Fifteen minutes later, I pull up in front of Jack’s shared townhouse. The lights are all on and I think I spot the gray car he drives. He must be home. I inch my way toward the front door with the peeling paint. About a minute later, Jack opens the door. After a brief look of shock, his grin widens.
“I’m really glad you came over.”
My blood boils at his attractive smile and the innocent look on his face. I grind my jaw, my anger growing. “If you ever hurt Olivia again, I’ll be a lot meaner than I’m being. You broke her heart, but not only that—you smacked her! In what universe is that acceptable?”
He fidgets where he stands. “I know it was wrong. It was an accidental loss of my temper. I should’ve never held on to Olivia so tightly. I should’ve never smacked her. I lost it. I’m so sorry, you have to believe me. I won’t let that ever happen again.”
“It won’t happen ever again, because I’m pretty sure she wants nothing to do with you.” I cross my arms. “I’m done with you, too.”
Jack says in the most pathetic tone, “Please just wait a minute. Please, Quinn. I found out more about your brother.”
That stops me in my tracks. If I blow Jack off now, I’ll never get the story about having a brother. I might never learn his name, and then I’ll be left to always wonder. “What did you find?”
At this point, he could be playing me. Maybe he never found a long-lost brother of mine, though I doubt it.
“He was born only seven years before you. He was never adopted, so the details are taking me more time. But I know he was born in Cincinnati. Now if I could find a name, it could really help.”
I take a few steps closer. “You don’t have a name? Do you really think you have enough information to keep searching?”
“Sure, if you still want my help, that is,” Jack says.
I shift, considering. Swallowing a sigh, I wave one hand. “Fine. Just leave Griffin out of this, okay? I don’t want him involved in this anymore.”
“What, you two aren’t together anymore?”
“No, we’re not.” The words sting my tongue and burn my throat. I roll my shoulders back, letting out a breath. “Leave Olivia alone, too. If you don’t—”
“If she doesn’t want to see me or talk to me, I won’t bother her,” he says, stepping in front of me, raising his arms in surrender. He smiles, but I can’t figure out what he’s smiling about.
“You sure about that? You can let Olivia go without any more of a fight?”
“I’m sure.”
“Excellent,” I say, not trying to hide my sarcasm, then turn away to leave.
“Quinn, wait.”
Hesitantly, I stop and swivel back to see his distraught expression. “What?”
He shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “We can still be friends, right?”
Even though Jack’s soft tone and pained expression make me feel for him, I need to start being honest. “No, I really don’t think we can.”
“It’s too bad we didn’t meet before you went to the museum. I think we could’ve been friends. But you met Griffin first. I get it.”
I’m stuck staring at him, replaying every conversation I’ve ever had with Jack. Did I ever tell him about going to the museum the day Griffin and I met? No, I didn’t. What reason would he have to know that unless—unless he’d been watching me, following me.
Oh. Is Jack…could he be my stalker?
I swallow my fears, pasting a neutral expression across my face. “I’m probably better off alone, anyway. I need to focus on college, not guys.” My laughter rings false to my own ears, but I hope he buys it. “I’ve got to go, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”
Walking back toward my car, my brain snaps puzzle pieces together and I know Jack could absolutely be behind everything that’s happened. How come I couldn’t see this before?
Jack is Griffin’s would-be murderer, and now that I know the who, I can find a way to stop him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the next day, I’ve mulled through every conversation I can remember having with Jack. I even wrote some of the phrases down. We can still be friends, right? It was Griffin’s car…maybe that occurrence was only about him, not you. I consider the notes, too. Stay away from Quinn. You let your family die. Now it’s my turn to torture you. That last one still doesn’t seem to fit, but there’s only one conclusion I can come to: Jack wanted Griffin out of the way because he, for whatever reason, is stalking me.
He would know about my parents’ deaths by looking into my background—something I freely let him do. Not that I could’ve stopped him, I guess. Jack knows so much about hacking; would it be such a stretch for him to be good at breaking and entering? No, it wouldn’t. Did he even go so far as to date Olivia to get closer to me? The idea twists in my gut.
Pacing my room, I consider the last thing I said to him. Oh. Oh no, I told him we couldn’t be friends. Will he be pissed off and go after Griffin now? Did I just sign his death warrant? I run my fingers through my unbrushed hair, then grab my phone off the desk. I send Jack a text.
Me: I didn’t mean what I said. I want to be your friend.
The lie turns my stomach. I stare at the screen longer than necessary, chewing the inside of my cheek, waiting for a reply.
Me: Can we talk, please?
Finally, my phone dings.
Jack: I’ll be over in thirty.
I’m going to do what I’ve become good at lately: lie. Or rather, I’m going to tell him one truth and lie about everything else. Clearly Jack has some strange obsession with me. Why else do you stalk someone? If I can give him what he wants, making him believe we’re friends and that Griffin is out of my life for good, then maybe he won’t have a reason to hurt Griffin anymore.
It’s the only spark of hope I’ve felt in days.
When Jack arrives, I sit on the couch so I don’t continue pacing. He sits on the love seat to my left, looking curious and hopeful himself.
“There’s something I need to tell you. About me. About us.” I will my voice not to shake. “It’s going to be hard to believe. I need you to try to believe me, okay?”
He nods, shifting in his seat.
I take a steadying breath. “I’m cursed…”
He hears the same story I told Griffin, but instead of telling him about Griffin’s death, I make a different end.
“I’ve known since the day I met Griffin that we wouldn’t last long.” My lie comes out easily, even though it doesn’t sit right in my chest. “I don’t know why I entertained the idea of dating him at all. It was always going to end in a silly argument.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.” I lick my dry lips and sit straighter, edging toward the end of the couch. “I-I’ve seen our end, too.”
His eyes widen, but then his brows tighten, and he frowns. “Our end?”
I nod.
After a long pause, Jack stands and turns halfway, scratching his forehead. I’m not sure what his body language means, so I sit silently, waiting.
“Jack—”
“Why would I believe you have these mystical powers? Are you—you want me to believe you and Griffin are really done so you’ll make up anything?” He says it as though I’m a child he’s grown annoyed with.
I stand, holding out my hands slowly like a peace offering, then I change tactics. “Why don’t you want me to be with Griffin, anyway?”
He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Come on, you can do better than him.”
I drop my hands, feeling an overwhelming desire to scream. “You don’t even know him.”
“Oh, I don’t?” His stare is cold. “I did look up everything there was to know about the guy. I bet I know him better than you do.”
My cheeks burn. He’s probably right about that.
<
br /> “Why does it matter to you who I date?” I do my best to keep my voice level, to not sound accusatory. The last thing I want is to set him off. If he’s truly capable of murder… I shiver.
“You don’t—”
The front door swings open, stopping both of us in our tracks.
“Oh, hello.” Grandma Ruth smiles at me, then at Jack, totally oblivious.
“Grandma, this is, uh, Jack. He’s…a friend.”
The expression on Jack’s face wavers between annoyance and friendliness while he stares at her outstretched hand. He doesn’t return the pleasantry, though. Instead, he steps around her and without looking back says, “Quinn, I have to go.” He’s out the door before I can stop him.
“Who was that?” Grandma asks, lowering her hand. “Is that the boy from—the one in your vision?”
“No.” I glance from her to the closed front door then take off after Jack. He can’t leave, not now. “Jack!” I call as I jog down the path toward the parking lot. “Wait!”
He ignores me, choosing to climb into his grey sedan. I stop halfway to his car, knowing I won’t be able to stop him. As I turn around to go back inside, I spot Griffin on his patio, guitar in hand.
We stare at each other for a heartbeat, then a few more. He rises from the chair, casts a final, stony, glance my way, then disappears inside.
Shit. Everything totally backfired.
…
That night, the high-pitched sound of the fire alarm invades my dreams. I wake, smelling smoke. Smoke can mean nothing good at two in the morning. Grandma goes to bed at ten o’clock religiously, so it’s not her cooking. And anyway, she would never burn anything. I climb out of my bed and tiptoe toward the door.
I yank open my bedroom door and see the fire. Bright, golden-red. The blaze has replaced the curtains along the windows, and now the couch is on fire, too. Flames rage everywhere, and my feet are stuck to the carpet like glue. Disbelief latches me into shock as I stare at my surroundings.
Then finally, reality slaps me into action. I run to Grandma’s room and pound on the door, yelling. Fire is the only word that leaves my lips and after the first few times, the word is like scalding liquid on my tongue.
That’s when the panic sets in. I am drowning in utter panic. All my limbs feel like they are on mega-drive, all my particles moving a thousand times a minute. Eventually Grandma opens the door, eyes wide, lips open.
“Come on,” I say, waving my hand. “We have to leave.”
She pulls her nightgown tighter around her, looks at her bare feet for a split second before bolting down the steps, toward the door. But the fire from the couch spreads, winding down the carpet across the entranceway and up to the ceilings. Blocking our escape.
I turn, heart beating frantically. Crap! “We can’t get out this way.”
The only door to the outside is surrounded by flames, and I picture my own fiery death in my head. Unlike a vision, but just as vivid and real. Screaming and burning until all the breath has left my lungs. Until I’m reduced to a pile of crispy bones.
“Quinn,” Grandma says, somehow maintaining her calm, motherly voice. “The kitchen window.”
Her words snap me out of my horrible, real-life vision. I run to the window in the kitchen, safe from the flames. For now, at least. I shove on it, but it doesn’t budge. Crap. I mess with the locks and shove harder. My desperation doesn’t help.
“A chair!” she yells.
I spin, grab a stool from beneath the counter and swing the legs up like a battering ram. I run at the window, slamming the chair legs into the screen. It pops off, the flames rush toward us at the exposed oxygen, and I scream at Grandma to go through first.
She sticks her head through the window and, since she’s slow and old, it takes her long, stretching seconds to work her body outside, one awkward, slow foot at a time. My heart is thrumming like it’s about to quit, but Grandma is out and safe.
I follow behind her without looking back, without grabbing my camera or my pictures, or anything that’s left of my life. Though I do think about them as I throw myself over the window sill and into the chilly night air. I think about all the things I’m losing as we escape the flames.
But I am still here. Still breathing.
I’m not dead. Grandma isn’t dead.
Our apartment is dying, but we’re not.
I rest my hands on my thighs to catch my breath and choke on the smoke that’s worked its way into my lungs. When I look up, the air is filling with smoke pouring from the open window. In the darkness, my eyes focus on a figure. Someone wearing all black, someone with a tall, thin form—but that’s all I can make out in the darkness. He stands feet away, watching the flames engulf all that I have.
Jack.
He spins and runs toward the parking lot. I make a move to run after him, fear, anger, and adrenaline spiking in my blood, but Grandma grabs my wrist, holding me back.
“We need to call 911,” she says.
I yank, trying to free the hold she has on me, but the old lady is stronger than she looks. “But he’s the one who did this—”
“Then he’s dangerous. You can’t run willy-nilly after someone who set our apartment on fire.”
But I want to. Need to. Even if she is right. Jack got into our apartment undetected more than once. He took pictures of me, and now he set our place on fire. He’s going to get away with it, too. I thought I could talk him down, but God, was I wrong.
Pulse pounding, I pat my pockets. “I don’t have my phone. Do you?”
She shakes her head, pulling me farther from the building.
“Griffin.” It’s a mutter to myself, but it’s the logical next step.
I pound on his door only once before he opens it, sleep coating his eyes. I’m just grateful he answered the door. When he sees me and the smoke floating into the night sky, his eyes widen. Despite the chaos, I note his cut hair, but I don’t have the time or mental capacity to react.
He opens the door wider. “What’s going on?”
“Someone set our apartment on fire. We need to call for help.”
He immediately grabs for his phone. As he calls 911, notifying them about the apartment being engulfed in flames, he leads the two of us toward the parking lot, farther from the fire.
I scan the area, searching for the Jack. But he or she is nowhere to be seen.
We stand there for an eternity in the humid night. Griffin won’t look at me. Soon I hear only sirens and murmured chatter. I see nothing but red flashing lights and silhouettes of people. Too many people start asking me too many questions. Grandma puts a hand on my arm, and it snaps me back to reality.
“Everything will be okay,” she says.
I don’t believe her, but I nod anyway.
Once the fire is out and the commotion is dying down, I scan the area for Griffin. But he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The fire department found only one thing: gasoline covering the couch. And thankfully, it didn’t spread much farther than the living room. Most of our possessions are still here. We got lucky is what they said, and sure, maybe we did—we’re both alive. They claim they’re following all leads, but without anything solid, their investigation is at a standstill.
Grandma and I spend a whole week in a cheap motel nearby before we’re able to stay at the apartment again. Despite all the cleaning, it still smells like a campfire gone wrong in here.
Our first night back, I’m sitting at my desk with my legs pulled up beneath me, doing final tweaks on my portfolio submission. Olivia sits on my bed with a spread of printed photographs. I told her I wanted her help in finalizing my portfolio, but really I just didn’t want to be alone. A photo of Jack at Therapy Café is the next one I click on. It’s honestly my favorite one from that night. I turn the image black and white before adding a sepia tone. It
’s honestly a great addition to my portfolio, no matter how I feel about the guy. But looking at this makes me think of Jack, the themed birthday party, and then finally, my thoughts circle around to Griffin.
Fuck, I miss him.
It’s my fault, though. I’d thought pushing him away was best, but no matter how much he hates me, I know I’d give my life if it meant saving his—no matter what. No matter how much Grandma would be devastated. This is 100 percent my fault, and there is no reality where Griffin deserves to die because of me.
God, I do love him.
If I die, at least he’ll live. Maybe he’ll never know the truth about my feelings, but he’ll be alive.
I turn in the chair and find Olivia looking at the photo. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s—”
“It’s a killer photo, Quinn. Can’t deny that. It should totally be in your portfolio.”
“Then it will be.” I return my focus to the screen and click through a few.
“Let me see these,” Quinn says when Griffin’s stunning face replaces Jack’s. It’s one of the photos Griffin let me take of him when I’d found him on the patio with his guitar. She moves to hover beside me, leaning in for a closer look. “Oh yeah, this one’s a winner, too.” Of course it is. I guess art is supposed to make you feel something, though, so I don’t disagree.
Olivia takes control of my mouse and clicks through more photographs. “Oooh, and I love this one of the guitar pieces.” She grins. “It’s tragically romantic. Oh, and the lighting is phenomenal.”
Maybe Olivia has a better eye for art than I originally thought.
We continue through the pictures, Olivia and I whittling down the images to a total of eight.
“Success, right?” she says. “You’re unbelievably talented.”
“Thanks. And yes, a success. Thanks for helping me choose.”
“I’m always happy to help! What’s left? You gonna send these badass photos out?” I motion toward the fancy portfolio book sitting beside the desk. “As soon as I print out the rest, they’re going in there, and by tomorrow morning they’ll be on their way.”
To Whatever End Page 19