In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(23)

“I wish I could take you back to my apartment. It’s so much closer,” I mumble, tucking my coat over her body. Cranking the engine, I program her address—the one I saved in my phone—into the GPS and pull my car away from the curb, not feeling the cold. Not feeling anything but shock over tonight’s turn of events. What if I hadn’t been there? What would have happened to her?

“Is this the real you? Or just the real you, now?” I whisper, turning to look at her. For everything else that happened to her, she has no glaring scars on her face. It’s still beautiful. That’s something, at least.

“Can you hear me? Kacey?” I can’t stop saying her name.

No answer.

With hesitation, I reach out and graze her fingertips with mine. Not a moan, not a flinch.

So, I slip my fingers within hers, feeling the softness of her skin.

And I say the things I’ve wanted to say for so long. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If I could take it back, could change it, I would. I swear it. I’d trade my life in a heartbeat.” And I would, honestly.

Somehow, saying these words doesn’t make me feel better. Not even slightly. So I shut up for the remainder of the drive. It takes exactly fifty-eight minutes to reach Kacey’s house, and I do it with the heat blasting and the radio silent, and holding Kacey Cleary’s limp hand within mine.

She lives in a modest brick bungalow, with small, weathered windows and concrete steps leading up to a two-person porch. A dim light flickers, providing poor lighting for anyone coming home this late at night. The roof’s been replaced and there’s a new blue Camry parked in the driveway.

I let go of Kacey’s hand to shake her shoulder gently. But she’s not waking up. With a sigh, I pull forward until I’m two houses down.

And simply stare at this unconscious girl in my car. How am I going to keep track of her? How can I know this won’t happen again? Right now, I wish I lived in Lansing. I’m too far away from her. Too far away to witness her deteriorate.

Before I can stop myself, and with careful hands, I search her pockets until my fingers wrap around her phone. No password to lock it down. I guess she doesn’t care about someone stealing it. Or some creep invading her privacy.

Like I’m doing right now.

I quickly scroll through her screens, copying down her phone number.

The little email icon stares back at me. I scribble her email address down, too—just in case—and then I tuck her phone back into her pocket.

Scooping her up, I carry her up the sidewalk, up the worn pathway, up the stairs, to the tiny porch, watching for any late-night witnesses. Though no one’s out at this time of night in the middle of winter.

“I’m going to put you down here,” I whisper, setting her down on the concrete floor with reluctance, leaning her up against the brick wall. She hasn’t stirred, hasn’t moaned, hasn’t cracked an eyelid. I wonder what the hell she’s on.

And then I remember that I’m on her front porch, and the last thing I want is for her family to catch me here and begin asking questions. So I ring the doorbell and cross my fingers, my heart pounding the entire time.

Footsteps approach from inside about thirty seconds later. I leap over the railing to duck behind a tree about ten feet away, making it just as the storm door creaks open and her little sister appears, shielding her eyes against the bright light. “Kacey.” She sighs. I was expecting a shriek, a cry. Something to tell me that this isn’t common. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” The pain within the whisper is unmistakable. She bends down and places two fingers against her sister’s wrist.

Because that’s what it has come to for this thirteen-year-old.

Their aunt’s head pops out—full of curlers, like you’d imagine seeing on an elderly woman. “How did she get here?” She squints into the darkness, searching, and I instinctively shrink back.

Livie’s head is shaking before the words come out. “Can you help me with her?”

I have to root my feet to the ground to keep from stepping out from the shadows and carrying her in. No good will come of me storming into Kacey’s life like this.

So, I watch a girl in Snoopy pajamas and a petite woman nearing her fifties try to drag a comatose Kacey into the house. It’s futile. As slender as she is, she’s pure muscle. Finally, after a few minutes, a groggy uncle in plaid flannel steps out and lifts her up.

“Come inside, Livie. It’s freezing,” the aunt calls out.

“In a minute,” Livie says over her shoulder as the storm door shuts. Wrapping her arms tight around her body, she drops her head back and gazes at the stars in the clear night sky. It’s dead quiet—so quiet that I’m afraid to move a muscle. “Please don’t let me lose her too,” she whispers to no one. Or maybe to someone. To two people she’s already lost. She brushes her hand against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that have begun falling.

And the weight of what I’ve done to these girls truly hits me.

Kacey’s spiraling. Just like me.

Chapter 12

April 2010

The streetlights flicker on and off as I wait, huddled in the cold. I’ve been parked out on the street for hours, slouched over in my seat, wary of her neighbors. The last thing I need is a call in to the cops about a strange guy lurking.

In that time, I’ve seen the aunt, a mousy woman with black hair and a buttoned-up blouse, come home from grocery shopping. I’ve seen Livie stroll past my car with a book bag slung off her shoulder and trudge up the stairs. I’ve seen the uncle drag his feet up the steps as if his construction boots are made of bricks, a brown liquor bag in hand.