I’m known to lie to my brother’s face if I don’t think he can handle certain things. Like my own fucking identity when I first met him.
I don’t envy the knowledge they had. I wouldn’t have wanted it.
I scan the kitchen, the granite counters, expecting an easily excitable girl to be sitting there, swinging her legs against the cabinet. She’s not around, so I walk through the archway to the nearly empty living room, searching for Daisy, but she’s not here either.
I stop in place, realizing something…she was going to tell her sisters about what happened months ago. She was going to finally spill these harrowing details that have fucked her over for weeks.
And of course, Lily’s issues came out today, pushing Daisy to the side. I can imagine how she feels—like her problems aren’t significant, like they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. She’s going to shut down again, to crawl back into her hole where she hides her feelings and covers it with jokes and sarcasm.
My heart lodges in my fucking throat. “Daisy!” I call out, my nerves escalating. Why the fuck was I helping Lily? I don’t ever, ever want to choose Lily over Daisy. Just because Lily cries harder. Just because Lily screams louder. It doesn’t mean that Daisy’s pain isn’t more.
I run back through the kitchen, and Connor and Rose ask me what’s wrong. I shake my head and check the guest bathroom.
I have the worst kind of feeling in my gut.
I sprint to the garage while I take out my phone and call the security at the front of the gate. I grab my bike keys out of my pocket. “Did Daisy leave?” I ask, but I find my answer. My black Ducati sits lonely—without its red match.
“Fifteen minutes ago,” he says.
Fuck. I hang up.
“RYKE!” Rose screams at the top of her lungs to get my attention. “What’s going on?” She stomps into the garage that’s already halfway open, the doors groaning as they rise.
“I’m taking care of it,” I tell her, fitting my helmet over my head. I start the fucking bike, changing gears, and then I ride the hell out of there before she can say another word.
I’m so fucking angry at myself.
But most of all, I just hope she’s okay.
I hope I find her before she does something completely fucking insane.
< 64 >
DAISY CALLOWAY
I need air. The kind that bursts your lungs. The kind of jolt that sends your entire body reverberating with energy and electricity.
I want to wake up.
I’m tired of being in a half-sleep. Of seeing the world through a foggy lens.
I park my Ducati on a bridge that overlooks a murky lake. The night air whips around me, reminding me that it’s almost December. The chill awakens my bones, and I peel off my green cargo jacket. Just a thin tank top and jeans left. I easily hoist my body on the old brick ledge, welcoming the cold from up high.
I had to leave the house. When Lily relapses or has some sort of emotional event, I feel in the way. Like a piece of furniture blocking everyone’s path. It’s best just to be gone. And there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.
On a bridge.
Outstretching my arms, the air seems to pinch me, wake me up, fill me with something more.
I love escaping to the roofs of buildings and shouting at the top of my lungs, but my voice dries in my throat tonight, pushed too deeply to retrieve. I just want to fly through the air. I just want to soar.
I peer down at the waters, nearly black in the darkness, the crescent moon casting an eerie glow over the rippling surface. I’ve jumped off this bridge before. It’s not too high, but the tree banks are shallow and muddy tonight, and the water line looks low. Too low? I don’t know.
I can’t explain these feelings.
A pressure on my chest threatens to combust.
Just wake up, Daisy.
Jump.
I look around to make sure I’m alone. No lurking cameramen who followed me here. But headlights beam from the left.
I focus back on the water, bumps dotting my arms as the cold sweeps me in a sharp embrace. Half of my feet stick off the ledge. I brace myself.
“CALLOWAY!”
< 65 >
RYKE MEADOWS
She looks over her shoulder, startled by my voice, her face illuminated by the moon. She never anticipated on being found. Drawing attention—that’s not her fucking ploy. Every time she runs off, she does it alone, and I’ve always feared the one time where she won’t return, floating dead on the surface of a lake, an ocean, a river.
Not tonight.
Not fucking ever.
I climb off my bike, anger darkening my features and tensing my muscles. Her father has been paranoid since we arrived back in Philly. He put a GPS locator in her bike. One call to him, and I found out she decided to ride to Carnegie Lake.