Chapter One

The first clue came during a game of spin the bottle.

We had been together three months. NAME asked me if it was alright for him to join in, and I said yes. Even right afterwords, that answer felt stupid and naïve. I wanted to yank him back, hold him tight, and tell him I meant to say no.

He did not glance back at me before kissing her, and he did not – as I wished – just give the girl a quick peck on the lips. I watched as his hands traveled, beginning at her waist, making their way lower. His eyes were closed and he looked perfectly content, almost pleased with himself.

She pulled away first. If she had not yanked herself back like that, sending a guilty look towards me, I don't know how far he would have taken things. Standing there, a deep feeling in my gut said he would have gone as far as she let him.

That night, my anger overwhelmed me. I never quite knew where to put feelings like that – the serious ones. The ones that needed to be discussed and worked through. Mostly, I tried to ignore them.

But NAME understood. “You told me it was alright,” he said. “If it wasn't, all you had to do was say so.”

I fumbled for words, but in the end I said nothing. I wanted to speak; my mind was spinning with arguments I could make. But I didn't know you would kiss her like that. But you put me on the spot. But you knew I would say okay. But you've been smirking ever since.

That night should have been a sign that I meant nothing to him. He could toss me aside and find another girl easily, and he was not afraid to do it. That night was our first fight; his first game; the first time he showed his true colors.

The next time, we were at the new house. We had moved in the night before, and I felt overjoyed at the prospect of living on our own. I was months away from eighteen, but that did not matter to anyone except my parents. He was nineteen: an adult, a homeowner, a saint.

He hit me. I did not unpack quickly enough or he did not want me to order the pizza or he felt homesick – the reason was never really clear, but there it was: A hand print on my cheek, sign number two.

Sign number three: “Baby, don't tell anyone. Just promise me you won't tell.”

If I hit someone, and I was sorry, I would let them tell the world. I would let them tell anyone they pleased, and I would relish in that hate – in those people who hated me as much as I would hate myself. But he did not want me to tell anyone. It won't happen again, just don't tell, he had said finally.

I took it to mean this: If you do tell, I can hit you as I please. If you do tell, I can hurt you like this all the time.

So I did not tell anyone. I tried and tried and tried for the life he promised me. My increased efforts made him worse, somehow, in a way I never could figure out. When I stopped making mistakes, he began making them up. Lying. But I would never call him out for it by then.

Until I blew up. Until he gave that one extra threat that pushed me over the edge.

In the movies, blood was never so red. I expected a ton of it, puddling, filling up his kitchen. But there was only a tiny river, making its way from his head, trickling away slowly. I did not drown in it; I was not covered. There would be no getting caught red handed, because my hands were perfectly clean. I set the gun, his own, in his hand. I hoped for the best.

I ran to the car and wanted to hunch over the steering wheel and cry, but I did not. Molly still sat there and she asked, “Did you do it?”

I nodded, and I started the car, and I drove away. My heart pounded in my chest, and I thought about the way he sounded as he hit the ground – quiet, like he was weightless. Like he never existed at all.

I expected a loud crash landing, a ton of blood, sirens going off immediately … I suppose, something to tell me I had done it. Something more than Molly, sitting in the passenger seat, asking, Did you do it? Something more than my own silent confirmation.

“You had to,” she said now. She did not know the half of it, I thought. But my heart still would not slow. I still could not help but think: he was not all bad. Mostly, he was a monster. I could not see the human in him, when he screamed and hit and smirked.

When he smiled and laughed with friends, or held me in his arms and whispered sweet things, I loved him. I wanted nothing more than that version of him, forever and ever. But now they both were gone. Dead.

Molly trembled. I saw, but pretended not to, and this made me feel worse. I did this for you, I thought, but it was not completely true. If this had all been for her, she would not be sitting in the car. She would be back home, in her nice house with her family. She would be going to college down the road as she planned.

Instead, she was going across the country with me. This was our cover: We left hours ago. We were out of town during the incident – during the part where BF killed himself.

After awhile, Molly reached over and took my hand off the steering wheel. She held onto it tight, like she feared I would pull away any second.

“It's going to be okay,” I said, squeezing her hand. Perhaps, if I could convince her, I would feel a little more certain myself.

Molly sniffled. “You won't go to jail?”

I laughed, even though there was nothing funny about it. “If I was caught they would get you too, for being there. I would never let that happen, right?”

Normally she saw through me, but this time she sounded relieved. “Never.”

I had no idea what to do, but Molly was right – I would not bring her down with me. Not for this. “If something does happen,” I said, keeping my voice quiet to hide the tears, “You run for it. Okay?”

Molly's voice was barely audible. “Yes,” she said, but she did not mean it.

“I'm serious. You didn't do anything, Molly; you don't let them take you down with me.”

She crossed her arms. “It won't happen, because you'll try twice as hard not to get caught. You'll try twice as hard because I'll suffer for it too, if you fail.”

She was still steps ahead of me, even now. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Okay,” I whispered, too tired for the fight I would lose anyway.

We were gaining distance now, but if anything the weight on my shoulders grew heavier, because this time I really messed up. This wasn't taking cigarettes from mom's purse or stealing a candy bar from the gas station. This was something I wasn't sure I could get myself out of.

But I had to, because Molly was like a sister to me; she was the only person I truly cared for. And there was no way I could let her down.