by Cyn Balog
We need to set this to rest. And once this is done, we can finally move on.
I’m carrying my backpack with the evidence. A night of sleep only made me surer that Luisa needs to suffer. She doesn’t deserve to go off to college and live her life after she ended Declan’s. After she ended mine.
Kane looks unnaturally pale. He says to me, his voice soft, “Hailey.”
I look at him as I rev the engine. Yes, he’s nervous. He’s worried about what will happen to him when they find out he covered up Declan’s murder. “What?”
“What about the box of his things?” he says softly. “Don’t you need that?”
He’s stalling. But I’ll give him that. Part of me hopes he’s starting to understand my viewpoint and is on my side with this. She may be his girlfriend, but right is right. I don’t think anything in that box is more damning than the statue, but I suppose it makes sense to bring it with us, to give the police a full picture of what was happening before Declan died. I open the door. “If you think so.”
I jog out into the warm summer air and into the house. I’d thought about tossing the box a thousand times, but it’s still under my bed, where I stashed it after that day during the winter when I’d gone through it. I pull it out and hurry downstairs.
But when I get to the car, my skin prickles.
The car is still running, and the passenger seat is empty.
I look toward the Weeks house, hoping that maybe Kane simply went home to get something, but when I peer inside the Jeep, my backpack is missing.
My heart jams in my throat. The evidence.
I whirl around, and my eyes fasten on a form moving through the trees at the end of the cul-de-sac. With a sinking feeling, I know where Kane is headed.
I tear off after him, screaming his name. “Kane, don—” I shout as I enter the clearing, seeing him crouching over the fire pit with the backpack, a container of lighter fluid, and a lighter.
“Let us go, Hailey,” he says softly in a quiet but commanding voice. I thought I knew every side of Kane, but I’ve never seen this one, and it’s why my shout dies in my throat. He looks up at me as he finds a flame and touches the lit tip to the canvas fabric. “Please.”
I’ve never heard his voice so fragile. He’s begging me. I can do nothing but stare helplessly as the bag starts to smolder, then bursts into flames.
Everything I know might as well be burning with it.
He comes beside me, reaches into his pocket, unfolds a piece of paper, and stares at it. Then he hands it to me. “I found this in his room the day he died.”
I glance at it, then look away. I know what it is. It’s a note to accompany my Valentine’s Day flower. It says:
You’re the most amazing person I know.—Declan
The tears hit my cheeks even before I see that it’s not written out to me. It’s written out to Luisa.
“Why would he have written this if he was breaking up with Luisa?”
“He didn’t hand it in,” I protest.
“But he still wrote it. To her.”
I swallow. I shrug. I tug on the hem of my shorts with both hands.
“Hailey,” Kane says. “You have to let us go. It. Ends. Here. Do you understand? For me. For Declan. It ends here and now.”
I bring my hands to my face and cover it, hoping to shield myself from him. “No.”
“Yes, Hailey. It’s over.”
I swallow as he looks back at the flames, now consuming the entire backpack. He throws Declan’s note into the fire, and then sinks to his knees. “Oh God, Hailey. God. You know, when I thought about going to college, the thousands of choices out there, I thought, in four years, I could be one of a thousand different people. It all depended on what choice I made from here.” He shakes his head and looks up at the smoke, climbing into the trees. “And then I thought, Or I can stay here. With what’s comfortable. And part of me kept wanting to tread that safe, narrow road.”
I look at him. He falls back onto his backside, throwing his arms over his bended knees.
“But we can’t. We have to move on. And when I saw what you had done, I knew we couldn’t stay on that road.”
Tears fall faster now, but I wipe them away. “He was supposed to be with me. He was meant to be with me. And she’s the reason he’s dead. It’s her.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe she’s a part of it. But she didn’t know what would happen. You can’t do this.”
“I…I was so angry at him for leaving me. I couldn’t stand it. I know I wasn’t the best girlfriend in the world, but how could he leave me?”
He shakes his head. “I know why you wanted to hurt her. But this isn’t right. You know that. She may be a pain in the ass, but she doesn’t deserve that.”
I sniff. “She gets everything. And I have nothing. I don’t even have you.”
“You really think that Luisa and I are going to last?” he asks with an ironic laugh. I look at him. “We can’t go back. Every time we get back together, something is lost. I think by Christmas, we’ll both be seeing other people. But you’ll always have me, Hailey. All right?”
No. Nothing is all right. I think about that night. I’d sneaked up the trellis in the cold, but I could hear Luisa’s high-pitched voice, even from outside, even with the window closed. I scaled the peak of the roof, then went into Kane’s window, hoping I could cry to him.
But he hadn’t been there. Instead, I’d sat on his bed, feeling so alone.
It’s that loneliness that creeps over me now, threatening to crush me. I remember looking up at the trophies as I listened to the sound of them laughing together in the next room over.
I stared at Kane’s never-vacuumed blue carpeting for an eternity, waiting. I imagined Luisa’s sweet, angelic smile, brightening Declan’s mood in the way only I was supposed to be capable of. I remember the door opening, and the light spilling into the hallway.
And then I had my hand on the trophy.
I ripped it from the dresser. I stormed into the darkened hallway, wanting to beat that smug, candy-coated smile off her face.
I brought it down once, with calculated, silent force.
That was all it took. I raised it over my head again, but I didn’t need to.
The figure staggered backward without a sound, hitting the wooden flooring in the hallway, motionless before I could swing it again.
Good, I’d thought. Maybe that’ll smack some sense into her. Or permanently disfigure her.
I waited for Declan to come out of his room and see how much I loved him. He’d see how lost I was without him, and he’d save me from this hell I was living.
But he didn’t.
Two seconds later, common sense trickled in, replacing the rage that had been boiling inside me, and a second after that, it morphed into fear. My fingers loosened on the trophy, and I studied it, surprised to see it in my hands. What the hell had I done?
When I crept closer, I realized my mistake. The form on the floor wasn’t Luisa. No, she’d left through the window.
Declan was lying at my feet.
Motionless.
The skull near his forehead, just above that arched eyebrow, was bleeding. Dented unnaturally.
I said his name. Once. Twice.
No answer. I dropped the trophy.
I ran, nearly diving out his window, slipping on the snow on the roof, falling to the bushes without feeling a thing.
I did this. I built these walls. The reason I’ve been in hell for so long? I belong there. And Kane can’t save me from it. Not when the devil’s saved a seat for me.
I can try to move forward, make my life as worthy and meaningful as two to compensate for the one I took. But Declan was a star, bound for greatness, and try though I might, nothing I do will ever be as magnificent as what he would’ve done. In one second of madness, I destroyed
it all. And that will be with me for the rest of my life, touching every little thing I do.
I’d wanted something to make me special. And now I have it. I’m a murderer.
“When I saw him there, I thought about what Declan would want,” Kane says. “And I knew he’d want me to take care of you. To fall on the sword on your behalf. To be your Gatsby.”
I look at him. “You…finished the book?”
“Yeah. Fucking Gatsby.” He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I did a really shitty thing to protect you, Hailey, and now Declan will always be known as the kid who committed suicide. He loved you, Hailey. More than anyone, even him, could possibly put into words, so I have to believe he would’ve wanted me to do that. But maybe he understood then what I’m only now realizing.
“You’re the first. And you may be the most intense. I may never feel the things I felt for you again. But even the smallest action can bend us in ways so that we don’t go back. You did it to him when you kept us a secret from him. And you did it to me too.”
“But—” I shudder, the full weight of his words bearing down on me. Of course, I know what he’s talking about.
“You knew what I did, and that it was for you. And did you care? No, you were still willing to throw me away like garbage, to send me to jail, to get your revenge on Luisa.”
I open my mouth to explain, but he doesn’t want that.
“Hailey. Stop. It doesn’t matter.” His voice is hard. “What I’m saying is, you can’t be the last.”
I stare at the flames. With those five words, my life might as well be over. Deep inside, I think I always thought I’d eventually end up with one of them. My life, so entwined with the Weeks boys… Does he understand what he’s saying? How can I go on living without my heart?
But I suppose this is what I deserve, so I say nothing.
“I’m not going to end up facedown in a pool with a bullet in my back, Hailey,” he says. “I’m luckier than him. I can move on from here, be one of the people I imagined. You have to let me. Say it’s okay, and let me.”
I can’t speak. He wants permission, two words: It’s okay. But those are not so easy to give. For so long, my life has been all about the Weeks boys. And he’s right. Luisa’s right. I’ve been a poison to them. And even if Declan can’t go on from here because of me, at least there’s something I can do for Kane.
I fall to my knees beside him, lost in tears. “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, over and over again. “I’m so sorry.”
He takes me in his arms and whispers in my ear, nothing I can make sense of. I’m not sure anything will ever make sense to me again. After all, I never knew it was possible to love someone to death, to hold him to your heart so tightly that he’s crushed in your embrace.
But I have. And as long as I live, I will never do that again.
I nod. It’s okay, I mouth. It’s okay. I repeat it over and over, until it’s more for myself than it is for him.
Kane closes his eyes, then wipes at one. Is he crying? By the time I can focus on him, they’re dry, and he’s back to the unemotional, unsentimental Kane I know and love.
“Kane,” I say as I watch embers climb into the summer sky. “I wish we could go back.”
He climbs to his feet and digs his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I know.”
After that, he takes my hand and we walk back to our houses. Standing toe to toe, I Iook up at him as he gently takes my face in his hands and wipes my tears with the pad of his thumb. He tells me that he will always love me, that I need to take care of myself, that I need to move on. Move on, move on, move on. No going back. Ever forward, even when we’re standing still.
I will keep on this path, though I am falling, falling, falling through the endless hell I built around me. I may go to college and meet someone else, but I will never love that person with all of myself, the way I did the Weeks boys. I know that.
There will always be a part of me that belongs to them.
Now
I’ve started college, and my grades aren’t terrible. Silas and I are dating, and life is okay on that front. I think I might even care about him, though not too much. Don’t worry; I constantly keep that in check.
I’m moving on.
As humans, it’s not possible to stay in one spot. The world moves around us, and we must move with it. And you would want me to, right, Declan?
Maybe I will find a place here, one day. But it will be a darker place, nothing like the one I imagined all those years ago, when you loved me.
But what is it they say? Shadows make one appreciate the light.
In my mind, our last night went like this: Under the starry sky, in the backyard, you told me that you still loved me, would always love me, and we had all the time in the world to be together. Our path stretched out before us like a long, winding, beautiful road.
But in reality? I suppose reality was much different.
I am my past. I can’t escape it, and I can’t lie down and die in it, so I’ll carry it with me, in chains around me, for the rest of my life. I’ll make myself as comfortable as I can, no matter how much the truth burdens me, and maybe one day you can forgive me.
I will never be the person you once believed I was.
But that hopeless romantic in me endures, a boat beating against the current. And I still believe in us.
Even if I’m the only one, Declan. I still believe in us.
Acknowledgments
My deepest appreciation to Annette and the whole wonderful team at Sourcebooks, my superb agent, Mandy, my amazing readers, and all of my family and friends who get me through each day, especially Sara, Gabrielle, and Brian. Thank you for everything.
About the Author
Cyn Balog is the author of a number of young adult novels. She lives outside Allentown, Pennsylvania, with her husband and daughters. Visit her online at cynbalog.com.
You’re Never Really Alone
1
Welcome to the Bismarck-Chisholm House—where murder is only the beginning of the fun! Stay in one of our eighteen comfortable guest rooms. You’ll sleep like the dead. We guarantee it…
Sometimes I dream I am drowning.
Sometimes I dream of bloated faces, bobbing on the surface of misty waters.
And then I wake up, often screaming, heart racing, hands clenching fistfuls of my sheets.
I’m in my bed at the top of Bug House. The murky daylight casts dull prisms from my snow globes onto the attic floor. My mom started collecting those pretty winter scenes for me when I was a baby. I gaze at them, lined neatly on the shelf in front of my window. My first order of business every day is hoping they’ll give me a trace of the joy they did when I was a kid.
But either they don’t work that way anymore, or I don’t.
Who am I kidding? It’s definitely me.
I’m insane. Batshit. Nuttier than a fruitcake. Of course, that’s not an official diagnosis. The official word from Dr. Batton, whose swank Copley Square office I visited only once when I was ten, was that I was bright and intelligent and a wonderful young person. He said it’s normal for kids to have imaginary playmates.
But it gets a little sketchy when that young person grows up, and her imaginary friend decides to move in and make himself comfortable.
Not that anyone knows about that. No, these days, I’m good about keeping up appearances.
My second order of business each day is hoping that he won’t leak into my head. That maybe I can go back to being a normal sixteen-year-old girl.
But he always comes.
He’s a part of me, after all. And he’s been coming more and more, invading my thoughts. Of course I’m here, stupid.
Sawyer. His voice in my mind is so loud that it drowns out the moaning and creaking of the walls around me.
“Seda, honey?” my mother calls cheerily. She shifts her weight
on the bottom step, making the house creak more. “Up and at ’em, buckaroo!”
I force my brother’s taunts away and call down the spiral staircase, “I am up.” My short temper is because of him, but it ends up directed at her.
She doesn’t notice though. My mother has only one mood now: ecstatically happy. She says it’s the air up here, which always has her taking big, deep, monster breaths as if she’s trying to inhale the entire world into her lungs. But maybe it’s because this is her element; after all, she made a profession out of her love for all things horror. Or maybe she really is better off without my dad, as she always claims she is.
I hear her whistling “My Darlin’ Clementine” as her slippered feet happily scuffle off toward the kitchen. I put on the first clothing I find in my drawer—sweatpants and my mom’s old Boston College sweatshirt—then scrape my hair into a ponytail on the top of my head as I look around the room. Mannequin body parts and other macabre props are stored up here. It’s been my bedroom for only a month. I slept in the nursery with the A and Z twins when we first got here because they were afraid of ghosts and our creepy old house. But maybe they—like Mom—are getting used to this place?
The thought makes me shudder. I like my attic room because of the privacy. Plus, it’s the only room that isn’t ice cold, since all the heat rises up to me. But I don’t like much else about this old prison of a mansion.
One of the props, Silly Sally, is sitting in the rocker by the door as I leave. She’d be perfect for the ladies’ department at Macy’s if it weren’t for the gaping chest wound in her frilly pink blouse. “I hate you,” I tell her, batting at the other mannequin body parts descending from the rafters like some odd canopy. She smiles as if the feeling is mutual. I give her a kick on the way out.
Despite the morbid stories about this place, I don’t ever worry about ghosts. After all, I have Sawyer, and he is worse.
As I climb down the stairs, listening to the kids chattering in the nursery, I notice the money, accompanied by a slip of paper, on the banister’s square newel post. The car keys sit atop the pile. Before I can ask, Mom calls, “I need you to go to the store for us. OK, Seda, my little kumquat?”
