“What do you mean? What do you need to be?”

“Now you’re way past five questions,” he says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday or earlier today, Miki. There really was somewhere I needed to be.”

I want to see his eyes. I want to look at him, not his glasses when we speak. I reach up, but he catches my wrist and holds it.

“One more reason, probably the most important one,” he murmurs. “I came because I wanted to see you.” He lets go of my wrist and takes a step away. “I have to go.”

“Wait, please, last question, I promise. Why did Richelle die?” I’m not asking the mechanics of it, and I know he knows that. I’m asking why he didn’t save her, but I’m not cruel enough to phrase it that way.

“Richelle was the best at the game. She knew how to get in and get out. She knew that when her con started to go orange, she needed to drop back to defensive position and watch her own ass. She knew not to let it turn red.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s remembering as I am the way he told me not to let my con turn red. “I can’t be everywhere at once, Miki. I was watching your back and Tyrone’s. Richelle made the choice to attack rather than defend, and I couldn’t get to her fast enough. So she’s dead.”

His tone is completely flat, not a shred of emotion, and that makes what he’s saying all the more heartbreaking. Whatever words he’s used about Richelle’s choices, he blames himself, and it’s eating him alive.

Every man for himself. Except him. He thinks it’s the best way to keep his team alive. I think he’s wrong, but now’s not the moment to tell him that.

“Jackson,” I whisper, my heart breaking for him. Without thinking about it, I step close and flatten my palm on his chest, over his heart. I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat and the tension arcing through his body. I don’t bother to tell him it isn’t his fault. He won’t believe me.

He grabs my wrist and turns my hand, then lowers his head and presses his lips to my palm. Electricity dances through me, making me gasp.

His lips move to the crease of my wrist.

I stand perfectly still, my blood hammering through my veins.

I want him to do that again. I want him to press his lips to my mouth. I want the rush of sensation to fill me. I want—

He lifts his head. He releases my wrist.

Then he pushes up my window and climbs out onto the roof of the porch, and before I can think of an argument to make him stay, he’s over the side and gone. I try to pick him out of the shadows. No chance. He’s disappeared as if he was never here.

And now I’m supposed to sleep. I’m doubtful as I climb back into bed, but as I drift off in a matter of minutes the last thought I’m aware of as my mind grows muzzy is that I have two less nightmares to worry about. Jackson’s not a shell, and he’s not Drau. I saw proof about the first, and for some reason, I believe him about the second.

So maybe I will sleep tonight after all.

I curl my hand under my head and turn my face so my lips rest at the crease of my wrist, the exact place Jackson kissed.

“You want one?” Lizzie asks.

She has the radio turned up loud, one wrist resting negligently on the wheel, the windows open so the wind whips through the car. We’re going faster than fast. Lizzie likes it that way. She’s been a little wild ever since she was fifteen and something happened. Something that seemed to change her overnight. She never talks about it. I don’t think she even ever told Mom and Dad what it was. I just know that we were sitting there on the couch, watching some stupid show, and then she was all pale and sweaty, looking like she was going to barf.

She mumbled a lot of stuff about death and killing and dying and then she passed out. Mom rushed her to the hospital. For months after, there were all these tests. There was even a time where Lizzie stayed at a hospital for a while. She was never the same, but she got well enough to come home, to make it through high school, to head off to college.

She glances at me now and holds out the open box of candy, shaking it to entice me. She’s home from college for two weeks—just got home today—and I’m happy to see her, happy to be with her, happy that despite the six-year difference, she still wants to hang with me.

I reach for the candy and take it from her hand. She laughs and looks back at the road. I’m watching her face. I see her expression change, her smile freeze, her body tense. Her back arches as she presses against the seat, her right leg slamming hard on the brake, both hands on the wheel now as she cranks it to one side. The car skids, tires screaming. Lizzie, screaming. I turn my head to look out the front window just in time to see two bright lights coming at us and the metal front grille of an enormous truck.

The hood crumples in what feels like slow motion, the grille coming closer and closer. The sound is like nothing I’ve heard before, metal tearing, the car crushed like a pop can, with us inside.

I blink, rolling to my side, except I don’t move because I can’t move. My whole body is a single shriek of agony. Cold. So cold. And tired. I want to close my eyes again and just rest.

She whispers my name.

I force my eyes open.

Lizzie’s looking at me, her face all wrong. There’s blood on the side of her head and along her cheek. And her eyes are gray. Swirling, pale, silvery gray.

But that’s wrong. Lizzie has green eyes. The same eyes as Mom.

She says my name again, and I look down to see that I’m covered in blood and I can’t move because I’m pinned in place, jagged chunks of metal running through me into the seat behind me. I feel like I’m looking at someone else.