Better hurry.
Was the Game confirming his worst fears? Was it provoking Alex toward them?
Alex’s car was gone. He could be anywhere. He didn’t answer his phone. There was only one option, and it made him sick to do it, but he had no choice. He opened his texts with the Game and asked:
Where is Alex?
The Game wrote instantly:
Welcome back, Charlie!
He ignored the taunt.
Where is Alex?
Did you like my present? How’s Mom?
WHERE IS ALEX?
You quit!
PLEASE
He is preparing to die.
HELP ME STOP HIM
How can I help you if you only believe in Me when you need something?
Charlie banged his hand on the hood of his car. Come on. He typed:
What do you want from me?
Love.
What do I have to do?
Come back. Be mine.
Charlie was shaking. This whole thing was his fault, all the way back to the moment he hesitated when Alex begged him to say, We want you—all the way back before that, when Charlie was so lost in his own grief that he didn’t see Alex going down a bad path. Charlie could’ve saved him then, when it was a little thing, a stolen deck of cards here, a dark comment there. Charlie could’ve gotten him help, stood up for him, sat with him the way Peter had sat with Charlie after his mom died, late into the night. And now a chasm was between them, and all he could do was pray it wasn’t too late to stop the worst thing. The thing Alex could never take back.
This was on him from the very beginning.
He thought of Alex on a ledge somewhere, one foot out over empty space. Charlie swore, then typed:
OK