Page 2

But I want to talk. I want to know about Mickey and the blood. “You hurt your throat,” she says. I show her the notebook again, the same question written on it. Where is Mickey?

She swallows and grabs my hand. “He died, Sweetie.”

Died?

As in, he’s dead?

“No,” I want to say. He’s not dead. He was sleeping. But he had his eyes open. Why would he sleep with his eyes open?

He is not dead.

Then I remember the blood.

He is not dead.

Mr. Monroe with the knife.

He is not dead.

His still body lying on the bed.

He is not dead!

I shake my head over and over again.

He is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead.

Hands hold me down. “Stop!” I want to scream. The woman’s face lowers to mine. “Please,” I want to whisper.

Please let me die too.

Chapter One

Alexis

Present

One moment in your life. There will be a voice in your head that will tell you to stop overthinking everything. It will tell you to think of the possibilities instead of the consequences. I listened to that voice.

I’m regretting it now.

“Everything is fine,” I tell myself. Checking my watch as yet another hour goes by.

The wooden sign a few feet from me catches my eye.

Willow Hills, it says in chipped black paint, making it difficult to read. It’s been fifteen years since I was here last. I had always told myself I would never go back. That it would be better for me if I stayed away. It’s the place where my brother died. But it’s also the place where we experienced our last happy memories. It’s where we were just two siblings that never knew what was waiting for them.

I moved away after Micah or Mickey as I call him, died. An hour east, it was far enough that people didn’t know who I was. They knew I was a foster child with a scar on my throat. But nothing more than that. They never learned about the fate of my brother or about the things I endured that night.

I was thrown back into the foster system, where I developed a fear of sleeping alone.

I was petrified it would happen again. It only started getting better when I turned eighteen. I was able to rent a place on my own. It wasn’t a great living situation. There was mold everywhere. I had several leaking faucets, but when you grow up with nothing, a one-bed apartment feels like a villa. I spent the past five years living there, working my ass off so I could pay rent every month.

I was never planning on living there forever. I knew I wanted to move to a nicer place. But I never envisioned I would move here.

I still don’t know why I came here. All I know is that my best friend Ash got his dream job, where he would be on the road a lot. Which meant I would spend most of my free time alone, in a place that didn’t feel like home.

A few days ago, I made the mistake of going online when I couldn’t sleep. I found a two-bedroom house for rent here. I didn’t think it through until I filled out the form and had sent it. The few weeks before Micah’s death were some of the best moments of our lives. Micah loved this town. He loved the playgrounds and the diner that was a short walk from our house. Maybe that’s why I was so headstrong about moving here—that and the fact that he’s buried here.