The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(53)

I step into the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over my hands so Mom won’t see the raw skin at my knuckles. Mom is easing Grandmother’s door shut. She glances over her shoulder at me, lifting a finger to her mouth to tell me to keep quiet.

“She’s still sleeping,” she says. I cross my arms over my chest, cringing when my torn fingers brush against the fabric of my sweatshirt. My mom cocks her head, considering me.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “It’s so early. I’m surprised you’re awake.”

I nod. “I’m fine,” I say, but the word cracks in my mouth. Tears pool in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they spill onto my cheeks. So much for pretending nothing happened.

“Sofia?” My mom crosses the hall and folds me into a hug. For a moment I just let her hold me. The tears come faster, until I’m crying so hard my shoulders shake. Mom smoothes the still damp hair off my forehead.

“Shh,” she says. “Shh, it’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

“I . . .” I choke back my sobs and pull away from her, drying my tears with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “I just heard that a friend of mine committed suicide.” I stare at my bare feet, certain Mom will know I’m lying if I meet her eyes.

“Oh, Sofia.” Mom pulls me to her chest again, resting her chin on top of my head. She rubs a hand over my back in slow, comforting circles. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”

I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax into her. For the first time in days, I feel safe.

? ? ?

Fifteen minutes later I’m perched on a stool in the kitchen, the heavy smell of French toast filling the air. I actually smile as I breathe it in. Mom’s never been the best cook, but she’s perfected her French toast over the years. She uses only the thickest, crustiest bread and always mixes brown sugar and a pinch of cinnamon into the batter. She takes the frying pan off the stove and slides the toast onto a plate.

“I know it’s been hard to make friends,” she says, pulling the maple syrup and butter from the fridge. “And after what happened at your last school . . .” She shakes her head, and under her breath, she mutters, “Such a needless tragedy.”

I shift uncomfortably on my stool and push the French toast around on my plate. I don’t want to think about what happened at my last school, not when my wrists are still raw from Riley’s ropes. But now that Mom’s brought it up, I can’t help seeing the similarities. Both times I thought I knew someone, I thought she was my friend, and in the end I was wrong.

Maybe there’s a reason these things keep happening to me. Maybe I’m defective.

Mom sets the pan in the sink and crosses over to me, brushing one of my damp curls aside. “But you can’t give up, mija. I believe in you,” she says. “I know you’ll find your way.”

It’s the exact right thing to say at the exact right moment, and I blink furiously to keep from crying. Mom places the plate on the counter in front of me, and I cover the toast in a thick stream of syrup. I can’t give up.

? ? ?

I stay awake for as long as I can, but by noon my eyes are so heavy I can barely keep them open. I tell Mom I’m not feeling well and crawl into bed, falling asleep as soon as I pull the comforter up over my shoulders. While I sleep, I dream.

? ? ?

Riley and I are sitting on the train tracks, passing a bottle of red wine back and forth. Red-and-orange light bleeds into the sky. Clouds race above us, their shadows flickering over Riley’s face. Her skin turns dark, then light again. The ground below us trembles—a train’s coming.

“Truth or dare,” Riley says. She looks perfect, like she did the first day I met her. Her hair pools around her shoulders in flawless spirals, her eyebrows arch high above her eyes. Her cheeks burn pink, so glossy she doesn’t look real. The strange light makes everything about her glow. She takes a drink, and a thick drop of wine oozes out of the bottle and over her chin.

“Dare,” I say. Riley lowers the bottle, but it’s not Riley anymore—it’s Brooklyn. Black liner surrounds her eyes, making them look too large for her head. The wine running over her chin thickens. Not wine—blood.

“Why not truth?” she ask. The train’s headlight flickers through the trees behind her.

“We have to go.” I stand, reaching for Brooklyn’s arm. The train flashes its lights. “Brooklyn!”

I grab her hand, but it’s not Brooklyn—it’s Karen. Blood drips from her mouth and coats her teeth.

“Why can’t you tell the truth?” she asks. The train’s horn blares. It sounds like a scream.

? ? ?

The screaming horn echoes in my head, and I jerk awake. Outside, the only sounds are the wind pushing against the glass in my windows and the low buzz of the cicadas in the grass.

It was just the dream, I tell myself. A nightmare. My eyelids grow heavy, and I’m just about to drift back to sleep when I hear it again—a shrill, terrified scream.

I sit straight up in bed. Hands shaking, I reach over to my bedside table and flip on the lamp. It’s getting dark outside. I must have slept all day.

I force one leg out of bed, then the other. I jerk at every shadow, certain it’s Riley. But the halls are empty. Downstairs, the front door is closed tight. Everything is still, quiet. Unnerving.