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of hell waiting for you.

But you canā€™t read this, and you canā€™t know this. So you tell her he didnā€™t do anything. That you just donā€™t like him.

And that will be the end of it.

Twenty-Four THE OBJECTS IN MOTION

MY SILHOUETTE IS still visible in the distance. Still slowly making her way to the old oak tree. Still holding her wrist to her chest. The road fades away before sheā€”before I do.

The sounds of Sutton Avenue go quiet, leaving only my own ragged breathing. When I turn, the scene has changed again.

The walls and floor are as black as empty space. Itā€™s just me, a Rose from over a year later, curled into our living room couch. Though the TV isnā€™t visible in this snapshot of memory, I see its reflection in the light on my face.

No. This one isnā€™t meā€”when I look at her, I see it in the way she looks back.

ā€œWhy did you show me that?ā€ I choke out.

The Flood gazes dispassionately from the couch. The angles of their face shift in the changing light of the TV, but the light never reaches the deep black pools of their eyes.

ā€œItā€™s not why Iā€™m like this,ā€ I say. ā€œI was fine. I donā€™t have the right.ā€

The Flood opens my mouth, and the voice of a news anchor comes out.

Another deadly accident at Sutton Avenue and Chamblys Road last night, she says. Seventeen-year-old Nicholas Lansbury was forced into Chamblys Pond when an oncoming driver swerved to avoid Suttonā€™s notoriously treacherous oak tree. We are sad to report that his passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summerā€”

ā€œI know.ā€ My hands clutch at my hair. ā€œI know, I know. Do you think I donā€™t know? ā€˜His passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summer, was killed on impact. Mr. Lansbury is expected to recover from his injuries, and the unnamed driver of the second car is scheduled to be arraigned next week. Reportsā€”ā€™ā€ My voice breaks. ā€œā€˜Reports allege that the driver was intoxicated.ā€™ā€

The Flood is still watching me. But the light of the TV has disappeared, casting their face in shadow.

ā€œDo you know,ā€ I finally say, ā€œhow many times I was told that he did the best he could? That it isnā€™t his fault he survived and she didnā€™t?

ā€œAnd you know what? Iā€™m aware,ā€ I spit out. ā€œI know it was an accident. Iā€™m not an idiot. But they donā€™t know everything. You do.ā€

I grab for another breath. It slips through my fingers. ā€œGaby had every opportunity to stay out of that car. Everyoneā€”everyoneā€”knew Nick was a disaster behind the wheel. They didnā€™t need me to tell them. But you canā€™t tell me that Gaby wouldnā€™t have taken it more seriously coming from me.ā€

The Flood is still. Completely still. And the longer theyā€™re silent, the louder I hear myself get.

ā€œTo call me like that, when it would be over an hour before I could come get herā€”she could have stayed with Ariella if she didnā€™t want to go with him!ā€ I say. ā€œYou can see exactly how many times Iā€™ve thought that, right? How sick is that, expecting that of her when I did the same goddamn thing? Will you please just say something?ā€

Iā€™m gasping by the time itā€™s all out but still not cryingā€”not even now. Itā€™s too dark to see the Floodā€™s face. But I know they havenā€™t looked away.

Their mouth moves again. Gabyā€™s voice this time.

ā€œRose. Tell me what he did.ā€

ā€œStop that,ā€ I gasp.

And again. Christieā€™s voice. ā€œDid he hurt you?ā€

ā€œStop!ā€ My legs tremble with the word. ā€œPlease! You saw what happened in that kitchen. Do you know what Christie and Cassie would say if they knew? How they would look at me?ā€

ā€œListen,ā€ she says. ā€œRemember. Understand.ā€

ā€œUnderstand what?ā€ My voice cracks, hard. ā€œYouā€™re showing me shit that I already know!ā€

A percussive blast of sound rattles me from the ground up, and I whirl around so fast Iā€™m dizzy. The dark edges of my living room burst into light and color and stretch into the distance, until a suburban street snaps into place. By the end of the street, on the left, thereā€™s a house, brightly lit, shaking under the force of the music inside. Marin Levinsonā€™s house. Marin Levinsonā€™s party.

I donā€™t need to remember how it felt, for the bass beat to hijack the rhythm of my heart. Iā€™m feeling it now.

I stumble as I turn, and the present twists back into focus, the lights of the model home spinning. The image is still blurred as I claw my way to the door, the knob liquid and unsteady in my hands. I grasp for something I can lock. The house shivers under the force of the music, and with every pound the walls creep tighter, closer. Itā€™s at my heels as I sprint to the bedroom farthest from the sound, itā€™s in my ribs when I clamp a pillow over my ears. My grip is so tight, my knuckles hurt. I really donā€™t care.

Itā€™s hard to say what ends firstā€”the attack, or the music. Sleep comes slow, then suddenly. But the dread sinks in all the way to my dreams.

ā€”

THE MORNING AFTER a bad panic attack must be what a hangover feels like. My skin feels too tight for my body. My brain feels too big.

Thereā€™s a small, detached part of me thatā€™s equal parts embarrassed and impressed. Iā€™ve never melted down like that beforeā€”not out loud. Always too many people around to see it. For once in my life, thereā€™s no one.

Hereā€™s what Maurice would tell me, if he knew everything I knew. What happened to Gaby was an accident. What Nick asked of me wasnā€™t right. And if every one of us had done everything right, it might have happened anyway.

That night in his car when we hydroplaned into a ditch was over two years ago. He was young and stupid and scared. His terrible driving became an open secret at school, without my help. And he owned it. He was voted Most Likely to Total

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