28

I’m standing in the bathroom, shaking. I’m covered in blood. The rain didn’t wash it off me. It’s everywhere. In my hair. On my shirt. Dripping from my fingers, landing in small precise circles around me. Sammy’s blood. Mud clings to my thighs. Its slow slide down my bare legs gives me a shiver. I’m frozen to the bone. It feels like I’ll never be warm again.

Reaching into the shower, I twist the knobs with numb fingers. I drag my drenched pants down my legs, yank the T-shirt over my shoulders, and step inside the hot spray, watching my pale skin blossom, carnation pink. My father once told me that, however much of a cliché this might be, flowers were the secret to romance. “Everyone thinks they know this, but they don’t,” he said, waving a dismissive hand over the steering wheel. It was Valentine’s Day, and we were driving to the florist. “The key is to find the right color. This is what they don’t know. It has to match the woman. Blue hydrangeas for your mother’s eyes. For you, pink carnations to complement your blush.” Against the porcelain tub, Sammy’s blood looks like it would demand a red dahlia. It’s too vibrantly crimson for roses.

I’m startled out of my reverie by the sound of the bathroom door opening. Ben’s brusque voice pierces the white noise of the shower. “Not looking. Just grabbing your clothes.”

“Why?”

There’s no answer. I duck my head around the curtain to see if he’s still there. “I’m going to wash them,” he says, already halfway out the door. His voice cracks. “Just in case.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. I think I understand what he’s doing. What I’m doing, in this shower. Scrubbing away the evidence. Because we don’t know what’s going to happen next. Silently, I retreat behind the curtain and attack my body with the soap.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I step into Anthony’s room. I haven’t heard anyone since my shower. It feels like I’m the only one in the house. Fingers still stiff from the cold, I drop my towel to the floor and rummage through Anthony’s drawers for clothes. When I’m dressed—or at least covered up—I cross the room to the window and crank it open. Outside, the storm sounds like it might finally be letting up.

I drape myself against the window frame, breathing in the chilled, wet air. I’m so tired. But I can’t bring myself to close my eyes, let alone lie down. Anthony is still out there. I would’ve heard him come back inside.

The sky bursts open with a blinding flash of lightning. It’s so bright that, for a split second, it punches the entire world from the black like a snapshot. I freeze when I catch a glimpse of Ben on the far side of the house coming up from the pier and, a few feet behind him, someone else. Anthony. I listen for their voices. It sounds as if Anthony wants to go somewhere, and Ben is talking him out of it.

I lean farther out the window, ignoring the sharp bite of the sill cutting into my stomach, to get a better view.

Ben seems to be marshaling Anthony back to the house. Through the storm I can hear that his voice is charged with uncharacteristic anger, but I can’t decipher exactly what he’s saying, just a few stray words.

Once they’re inside, though, it isn’t Ben who is yelling. It’s Mads, from his position on the sofa. “What was that, man? What the fuck happened?” Silence. Then: “Tell me he’s okay, at least.”

I open Anthony’s door and step cautiously into the living room. When Anthony shakes his head, water drips from his long hair. He’s shivering. He’s so pale, he doesn’t look human. His skin could be parchment. His eyes find mine, but his gaze wavers and he lets me go before he can read my reaction.

Mads, observing this shift in Anthony, shuts his mouth. He looks to Ben for help, but Ben is too focused on his pale friend. “What did you do, Anthony?” Ben asks him. “I trust you, man. But you’ve gotta tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened?” Anthony asks, his voice low.

Ben falters. He can’t say it out loud.

“I went to help him,” Anthony says flatly. Ben shuts his eyes. I must make a sound, because Anthony glances my way again. He knows we’re all shocked, looking for signs, waiting for his explanation. “I was just defending myself,” he tells us. He opens his mouth to say more, but the words don’t come. His voice breaks when he finally finds it again. “When I realized how hard I hit him, I went after him, to make sure he got home.”

“So did he?” I hear myself ask.

Anthony doesn’t answer.

“Jesus,” Mads breathes.

Anthony takes a couple of indecisive steps toward the hallway. “He’s okay. I followed him for a bit. Really, he’ll be fine. Me, I—” He peers at his body and then lets out a laugh that’s actually a sob in disguise. “My clothes.” He tries to smile, unsuccessfully. A bruise is deepening around one eye, already swelling. Abruptly, he faces Ben again, tugging his shirt up and over his head, the way a toddler would. I gasp and hear the same sharp intake of breath from Ben. There are bruises spiraling around his ribs, onto his hips. A shallow set of gash marks snakes up his back, as though he was mauled by a big cat.

“You’re a real prince, Ben,” Anthony murmurs, handing him his wet shirt. “You’ll wash everything. Right?” Ben nods, too cowed to answer any other way, let alone look at him. Next, as though he’s alone in the room, Anthony strips off his waterlogged jeans and underwear, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor by his feet. His legs are trembling, his white skin rippling with goose bumps. “Betty,” he says, approaching me before I can react, because my eyes are fastened on his mutilated body. “Do you mind?” He gestures toward the hallway, which apparently I’m blocking.

I move out of his way.

As Anthony disappears into the bathroom, Ben gathers his abandoned clothing. The shower whines.

“What happened?” Mads asks us, his voice low, urgent. “Seriously, guys, what just happened?”

Ben shakes his head. “I found him on the dock,” he admits. “He wanted to wait there, to watch Sammy’s boat cross the channel. But he was”—he gestures weakly to the bathroom—“like this. Dazed, you know. You saw. Shivering.”

“Jesus,” Mads groans. “Jesus.”

In the silence that follows, I find my voice. “Sammy was going to kill him,” I tell the two men.

Ben wraps his arms around himself. “When we were on the porch,” he tells us, “I looked back. There was so much mist, I could barely see anything. But I saw his boat, I’m pretty sure, out on the water.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. “We just have to find a way off the island, before he has a chance to come back.”

I don’t want to hear the rest of the conversation, so I simply shut myself back inside Anthony’s room, slip under the blankets, and wait.

We don’t speak. Sleep doesn’t come for hours. We wrap ourselves around each other, shivering and searching for warmth. I don’t know what time it is, only that hours have passed, and we’re still intertwined. I’m aware that he’s awake, because the tension hasn’t left his body yet. But I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m already asleep when he whispers into my ear, as softly as if he’s telling me a secret.

I’m sorry, he tells me. My heart skips a beat, but I don’t move a muscle to give myself away. And a few minutes later, I feel myself let go. I’m drifting, actually falling asleep, when he murmurs, so quietly I wonder if I’ve only dreamed the words, I love you, Betty. I love you so much. Then, when the darkest hours of the night surround me so heavily that I can barely breathe, Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.

As sleep finally takes me, I wonder how much of any of this will be real in the morning.