Dee wasn’t sure how she got through the next few days, if she were being honest with herself.
Gremma wasn’t speaking to her. It seemed that after the Daemon had teleported Dee from the bathroom, the room had remained locked and empty so long that Gremma was sure Dee had died and ended up using a fire ax to break in—only to find the restroom empty. She’d assumed what any normal person would have: that Dee had snuck out through the narrow, high window. Choosing to risk injury rather than speak to her roommate again that night.
Dee tried apologizing, but Gremma waved her off, said that if Dee needed time to go run drugs or smuggle goods through some art gallery, that was her business.
Dee probably should have felt bad about Gremma’s anger. But she didn’t.
All she truly felt was panic.
Utter, mind-numbing panic.
Cora was right. She shouldn’t be alive; she wasn’t alive, not really.
She was a girl held together by knitted yarn and magic.
Terrified, Dee had taken one of the jam jars from the dining hall. That evening, she washed out the jar in the dorm bathroom, swirling it with hand soap and rubbing out the specks of seeds with paper towels. When she was sure it was clean and dry, she dropped her knitted heart inside.
It was stupid. Probably ineffectual. But she felt better with the heart protected.
But the more time passed, the more she became aware of the hollowness in her chest. She was empty, carved out.
She couldn’t do this. She needed her heart; she needed out.
I could get Gran’s money, she thought. Try to get it without my parents. The bank might let me have it. She could give the Daemon’s money back, shove the username and password for that ridiculous bank account into his hands and demand her heart back. She’d never heard of a demonic refund, but she wouldn’t let him refuse.
And with Gran’s money, she could pay for one semester of Brannigan. After that… well.
She’d figure something out.
James had been texting her since Cal’s death. Little texts, the kind that she didn’t feel obligated to respond to. They were simple little statements like, Apparently I’m banned from that art gallery because one of my guests took an ax to a restroom door?
And the next day he texted, Sold all the paintings at the gallery. Apparently I’m not banned anymore because I’m the first one to sell out.
And then, the day after that, Spilled oil all over my leather jacket. I don’t suppose you know how to get paint out of leather?
This time, she did text back. Fire, was all she sent, and that was met with a smiley face.
Nearly a week later, she got another text.
I went to Cal’s funeral.
The words appeared on her phone. Simple, small words. But then again, all the worst statements were like that, weren’t they?
It was always the small words that did a person in.
She texted back. I’m sorry. Was it bad?
It was a stupid thing to say. Of course it was bad. Funerals were never good.
Yeah, was James’s reply. His grandfather was there.
Dee closed her eyes, felt her throat close up. She had to escape this. She would not be another Cal, mangled from the inside out, dead because she made the wrong deal.
With shaking fingers, she hit James’s number on her phone.
He answered after only two rings.
“Yes?” said James.
She breathed. Forced herself to count to three on the exhale. “Is your car fixed yet?”
No hesitation on his part. “Yes. Four brand-new tires. Got the good kind, too. We could take the car up Mount Hood if you like.”
She tried to smile, but her lips only twitched. “Um. Would you—would you mind driving me to the bank?”
It was four forty-five when they pulled in front of her bank—a local credit union she hadn’t visited in ages. The sky was overcast, and the light felt dim despite sunset being a few hours away. Dee pulled her jacket around her. Her skin felt too tight, stretched over her bones, and she knew she kept scratching at the back of her neck.
“Do you need me to come in?” James asked. He had remained silent throughout the drive, as if sensing her unease.
“No,” she said.
A pause. “Do you want me to come in?” he asked.
Another pause, this one longer. “Yes,” she said, barely a whisper. It was stupid, but having someone at her side made her feel braver as she stepped from the car.
I chose this, she thought, and pushed the bank doors open.
With the exception of the damp mildew of the Daemon’s building, banks all smelled the same to her—clean and sterile, with just a hint of metal. The clerk was a woman, her eyes worn and smile just a little weak. It was the end of the day, after all, Dee thought.
Dee slid her bank card under the glass barrier and said, “I’d like to withdraw all the funds from my account, please.”
This was the hard part. Waiting. Waiting to see if the bank would let her have the funds without a parent’s signature, if this trip was all for naught, or if she would walk out of this building with money enough to secure her future for just a little longer.
The woman typed away, and James murmured, “Making a withdrawal?”
“Rumpelstiltskin clause,” she replied. “I give back what he gave me, I get my heart back.”
He tilted his head. “I don’t think that’s how the Rumpelstiltskin clause is supposed to work. That’s a straight refund, not a tricksy back door.”
“Well, whatever,” said Dee. “I’m going to try.”
James smiled. “And that’s what I like about you.”
She didn’t have an answer to that, but luckily that was when the clerk turned back to her. “I’m sorry,” she began to say, and Dee’s stomach plummeted. This wasn’t going to work—she’d need a parent’s permission.
“I’m sorry, but you cannot make a withdrawal. This account no longer exists,” said the clerk. She looked sympathetic, rather than impatient. “It was emptied three years ago.”
Dee’s lips felt numb. “But—but the account was. Was mine. Only I could have…”
The clerk hit something on the computer, then looked at Dee. “Since the account was made for a minor, it required a parent’s name to be on it, as well. The account was a joint one, which means that either owner could have—”
Dee felt dizzy, as if she’d stepped up to a high ledge and looked down. The world teetered beneath her, gravity threatening to take hold at any second. Her breath caught between her teeth.
She knew who had taken the money.
And she felt something snap inside of her. It was a release, like popping a cork on a champagne bottle—something bubbled up inside of her, something she had kept tamped down for years.
Before she was aware of it, she was leaving the bank. Her legs moved of their own accord, and James was beside her, his face pinched with worry. “Dee—Dee, are you all right? You look—”
“We need to make one more stop,” she said. The anger bled into her voice, roughened her tone in a way she had never heard before.
James pulled the car keys from his pocket and didn’t ask any questions.
The drive took less than twenty minutes, but Dee drummed her fingers on the car door the whole way. She yearned to move, to speak, to do something. She was buoyed up by righteous anger; this was deserved, this was earned. She finally had a legitimate grievance to air, and her anger kept her from fear. She was just angry enough to be foolish, and she wanted to ride that for as long as she could.
Dee shoved her key into the door and stepped through. The house smelled like it always did—of the oil from her father’s work boots, cut grass, and unwashed dishes. Dee walked into the house, found her mother on the couch watching the news, and heard the distinct sounds of someone foraging in the kitchen. Her mother had a microwave dinner sitting on her lap.
“Dee?” asked Mrs. Moreno, startled. She was smiling, though, thinking this was a nice, surprise visit.
Dee ignored her. Her feet carried her through the living room, to where the kitchen and dining room connected. Sure enough, Mr. Moreno was there. He was chopping what looked like the leftovers from a rotisserie chicken; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms.
“You,” said Dee.
Mr. Moreno looked up. His gaze was steady, focused.
Not a bad way to start.
“Ah,” said Mr. Moreno, also smiling. “Did you deign to grace us with your presence for dinner? I’m afraid it’s mostly leftovers—”
“You emptied my bank account.”
She threw the words out between them, like a grenade without a pin, and waited for the world to explode.
But it didn’t. For nearly ten full seconds, there was utter silence.
Mr. Moreno finished slicing through the chicken, set the knife down, and picked up a dish towel. He wiped the grease from his fingertips.
“My bank account,” said Dee. “The one Gran started for me. Where—is—my—money?”
His face took on a new strength; he was arming himself, gathering the right words to say. “It wasn’t your money,” he said calmly.
“It was my money,” said Dee. “I earned it babysitting and doing those stupid little jobs for your company. I raked leaves, I—”
“You’re a minor,” said Mr. Moreno. “That was our money, too. It was family money.”
“Family money?” She took a step forward. It felt as if she were on fire, as if she could do anything and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered—he’d taken her one last chance at surviving.
“It was for school,” she snapped. “It wasn’t even for something stupid, like other kids might have used it for. I never bought new clothes or purses or a nice cell phone—every cent went into that stupid account. For my future.”
“And what kind of future is that?” He edged forward. She could see him getting angry, see the storm clouds gathering behind his eyes. “You want to go to college? To go somewhere far away and get some fucking useless degree for thousands of dollars?”
“Yes. Because that’s what people do.” Her hands were balled into fists. “That’s what responsible people do. They go to college and they get good jobs.”
“I never went to college,” he replied with a sneer.
“And look at all the good it did you.” She should have done what she always did; she should have kept her mouth shut.
But all her numbness vanished. She was abruptly aware of the churning in her middle, the flush creeping up her neck, the sudden fire racing through her veins. Anger. Raw fury clawed at her rib cage, as if the hollowness inside of her had been taken up by some wild creature.
“You can still go to college,” he said, sliding back into that calm, arrogant demeanor that made her want to strike out. He was always so self-assured, so confident. “You’ll just have to earn your own way. Like an adult.”
“I was earning my own way!” she snarled. “I got into Brannigan, I put that money away, I—”
“That was Gran’s money,” he said, and suddenly his expression darkened. “Though why she gave you a handout, I’ll never know.”
“Give it back,” she said, and she hated that her voice trembled. “Just give it back. I need it.”
“For what?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“See, I don’t think you want that money so you can go to college.” Mr. Moreno’s voice dropped, and she realized belatedly that there was a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. He brought it to his lips, drained it. “I think you just don’t want to come home.”
Hearing those words, those forbidden words, spoken aloud felt like some kind of betrayal. There were certain things people didn’t talk about in this family and her desire to escape was one of them.
But if he wanted to open that door, she would let him.
“Family money,” she said, mouth twisting with fury. The anger running through her felt like heat and pure force; in this moment, she was invincible, reckless, and the words flew from her mouth. “You took it for yourself.” She strode to the bathroom, to the secret places she knew she wasn’t supposed to know about. To the plastic brown bottles—half of them empty, half of them not. She snatched up two empty jugs and threw them onto the floor.
“Look what you bought with my future,” she snapped. “Was it worth it? To numb out the world for a while?”
A half-formed thought, ready to catch fire, flew from her lips. “Did you ever care about me at all?”
A beer bottle smashed against the floor. And then he was in front of her, a wall of muscle and sweat and everything was too close and too loud.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
Mrs. Moreno ventured into the kitchen with her hands extended as if entreating, but Dee ignored her.
She refused to retreat; she was afraid, but anger still kept her back straight. “You’re a fucking addict. And I’m sick of it—I’m sick of watching you get drunk and scream at each other. I’m sick of you screaming at me, telling me I’m defective just because I didn’t turn out the way you wanted!”
His hands closed on her arms and he shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “You will not talk to me like that! Children respect their parents.”
She tried to wrench herself from his grip, her teeth bared. “Why? You never respected me! I spent half my life trying to fix things and I couldn’t!”
“You’re an ungrateful little shit.” The words spewed from his mouth. “Fucking arrogant little bitch who thinks she’s too good to do manual labor.”
“At least I’m not a drunk loser,” she snapped.
Crack.
The world went white.
She blinked several times, tried to orient herself. She was on the floor, legs sprawled out before her. He’d thrown her down. The back of her head throbbed where she’d hit the wall.
“I never wanted this life!” he roared at her. “I never wanted you.”
Simple words.
It was always those small, simple words.
This was what it felt like to fall apart. It began somewhere in her hands—they were cold, unfeeling, and the numb sensation seemed to travel up her arms, into her chest. It felt like her organs were shutting down; she was cold, but she wasn’t shaking, wasn’t reacting like living people did when cold. She wondered if she had died—if Cal and Cora were right, if she was a soulless zombie wandering around. But wouldn’t she have felt something, she thought. If she was dead, there should have been a sign, a way of knowing.
Or maybe she’d been dead long before a demon ripped out her heart.
“Dee?”
It was a new voice that spoke. A familiar voice.
James.
His faded plaid shirt and absurd leather jacket were so familiar and comforting that she felt her eyes well up. Seeing him made the whole thing real. Pain spiked through her chest. She didn’t want him to see this, see the ugliness of her past behind her carefully constructed facade.
This—this wasn’t fair.
She didn’t have a heart. She didn’t have a heart. It shouldn’t be able to break.
“I heard shouting,” James said, uncertain.
Mr. Moreno stared at him, at his clothes, at his mussed hair. “Who the fuck are you?”
James’s gaze flicked between Mr. Moreno and Dee, still on the floor. He seemed to change. It wasn’t that he grew taller or more intimidating, but something in his face hardened. One of his hands balled up. “Dee?”
Dee opened her mouth, ready to tell him it was fine—it was fine—it was fine—
Nothing came out.
“Dee,” said James. He walked to Dee, but Mr. Moreno angled forward. James took a step, shifted so that he squarely faced the older man. He didn’t say a word, but the challenge was there.
“No,” she whispered. The word came out so quiet she wondered how anyone heard it, but James did. He glanced back at her, questioning. Waiting for her to take the lead.
She didn’t want them to fight. For one thing, she wasn’t sure James could win.
“I need to leave,” she whispered. She heard a noise from the doorway, where Mrs. Moreno lingered.
James knelt beside her and then his hands were on her, gentle and warm, helping her stand. She shuffled toward the door, her gaze fallen to the floor. She knew it was James who angled himself between her and her father, and she hated how grateful she felt. She shouldn’t have let him—she should’ve handled this. She’d been handling this, she was the only one who knew how to handle this—
“Dee,” pleaded Mrs. Moreno, and it nearly broke her.
Not my responsibility. Not my responsibility.
She couldn’t be responsible for them anymore. Not when she could barely see straight.
James kept his hand on her back until they reached his car. She slid into the passenger’s seat, but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything. Not James’s hands running over her shoulders and arms, as if searching for injury. When his fingertips probed the back of her head, she drew in a sharp breath and he murmured an apology.
“Dee,” he said, and she didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“Deirdre,” he said, his voice low and insistent. It was the first time he had ever said her full name.
She looked at him, saw he was studying her intently. “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he said, and then his fingertip dragged through the air, back and forth. After a moment, his hand dropped. “All right. Looks like nothing’s too badly rattled in there.”
He strode around the car, slid into the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel and one reaching out, hovering over her shoulder. She sucked in a shuddering breath and then another.
She felt so heavy. Dragged down by the weight of despair. Such emotions threatened to unravel her from the inside out; she was beginning to fray, a sound building at the back of her throat.
She tried to hold it back, but then her eyes were stinging; she was shaking, and all the grief she had held pent up for so long began to escape her in little sobs and gasps.
James did not reach for her, for which she felt impossibly grateful; she could not have borne anyone’s touch in that moment.
Minutes passed. She could not be sure how many. They simply sat in the car, on the curb, outside of the house she grew up in—that house where she couldn’t untangle the good memories from the bad. And suddenly, she could not be there anymore; she had to leave, to look away. It simply hurt too much to be there.
“I can’t,” she said, when she could speak again. “Go back. There. I can’t.”
This probably made no sense to him, but he nodded as if he understood. “The dorm?”
She shook her head and the world swam. “Away,” she said. “Anywhere.” She expected him to inquire, to ask for more information, but he remained quiet.
She barely noticed when he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.
He drove.
She wasn’t sure where they were going; the world faded into the quiet hum of the engine, the sound of air rushing by, the gleam of headlights, and the familiar cologne-and-paint smell of James’s coat.
He had draped it over her legs at some point.
Probably because she was shivering. He had noticed, even if she hadn’t.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
She thought about it, which was harder than it should have been. “Not really.”
“Do you care about missing a day or two of school?”
“Not really.”
“All right, then.”