“She’s dead,” he mumbles, sounding like he might be sick.

“What? When?” Maybe I didn’t hear him right.

He looks at me, eyes glossed over. “She died three years ago today.”

His heartache radiates through my own chest. Pierce is so strong—in control. I never imagined him like this. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Pierce. What happened?” I ask, a tear slipping down my cheek.

Pierce uses the pad of his thumb to wipe it away, unknowingly freeing more raw emotion I’d tried to keep locked inside. “I thought it would get easier as time passed, but it hasn’t. I was supposed to protect her.”

I cover his hand with mine. “It couldn’t have been your fault,” I cry.

“It wasn’t,” he says, weaving his fingers with mine. “He killed her, Lila.”

“No.” I can’t think. I can’t hear. I can’t see. My words are temporarily lost, but then I find just one.

“He did. Blake killed her, and nothing has ever been the same.”

And I don’t think it ever will.

MY EYES ARE SWOLLEN, and my head is reeling when Pierce drops me off at my apartment. There were so many questions I wanted answered, but I couldn’t take any more of his truths. Besides, he’s dealing with the anniversary of his sister’s death, and the last thing he needs is my peppering him with questions when the wounds are already torn open.

After he’d told me about Alyssa, we’d sat quietly for a while, listening to “Silent Night” play quietly in the background. Then he told me stories about their childhood. I listened, while in between, I wondered why no one said anything to me about this until now. Why didn’t Mallory tell me what her brother had done? Why would she set me up to be alone with him . . . to fall for him? I feel so stupid. If I’d known all this before, I would have never let Blake get close. I would’ve never set myself up to be hurt like this.

Tomorrow, I’m going to get as far away from any memories of him as I possibly can. It’s something I should have done a while ago. It would have saved me from this.

As I cross the room, I skim my fingers along the wall. The empty apartment is like the bottom of a deep, dark hole. Blinds drawn. The only sound, besides the heavy pounding in my head, is the quiet hum of the refrigerator. It’s eerie—the worst kind of lonely.

“Where’ve you been?”

My whole body stills. My heart is paralyzed. He can’t be here. I can’t face him and pretend. Fear entraps me, making it impossible to escape.

A dark shadow crosses the room, not stopping until I’m caged between it and the wall. His familiar scent envelops me, and stark reality hits me, lending me back my voice. “You need to go,” I whisper, bracing myself against the wall, anything to put distance between us.

His fingers playfully pull at the ends of my hair. He’s been drinking . . . I can smell that too. “I’ve been trying to call you. Been waiting around here for hours, worried about you.”

“Please go,” I beg. My voice catches. Tears would fall so easily if I let them.

He leans in, his forehead pressed to mine. So many times I wished we could be like this—him wanting me. A real relationship . . . not this pile of lies. “Are you mad at me?” He nuzzles the cool tip of his nose against mine. “Don’t be angry with me, Lemon Drop. I left for a few hours to work on your Christmas present. I’ve been trying to call you for the last two hours, but it went to voicemail every time.”

I swallow the giant lump that’s lodged itself in my throat, carefully choosing my next move. This isn’t a chess match . . . it’s my life. “I know. I know everything.”

“Know what, baby?” His lips journey along my jawline then down my neck. My body shakes from nerves, but I’m too afraid to stop him.

“About Alyssa.” I choke on the words, wondering how he did it. Wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life confronting him like this. I know too much, but yet I know nothing.

His body freezes against mine, rendered powerless by two words.

Time passes.

The world tilts too far.

It’s just him and me and everything in our little world is wrong.

He backs away, tugging his hair between his fingers. “Who?” he seethes, pacing the floor.

I cower, the weight of situation hitting me like an avalanche. I should never have come back. I should never have come here in the first place.

“Who fucking told you?” he yells louder this time.

“Pierce. I tried calling, even went to your studio. When I couldn’t find you, I met him at the church,” I admit, slowly inching my way toward the door. So many times in my life, I’ve thought this might be it. This might be the moment I close my eyes never to open them again. Pierce warned me, and I walked right into the mouth of the raging tiger anyway.

He grabs the lamp, hurling it at the wall opposite me. I flinch. By now, I’ve adjusted to the darkness, able to see the angry glow in his eyes. They lock us in a silent game of truth or dare—me begging for the truth, while he dares me to leave. I dare myself to leave.

“Why would you go to him? Why?”

“I thought you’d left.”

He paces again, more frantic this time. “Shit. Lila, I was at that studio all fucking morning. I only left for maybe thirty minutes to get more paint.”

“Why did you do it?” I ask. I keep inching, ready to run at any moment.

He stills, and I think he might swing at me, but he doesn’t. “Do what?”

The logical voice in my head screams for me to leave, to cut my losses before I have nothing left to lose. “Why did you kill her?” My voice trembles.

He stalks toward me, my heart pounding against my rib cage. All I’ve ever wanted is to feel true love, and this is all it’s gotten me—heartbreak. His warm, calloused hands cup my face, holding me still. “I. Didn’t. Kill. Her.”

The anger that pours off him is immeasurable. And the denial . . . I didn’t expect anything less. “Then where is she, Blake? Why would he say something like that if it weren’t true?”

“You should’ve answered your phone,” he whispers. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it. “You should’ve heard it from me.”

“You wouldn’t tell me! No one would fucking tell me anything!”

He lets me go, turning his back to me. Silence cuts through panic, lending space to curiosity. “I didn’t kill her . . . I could never hurt her. But it’s my fault she’s not here.”

Shock steals my voice, but I quickly recover. “What do you mean?”

“She was sick.”

“Sick?”

He spins back around, keeping the space between us this time. With the faint light of the moon, I see a tear running down his cheek. “Depressed.”

Confused and mentally drained, I let myself sink down against the wall. Tonight—this whole day actually—isn’t going as I’d planned.

Blake follows my lead, sliding down next to me. “When I first met Aly, everything was great. She saw the positive in everything, and that was what I’d admired most about her. She was everything I’m not.” He shakes his head. “Christ, I even wondered what the hell she was doing with an ass like me.”

It’s as if my whole future hangs in the balance. As if his words are the tight rope for which I’m walking. All I can do is hold my breath and wait.

“She had one of those laughs you recognize in a crowded room, and as college came to an end, I heard it less and less. Then, after we got married, I barely heard it at all.”

“Do you know why?” I ask hesitantly.

“She hadn’t been okay in a long time. She’d been on medication when I first met her, but went off not long after we met.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t talk about this, Lila. Ever.”

I nod in defeat—this ship has sailed far enough away that I can’t see it. Even if it came back for me, I don’t know if I’d get on. Standing, I walk off to my bedroom without another word. I throw my suitcase on the bed, piling it full of random things from my closet. I’m so lost in the fog of thought, I don’t hear Blake coming up behind me. I don’t know until he’s sitting in front of me on the edge of the bed, staring at me with pained eyes.