“No. What?” I wanted something to do. I needed something to do.
He hesitated. He seemed torn, but asked, “Could you come over and just hug her or something? She’s just crying. Her brothers are coming, but you were with her . . . I thought it might help.”
I frowned. There wasn’t a word to describe how drained I felt. “She doesn’t want you there?”
“It’s not that. I’m not leaving, but I hold her, and she doesn’t react. I just wonder if I’m the person she wants right now.”
“You are.” I nodded. I said it with such certainty. “You are. No one else can replace you in her life. She needs you.”
His eyebrows were pulled together, but relaxed at my words. He nodded, blinking back some wetness, and coughed. He cleared his throat. “Okay. Thank you.” He frowned again. “Are you okay? I mean . . .” He looked over his shoulder again. “Mason seems busy with Logan, and you’re in here alone. Are you sure you don’t want to come to the room, so you’re not alone?”
He and Heather were family. Logan and Mason were mine. I should be with mine.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to join them. I just needed a moment.”
“Okay.” His lip twitched up in something that might’ve been a smile, or a small grin. I didn’t know what. Everything looked off to me now. Nothing was right.
He left, and I was alone again.
I could still hear Mason’s murmurings, but still nothing from Logan.
Where was Nate?
But even as I thought it, I knew: he was probably with them. He was probably in the same room with them. Or maybe he was doing what I was doing—sitting. Being alone. Listening to them. Or maybe he was like Channing, not sure what to do. Feeling helpless. Trying to find out what to do, how to help, who else to maybe help.