AN: This is a story that I've been kicking around for several years. Yes, years. When I first read the book, I remember coming to this part and thinking that Annabel was going to attempt suicide. Obviously she didn't, but that's where this came from. She was clearly in a dark place and I could definitely see it happening. This story begins the day after Annabel and Owen argued about her having ditched him at the club, which is also the day that she found out that Emily was telling people what really happened with Will. I have most but not all of this story written. It'll be fairly short, probably between 5 and 10 chapters.

And now, part two of this abnormally long author's note: I'm appealing to you, fellow Just Listen fans, to help with a project I'm working on. A JUST LISTEN MOVIE. Specifically, a short film of the car wash scene. And yes, I put that in bold so that anyone tempted to skip this would get sucked in and read it. I'm shameless. Anyway, now that I have your attention, just go check out this link – I'm really hoping some fans of the book will be excited enough about this project to help out. Indiegogo dot com /projects/just-listen-a-short-film/x/1919571 (remove spaces, make the "dot" a period)

Anyway, sorry for this crazy long note. And thanks if you actually read it. And double thanks if you took a moment to check out the link :) Now on with the story!

1. Surprise

Whitney was starting to wake up earlier than she used to. Today, for instance, she was up before Annabel, even. She hovered in the kitchen, wanting to help her mother with breakfast, but not really sure how. Her mother was heating a bowl of instant oatmeal, plopping sizzling bacon onto a napkin—Whitney cringed as the napkin began to turn transparent from the grease—setting out a box of cereal and a jug of milk. Whitney went into the fridge and pulled a carton of orange juice out to set on the table.

Her mother glanced at the clock on the microwave and sighed.

"Whitney, could you go get Annabel up? She's going to be late." Whitney, glad to have something productive to do, nodded and padded up the stairs.

She stopped in front of Annabel's door and hesitated. She wouldn't have wanted Annabel to come barging into her room while she was asleep, and while she knew that her younger sister was not as secretive as she was, she didn't want to invade her privacy. She knocked on the door, hard.

"Annabel?" she called quietly. "Annabel." Louder. She was still knocking. "Come on, Annabel, wake up." No response.

Sighing, Whitney turned the knob. If Annabel was angry with her, well, that was her own fault for being such a heavy sleeper.

She went into the room, and had a momentary unsettling feeling in her stomach. She brushed it away. Annabel was asleep on top of the covers, her clothes from the day before still on. Whitney sighed. Some days were harder than others-she could understand that.

She shook Annabel's shoulder. Annabel did not wake up. Harder. She didn't move.

The feeling in her stomach came back tenfold, and her breath stopped for a moment. Something was very wrong.

"Annabel?!" Whitney cried. "Annabel!"

She paused, listening for her breathing. She couldn't hear it.

She glanced around, frantic and nervous and unsure and terrified all at the same time. As her head whipped back toward Annabel, she spotted something odd on Annabel's otherwise very neat nightstand: an empty pill bottle.

It was ironic, or perhaps karmic, that Whitney was the one who found Annabel. For, to look at her standing there, terrified tears trailing down her cheeks as she screamed for her father, it would have been impossible to forget nearly a year before as Annabel had stood over Whitney in the bathroom, screaming for her father in the exact same way.

In the chaos that followed, Whitney sat quietly in a corner, crying silently and thinking one thing: her sister Annabel had had more secrets than she'd ever imagined.

Something was wrong with her, Owen decided as he strode across the student parking lot. There was a reason she'd left Bendo's Saturday night, and she wouldn't tell him what it was. Yesterday, they'd argued about it. Today, he was going to convince her to tell him.

Whatever it was, he knew that if it was big enough that she felt like she couldn't tell him, then it was too big for her not to.

He didn't see her at lunch, though. She had found some new spot to eat. She was avoiding him.

If he'd been listening to the rumors, to the people around him talking, instead of drowning out the world with his music, he'd have heard the stories about what had happened that morning. He'd have heard rumors that she'd been found dead in her bed, that she'd killed herself, and no one could figure out why.

But he was drowning out the world, and so he didn't find out about it until he came home that afternoon.

"Your friend . . ." Mrs. Armstrong began hesitantly. When she'd seen the picture in the news, she'd recognized her as the girl Mallory had introduced her to, the girl Mallory had explained to her was Owen's friend.

"Yeah?" Owen answered dismissively.

"The girl . . . the pretty blond one? A model, or something?"

Owen paused. "Annabel?" He wondered-hoped-that she'd stopped here and talked to his mom before he got home, though he couldn't imagine how she could have gotten here before he did.

She sighed. That was the name of the girl in the story. The girl who was dead.

"Yes. Annabel . . . Greene?"

He nodded. "What about her?"

Mrs. Armstrong blinked the beginnings of tears from her eyes.

"Come sit with me, Owen," she said, scooting over and patting the spot on the couch next to her. He gave her a look, but sat next to her. He sensed that something was wrong.

"I have something . . . horrible to tell you, Owen."

And she told him that his best friend was dead.

He cried.

He blamed himself. Of course he did. They had argued, he had said terrible things to her when she'd clearly been hurting. He told himself he was doing a good thing at the time, that even if he was being harsh, it would be good for her. That if it meant she'd tell him, it would be worth it.

But it hadn't. Something had been hurting her, and instead of helping her lift that weight off her chest, he had only put more pressure on her. She'd cracked.

Owen didn't sleep that night, and in the morning, his mom didn't make him go to school. Mallory

knocked on his door as he sat on his bed, staring blankly out the window, but he didn't answer. She knocked again, and when he still didn't answer, she finally went away.

He was still dressed in his clothes from the day before, hadn't even taken off his shoes. He held his iPod in his lap, scrolling through the songs in her playlist, unable to bring himself to listen to any of them.

He had cried himself out when his mom told him, and she just sat there, holding him. He couldn't think how it had happened, what could possibly have been so bad that Annabel would do that to herself... All he could think of was him, furious with her, and her looking so sad and feeling so guilty for keeping it a secret.

Something or someone had hurt her, had broken her. What could have done that?

And why wouldn't she tell him so he could help her? Now it was too late.