Jo Masterson has no fucking idea how she's supposed to feel about Danny Desai.
There's no confusion or anything similar, because there's never any confusion with Danny Desai, just lies and deceit and mountains of secrets piled upon mountains of whispered riddles. There's only not knowing and wanting to know more, even though it's so damn obvious that Danny doesn't plan on letting anyone in on his intentions and plans, or his dark, mysterious past.
But it doesn't matter how much she knows, because it doesn't curb the curiosity or the feelings of hurt when she realizes that he's lied to her once again. Because she still has these unrealistic hopes that he might someday decide that she's worth the honesty, or that she's worth being let in on the big secret that is Danny Desai.
(But he never does; she never is.)
Jo thinks that maybe she's supposed to hate him.
It seems like the natural, right thing to do. He's killed his aunt and he lies about everything under the sun and he knows how to make Jo feel guilty for doubting his intentions, even though it's so obvious that they're anything but golden and pure. Danny isn't a good person, Jo knows that. Danny lies because he can and because he's good at it, not because he knows it'll hurt someone. Jo also knows that Danny realizes that the lies that flow so damn easily from his mouth are more painful than any cold, hard truth could ever be. Danny is all about being mysterious, even if he ends up burning the world around him to the ground in the process.
Or maybe she's supposed to love him.
That would make a good story, wouldn't it? The golden-hearted misfit falls in love with the misunderstood bad boy with the dark and haunted past. The best movies start like this; the best books do too. And those movies and books usually have a happy ending, so maybe if she falls in love with him, everything will end up alright and that lingering since of paranoia mixed with an unknown feeling that Jo can only describe as heavy will go away, and maybe Jo can breathe again.
(She knows it's not that easy. It's never that easy.)
Jo doesn't know what to feel.
To be honest, Jo's scared. She's terrified and she can't shake the feeling that the shadows are following her around every corner. Her heart hurts and it's numb at the same time, and every night she lies in bed with tears streaming down her face and looks at the picture that's always sat next to her bed, the one with her and Lacey. No Danny, no looming darkness, and no dead family members.
Lacey has her arm slung around Jo's shoulder, and there is a smile lighting up her features. Jo has both her arms wrapped around Lacey's waist and has a simple smile on her face. Jo's not covered in layers of wool and knit and Lacey's not bathed in expensive fabric and shimmering glitter and light-catching sequins. There's no makeup on either of their faces, no trace of growing up or becoming young adults. The innocence that radiates from the picture takes a bit of the pressure of Jo's heavy heart.
(Jo's favorite part is the fact that Danny isn't there.)
How do you love a killer?
How do you hate your best friend?
Jo just doesn't know.