Razor-edged silence stretches between the three of us. For a long moment, nobody speaks.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang. The door vibrates in its frame.
Dazed, Harper starts across the living room.
“Don’t answer!” My voice sounds scraped raw. I tighten my fingers around the door to my room, and only then do I realize they’re trembling. “Please, Harper.”
Harper says, eyebrows shooting up, “Why wouldn’t I answer?”
“Just trust me, okay? You have to—“
But she’s already shaking her head. She pulls the door open and says, to someone I can’t see, “Come posso aiutarla?”
Muffled Italian answers back. Harper starts to respond, then makes a sound of surprise and takes a quick step back as a man in a stiff uniform shoves into the apartment. His belly strains against his polo, but his arms are thick and muscular. A shiny silver gun hangs from his waist.
My breath catches. Poliziotto.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified, so I shrink into the door to my bedroom, wishing I could disappear.
The poliziotto is sputtering in Italian, his words quick and hard to follow.
“I don’t understand,” Harper says, finally, in English. “A boy was . . . ucciso? Is that . . . killed?”
Killed. The word drops through me like a stone.
I don’t realize I’m sinking until I feel the floor beneath my legs. My throat closes up, and every one of my muscles pulls tight, like they’re attached to slowly winding screws.
Giovanni is dead.
The poliziotto drags a hand back through his dark hair, narrow eyes moving jerkily around the living room before landing on me. He taps his gun with his thumb and nods to someone I can’t see. “This is her, no?”
There’s a shift in the hall outside the door. A shadow stretches long across the floor, and then Francesca steps into the room.
Blood drips from a gash on her head, streaking her face with red and matting her green-and-black hair to her cheeks. Her dark, flat stare bores into me.
Mara subtly shifts her body in front of mine, one hand reaching for me. Protecting me. I wind my fingers through hers.
Whatever else has happened, Mara and Harper won’t let anything hurt me. Right?
“I remember you. You work at the trattoria down the street, right?” Mara says. “What does she have to do with this?”
“This is my sister,” the poliziotto answers. “She is the only witness to a crime she says your friend is involved in.” To Francesca, softer, “Is this the girl who hurt you?”
At the sound of her brother’s voice, Francesca changes. Her shoulders curve inward, fingers tangling in the hem of her bloody dress. She says, chin wobbling, “Si, fratello. Yes. This is her.”
“What does that mean?” Mara’s voice cracks. She squeezes my fingers so tightly the bones crunch together. “Berkley didn’t kill anyone.”
I hear a raw, choking sound from Harper.
“She’s lying,” I say. “She kidnapped me from the festival—her and these two other girls. Elyse and—”
“Angelica.” The poliziotto nods solemnly. “And Elyse. The other two victims, yes.”
“Oh God.” Harper presses a fist to her mouth and keels over, hair swinging forward to block her face. Mara drops my hand. My fingers feel suddenly cold.
“Three people?” she murmurs.
I feel a prickle move through the air. This is worse than knives and torture. Worse than drowning in an icy lake. Worse than losing Giovanni. This is prison. A small concrete cell with no windows and no chance of escape. My freedom—everything I’ve worked so hard for—gone.
Francesca tilts her head up, catching my eye. Her lip curls.
“She’s lying!” I say again. No one seems to hear me. I reach for Mara’s arm. “Mara, please—”
Mara shakes me off with a violent jerk. “I knew your story didn’t make any sense.” Her whole body is trembling now. “You’ve been getting worse every day. Oh God.”
“You have to believe me!” I shoot Harper a ferocious stare. The air in the apartment feels bruised. “Harper, come on, you believe me, right?”
But Harper is shaking her head. She straightens, pushing her hair back, and I see that her cheeks are streaked with tears. “Didn’t you hear what he said, Berkley? Three people are dead. How are we supposed to believe anything you say?”
“You will have to let me take her in now,” the poliziotto says. Francesca’s mouth curves into a small, private smile.
“You bitch!” I lunge for her, but Mara’s in front of me again, one arm holding me back. “She’s smiling! Can’t you see that? She’s enjoying this.”
“Berkley,” Mara hisses through clenched teeth. “Stop, okay? Just stop.”
And then she shifts to the side, no longer blocking the officer’s path down the hall, and nods to him.
I freeze. “You’re letting him take me?”
“You’re still sick.” Tears streak down Harper’s cheeks. She sniffles and runs the back of her hand beneath her nose. “They never should have let you out of the institute.”
“We’re worried about you,” Mara adds in a quiet voice.
“You think this happened because I’m sick?” I push my hair back over my shoulders so that everyone can get a clear view of my face. The burns climbing up my chin and over my eyebrows. The deep purple bruise blossoming over my forehead. “What do you think happened to me tonight?”
Harper and Mara glance at the poliziotto, saying nothing. As though on cue, he moves to the center of the room, putting his body between me and my friends. He’s actually protecting them from me.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say. Rage moves through me like an animal. Cowards. “You have no idea how bad things are about to get.”
“Berkley—”
Fury radiates through my words, making them tremble. “But you will.”