Chapter Thirty Three

The Burden of Another Body

(Sophie)

The silence was deafening.

Not the silence of our current location – quite the contrary on that front. The hospital waiting room was bustling, loud with the sharp cries of infants, rumbling with the groans of men doubled over in their chairs, the whimpering of mothers and daughters piercing the monotony every few moments. But in our dim corner, not particularly busy or bustling, there was only silence.

Directly across from me, hunched over in her chair, staring blankly at her cupped hands lying in her lap, sat Harlow. Thick russet hair falling loosely over her shoulders, the generally fluorescent green of her eyes oddly dark and listless. I sat directly across from her, stiff as she was slack. I was unable to move, unable to speak, but a million words and thoughts and questions and fears ran endlessly through my brain. We had sat in silence, barely exchanging a word or a glance, for nearly six hours. There were nurses everywhere, running in and out of the room. Doctors with their noses stuck against their clip boards. Patients being shuttled in, then out, then in again, to all the separate examination rooms littered throughout the hallways.

But still, six hours later, we sat.

No news, no updates.

Which, if you're a glass half full kind of person, wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Unfortunately, I had never been much of an optimist.

Seven hours prior, about 10:30 in the evening, right before my nightly scotch and Valium, my phone had gone off. Strange, for the hour of the evening – I rarely received phone calls anymore, mostly texts, and never this late on this random of a weekday. I'd assumed it was Harlow. I'd hoped it wasn't my Mother. But after picking up, I remember distinctly wishing more than anything it had been the elder Kapor.

It was Stacy, a girl I barely knew, only spoken with a handful of times, and only when I went to pick Lindsey up for practice. I'd barely ever given her a second thought, had taken a solid sixty seconds to even understand who it was that was calling me. I had a moment of hesitation, where I'd assumed she was a telemarketer, and had almost hung up.

I almost wish I had.

She was sorry, she said, for calling at such a strange hour of the evening. But there had been an accident – well, not an accident, she had clarified. An attempt? A disaster? She didn't know how to explain it. But it was Lindsey. She'd gone to check on her, concerned as we all were for the sanity of our sweet girl, as she'd spent an awful lot of time locked in the bathroom that evening. After calling and banging and screaming through the bathroom door, she and her friend had managed to break the latch by furiously pounding against the doorknob. They were greeted on the other side by an overflowing tub, murky with what had to have been two pints of blood.

How long she'd been unconscious, it was hard to say. To give the paramedics credit, they'd arrived less than two minutes after Stacy had made the hysterical phone call. Had burst through the front door barely 120 seconds later. But at the point, they had said, it might still have been too late. Her heartbeat was so faint, they weren't even sure there was one. But they would try, they had promised. And try they did – they were in and out in a few short minutes, sirens blaring, carrying the near corpse to the nearest state hospital.

The blades she'd used to slice were still floating in the crimson tub.

I hung up. Sat on the edge of my bed, frozen. I didn't know what to do, who to call, what to say, where to go. I thought – and stupid as it was, I really truly thought – that maybe if I sat there, just willed that phone call to have been a barbiturate induced dream, it would go away. It wouldn't really exist, wouldn't really mean a thing.

But that feeling passed, and panic had set in.

I glanced up from my chair, over to the girl hunched before me. We had sat, still at statues, for nearly seven hours now. Barely exchanged more than a few words. Me, because I could barely string two words together, never mind a full sentence. But Harlow? I don't know why. I don't know what was going through her head.

Next to her, I saw a light burst from within her purse – cellphone. This was the fourth or fifth time it'd gone off, and the faint sound of the vibrations against her wallet hummed a soft buzz from within. She didn't seem to notice – or perhaps, didn't care. Her eyes were cold and empty, staring blankly through her pale hands and deep into the beige linoleum beneath her feet. She was so still, so silent, you had to focus with everything you had to see the soft rise and fall of her shoulders. So still, so cold, she looked like some kind of beautiful, marble sculpture.

"Lo," I managed to mutter, voice hoarse from lack of use. "Lo. Your phone."

She glanced up, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. Her face was hollowed, pale and blank. Her eyes flickered over to her purse, but she made no move to grab it. She simply nodded.

"Should answer," I said, leaning back into the curve of black plastic behind me. "Tell him there's been no news."

She nodded again, but still didn't reach for the phone. She looked back down through her hands, too exhausted to find the will to answer. I missed, more than anything in the world at that moment, the sound of her soft, soothing voice.

"Go home," I said softly, looking sadly at her wilting frame. "There's no change, Lo. I'll call you if anything happens."

She shook her head, but said nothing else.

I knew that would be her answer, but I knew I had to offer anyways. She wouldn't leave, not in a million years. I looked her over again, noting that same greyness and that same exhaustion I'd seen her afflicted with so frequently these last few months. Her demeanor was murky now, tinged and clouded as a swamp, listless and sad. Since Kimmy, she and Lindsey hadn't spoken much – mainly because Lindsey hardly ever spoke anymore. But I had a sneaking suspicion Harlow was avoiding it as well.

Since their meeting in the hallway, after the brutal therapy sessions our entire team had to endure after Kimmy's death, things had been strained. I'd spent weeks not talking to Harlow at that point, but I still remember the look on her face when Lindsey had asked her – begged her, really – for any kind of update on Kimmy. In the afterworld, or whatever you called it. And Harlow had come up blank. The look on Lindsey's face is something I'll never forget – and knowing Harlow as well as I do, I knew it was something she'd never be able to shake either.

And naturally, as Harlow did and is, the burden of not being able to 'see', or give comfort to her friend in that heinous time, put an enormous weight on her shoulders. Every pound that slipped off Linds, every grey strand that popped up along her hairline – Harlow felt it like a blow to the stomach. Watching the deterioration of one of her nearest and dearest friends, especially when she felt slightly responsible for that dismantling, ate away at every piece of her soul.

And here she was, more than a half year later. Sitting still and crumbled, waiting for news on the life – or death – of the girl that was already a corpse.

"You know there was nothing we could have done," I said softly, feeling an aching need to say something, anything.

Harlow didn't look up, and didn't say a word back. I knew she'd heard. But I also knew the pain was deafening.

"It's … it's been coming for a while," I whispered, more to myself than anyone. "It's been … just a downward spiral."

She glanced up this time, but her mouth remained a tight, pained line.

"Sorry," I muttered, shaking my head. "Sorry."

Her eyes were fixed on my own, the brilliant glow of green now fizzled. Tired. Dead, really. Her eyes spoke volumes – told me to not worry, don't apologize. I was right. There was nothing we could've done, nothing to prevent this tragedy on top of tragedy. I'd spent years reading those eyes. But usually, the looks are accompanied by her soft, reassuring voice.

This time, just dead silence.

I was about to speak again, about to find some useless thing to mutter or spit. But words fell flat, my heart sunk, and the bricks in my stomach doubled in weight. There was a doctor, looking right at our corner, with his clipboard held tightly against his chest. His eyes somber, face pale. He looked hesitant, reluctant to make the trek toward us, but he pressed forward, taking quick and level steps towards our corner. I felt bile, thick as molasses, rise steadily up my throat.

"Harlow," I began, eyes following each hesitant step that man took.

She sighed, long and loud, through her nose. She didn't turn back to look, didn't stand to meet his strides. Instead, she pulled herself up, lifted her head, waited for the inevitable.

She knew he was coming before he did.

And she was ready.

(Katrina)

"Still not answering."

I glanced over at Ryan's thin frame, pacing back and forth along the knotted hardwood floors of his apartment. His face was paler than I'd seen it in a long time, stress seeping from every line in his young face.

"She will," I said, trying but likely failing to soothe his fears. "Probably can't answer in the hospital."

He nodded, but his pacing didn't stop.

"I know," he mumbled, deep bags blooming beneath his brown eyes. "I know."

"Sleep," I advised, motioning towards his couch. "Just for a bit. I'll watch your phone, wake you up if it rings."

He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. "Not tired. Can't sleep."

This much I knew was true.

He'd stumbled into the apartment close to midnight, as Serge, Josh, Heather, Elf and I had been struggling to clean up the scattered pieces of Jenga littered about the living room (Heather, as always, had lost her shit ten minutes in and sent the tower sprawling in several directions in a fit of game rage). He'd barely greeted us, just dropped his bag onto the front table and collapsed into the couch opposite.

From what we could gather, although his stress and anxiety and fear made it difficult to get a fully composed picture, was that Harlow had received a call from Sophie about an hour prior to him getting home. Lindsey, the cheerful forward that had been a staple on the volleyball team since day one had been rushed into the hospital that very evening – suicide attempt.

Disturbing as that was and devastating as we may have been, 'shocked' was not a word any of us would have willingly used.

Since the death of Kimmy, who had been Lindsey's best friend, she'd been an absolute shell of a person. She'd lost her color, was permanently tinged grey, face sunken and eyes swollen. You wouldn't have been able to recognize her if you'd tried – the only reason we knew was because we'd watched for over half a year now, watch her disintegrate into a miserable stack of bones. Suicide was nothing short of devastating – but in the case of Lindsey, it seemed to be the only next logical step in the path that was her new life.

At separate points throughout the night, Heather, Elf, Josh and Serge all slowly drifted off to sleep, trying desperately to keep their eyes open, but failing miserably. Ryan and I were the last two standing, and truth be told, I was pretty sure I'd be able to outlast him. My stomach was twisted in knots, sick at the amount of fear Harlow must be going through.

Ryan finally slowed his pacing, sunk defeated into the armchair across from me. He looked over, eyes sad and glassy, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know what she's going to do, Kat," he said softly, twining his long fingers together. "If Lindsey doesn't … you know. If she doesn't pull through. I don't … I don't know how Harlow's going to handle it."

I sighed. "Not well, Ryan."

He nodded. "Yeah. You're right."

"I'm sorry," I said softly, feeling a bit of guilt sweep over me. "That was crass. I shouldn't … she'll be okay, you know that."

He shook his head. "Not crass, Kat. Honest. I appreciate that."

I shrugged my shoulders, still feeling the guilt blow over me. "Still. You've had a long day. Shouldn't have said that."

He shrugged again, opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to dissipate somewhere in his throat. He simply shrugged again, falling back against the soft cushions behind him.

Over the last year and a bit, since he and Harlow started dating, Ryan had been a changed man. Calm, at ease – happy. Blissfully, unconditionally, happy. But here in front of me sat a Ryan we'd all met a handful of times prior to their coupling. A Ryan that struggled, almost daily, with his choices, with life, with the pressures of his job, his family, the television show, his friends – everything. The Ryan we'd all seen before, the one that struggled to keep himself afloat, was blooming again in the wasted figure in front of me. I felt fear, panic, grip my heart, fill my chest.

My heart broke for Harlow, of course – her heart and soul were already damaged from the fresh loss of Kimmy.

But more than that, my soul ached for Ryan.

The stability of his entire existence, it seemed, lay in the delicate hands of Harlow. And firm and whole as her hands may be, they were small.

Too small to hold the burden of another body.

(Sophie)

"You both need to understand, she … she lost a lot of blood. She won't look how you remember her."

I glanced up, willing every part of me to look as cold and fierce as one possibly could. I didn't need this doctor to see me crumble. I felt tiny, insignificant, needy and terrified. I could feel that on the inside, fine. But I couldn't have him see it on my face.

Next to me, Harlow had steeled herself against it all. Her face remained an identical mask of cloud and grief, as it had in the waiting room for the last seven hours. Even in the gloom, the doctor seemed to have a hard time dragging his gaze away from her. Steely and sullen were not deterrents for the attention she consistently received. She glanced up at the doctor, face pale, eyes hollowed with pain.

"Just let us in," I said firmly.

The doctor glanced over at me, nodded. Slowly, he turned the knob, letting the metal door creak open.

I nearly lost it.

Adjacent to us, wrapped up to her neck in sheets, was Lindsey.

Alive.

Breathing.

Alive.

"Linds," I whispered, feeling the breath catch in my throat, the thick slop of misery invading every syllable.

Harlow said nothing, but stood next to me, pale and deathly still.

"She's in and out of consciousness," the doctor said from somewhere behind me – his voice felt like a million miles away. "We've pumped a lot of morphine in her, the pain … well it would've been tremendous. She'll likely be unable to communicate, at least for the next several hours."

I nodded, clutching onto the doorframe violently, knuckles paling against the teal of the frame. "Thank you … sorry, I'm sorry … just, thank you."

The doctor nodded, glancing over at a still immobile Harlow. "You can visit, but she needs to rest. Thirty minutes, and we'll have to pull you out."

I nodded, and heard the faint click of the door behind me. He was gone.

I glanced over at Harlow again, trying but failing miserably to read the strange gaze that had washed over her smooth, heart-shaped face. Her gaze was impenetrable, eyes a million miles away from this hospital room.

"Lo," I whispered, and she turned with a start.

I nodded again towards Lindsey, willing us both to make the long trek to her bedside. "We should … say hello."

She didn't nod this time, just stared at me with a bizarre, spaced out glance. But to give her credit, she was the first of both of us to make the silent move to the bed. I followed behind her, tentative steps exhausting my attempt at calm.

This situation was beyond bizarre; there was faint beeping coming from every corner of the room, machines turned to maximum levels, knobs and levers clicked and fastened to opposite degrees and ends. Next to Linds, a machine that looked like something out of Frankenstein, pumps pounding noiselessly against the base, soft spurts of air making light hissing noises every few seconds. A heart monitor, or what I assumed to be one, was latched onto the bed with clasps and wires, wires which fed directly under the sheets that covered our sweet, once remarkable, pile of bones.

I noticed, with a start, faint ridges and lines that ran below the sheets of Lindsey's beds – some type of restraints, I felt with sickening realization. It wasn't a fluke that she'd ended up in this hospital – she'd made the attempt herself, decided this fate on her own. It was a miracle she was alive; clearly, the staff had taken precautionary measures, to make sure that the miracle wasn't worthless.

Beneath the sheets, beneath the shackles and restraints, she lay. Pale as the cloth that covered her, bruised as a month old apple you found at the back of the fridge. Her hair, grey as much as it was brown, slicked back but frayed and wiry. Bags beneath her eyes the color of violets, face a sunken skull of pain. We saw nothing beneath the neck – it was covered in sheets, bandages, gauze and restraints.

"Oh, Linds."

I felt the words flush through my throat without so much as a thought. The pain I felt in my heart was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before – a dull ache, that was as piercing as it was hollow. My heart was as full of grief as it was empty, my stomach heavy as it was bare. I'd never witnessed anything quite like this. And I prayed to whatever God there was that I'd never have to witness it again.

I saw the slight figure of Lo next to me, moving noiselessly towards the side of Lindsey's bed. Her face was sunken and pale as Lindsey's, her eyes listless and empty as a corpses. She sat lightly, barely making a ripple in the bedsheets, on the end of the mattress. She placed a hand, soft as it was small, on top of the sheet, somewhere above where Lindsey's hand would have been.

With a start, I saw her brown eyes flicker open, stare blankly at the ceiling before taking in her surroundings in a fresh, unnatural panic.

"Shhh," I whispered, moving quickly to the other side of her bed. I sat down closer to her head, holding out a shaking hand as calmly as I could. "It's okay, Linds. It's okay. We're here."

Somewhere beneath that oxygen mask (the mask seemingly too big for her depressingly hollowed face), her mouth moved, but words were not audible.

"Don't talk," I said softly, patting my hand lightly on what I hoped was her frail arm. "Don't – you're weak, you need to rest. We're here, Linds. We're here, you relax."

She shook her head, almost violently, and with surprising force for someone who had spent a solid half a day teetering that fine line between life and death.

"It's okay," I repeated, as soothingly as I could, although the bile and bricks in my stomach were doubling in size at a rapid pace.

"Harlow."

While not completely lucid or concise, her word was clear. I looked over, my body riddled with shock, at Lo. She was staring down at Lindsey, a look not of surprise plastered on her face, but a look of misery tinged with fear. Still, she said nothing, but her great globes of green were latched fiercely onto the dull brown but deeply stricken ones of Linds.

"Harlow," Lindsey repeated, this time slightly more concise.

I rose slowly from the bed, unable to take my eyes off of Harlow. She broke her contact with Lindsey, only for a moment, to meet my own gaze, and nodded stiffly. The misery hadn't quite left her face, but the fear had been replaced with exhaustion. Not exhaustion, no … something like resolution. She nodded stiffly a second time.

"I'll call Ryan," was all I could think to say.

She didn't look back, didn't nod. Once again, she was fixated on Linds.

Silently, I backed a few steps away from the bed, watching with slight terror at the scene unfolding before me. Harlow, so beautiful, so recklessly dazzling. Still as stone, calm as a water. Beneath her, Lindsey – pale as snow, alight with fear and confusion. The two of them, so sickeningly opposite, so disturbingly connected.

For some reason, as I padded silently out of the room, I felt an urge I'd never believed I'd be able to experience –

I felt the unprecedented, unrelenting need, to call Ryan.

(Harlow)

Beneath these uncomfortable cotton sheets, she lay as still as a corpse, but her eyes were alight with something I didn't quite recognize.

Fear? More than that – terror, maybe?

Whatever it was, its intensity bore into me like a drill.

The room around me was rippled. The waves of air heavy and dank, curtained around the walls of her coffin. I had turned it off, the repellent and resistance Chip had spent so long trying to teach me. I had turned off my attempts to tune out the Inbetween, instead allowing it to wash over me, crash over every part of me like water against a dam. The power was overwhelming – darker and more staticky than I ever remember it being, even in my darkest of times. The energy in this room was pure murk, pure black, pure evil. Whatever this aura of death and darkness was, it seeped from every corner, coated every machine, clung to every inch of every person left in these small quarters.

"Harlow."

I let the dark wash over me again, felt the happiness drain from every bit of me. It stuck on my skin, like a burr on cloth.

"Lindsey."

My voice was barely audible, cracked and hoarse from the hours I was unable to use it. It faltered, cracked and broke, much like the sad pile of bones beneath me.

"Need … need to tell you," she said, her own voice dry and brittle.

"I know," I replied, softer than even she was speaking.

I knew.

I knew she hadn't said my name to keep me close, to use as comfort.

I knew she hadn't said my name to ask me questions about what had happened.

I knew she hadn't said my name to try and pry any kind of information out of me, about what lay ahead, what lay behind, what lay between.

She'd said my name to warn me.

Little did she know, that warning was unnecessary.

I already knew.

"I didn't," she choked, tumbling over her own sickly words. "I didn't do … this. To me. It told me … told me … the dark."

This dark I already knew too well.

"I know," I whispered.

"In the bathtub … couldn't stop myself," she wheezed. "Felt it … felt dark … couldn't stop … I tried, tried tried tried … it told …. Told me … I was next."

It had told me the same thing.

"I know," I whispered again.

"Everything … every thing dark … all black, everywhere."

"I know."

"I didn't … next thing … blood – my blood."

"I know."

"Sorry … I'm sorry," she gasped, fresh tears pooling rapidly along her lids. "Harlow … brother … not safe … dark will come … dark …"

I brushed a finger beneath her eye, wiping the thick line of tears away from her mask.

"Harlow," she repeated, her frustration at her ineptness of speech becoming more and more evident. "Harlow … darkness coming … not safe …. Kingston …. Next …. He's next."

I sighed, but the tears I knew should pour, the fear I knew should cripple me, wouldn't come. I was too exhausted. I'd spent too long running. The incessant ringing of my phone, the creeping inky blackness tinging every corner of every room I'd entered these last twelve hours. Her warnings, sweet Lindsey, forever sweet Lindsey – unnecessary. Warnings were for pre-terror. This was post.

"Kingston," she said again, reaching a heavily bandaged, heavily restrained arm uselessly towards me. "He's next."

I looked at her, felt the beating heat and fear exploding from her pupils boring through me.

"I know," I said again, softly, much softer than I'd ever spoken. "I know."

She looked at me, terror filling every inch, every premature line of her face. Her mouth moved without a sound, forming the words but unable to produce them. She shook her head, tears pooling down in the hollows of her collarbone. But before long, it was too much. Slowly, with intense frustration but even more intense exhaustion, her eyes fluttered shut, sleep overcoming her.

"I know," I repeated again, more to myself than anyone.

Her warnings, while appreciated, had come too late.

The dark had already come for Kingston, had already taken him kicking and screaming from this Earth.

The dark had swallowed him whole.

(Ryan)

The sun was creeping slowly above the horizon, the rays beating lightly through the windows.

Around me, Serge, Heather, Elf and Josh were laid out on the furniture, snoring lightly, drool trickling in a thin line down Heather's face. Across from me at the dining room table sat Katrina. Her eyes were heavy, dark bags marring her otherwise smooth complexion, faint lines etched at the corner of her mouth. She stared down at her hands sprawled on the table, watching as the sunbeams slowly ran across.

She and I had sat here for the better part of the evening now, without speaking a word for the last two hours. There wasn't anything left to say. We both just sat - silently, wordlessly, calmly. Had the situation been any different, it may have actually been a lovely moment in time between the two of us.

Unfortunately, as luck would have it, this situation was far from ideal.

It had been twelve hours since I'd seen Harlow. I'd dropped her off at the hospital, offered what had to have been a hundred times to accompany her in. She'd refused, told me it was going to be a long wait. Didn't know what the end result was going to be. For now, it should only be her and Sophie. I pleaded, but she denied my pleas each time.

And I understood – this was past something I could help with. This alone, whether Lindsey lived or died, was grief to the umpteenth degree. This was grief for a friend, a lost friend (although lost in this sense was still an unknown), grief that could only be shared with someone else who understood. And that person was Sophie.

I got that, really. But there was something more to it, something that had been bothering me. Up until the moment we got into my car, Harlow had been fine. Distraught, of course, after hearing from Soph. But all things considered, fine. The second we began to drive towards the hospital, her demeanor had changed. Not obviously, not enough to be noted by anyone else. But I'd spent years studying every movement, every twitch, every line on Harlow's face and along her body. I knew when something was up.

It seems useless to tell you that she wouldn't admit it – by now you all must understand how infuriatingly private Harlow was. But I assure you, something had changed. A wave of something had washed over her in that car – Discomfort, maybe? Pain? Resolution? I didn't know what it was – but I didn't like it. It was as if all the light she'd been holding onto, all the happiness, the glow, had been sucked right out of her. Something in that beautiful body, something holed in that tremendous soul, had extinguished. And it scared me to death.

Katrina stirred across from me, blinking the sleep from her eyes. "You look like Hell, Ryan."

I smiled, although I'm sure the grin didn't fool her. "Feel like it."

"Go to bed," she urged, leaning back against her chair. "Sleep. I'll wake you up the second anything happens."

I shook my head, but felt a surge of gratitude rush through my heart. "I appreciate it, Kat. Really, I do. But I can't. Not while there's still no news."

She nodded, either too tired to argue or unwilling to fight the losing battle. "I know. Thought I'd ask."

"I appreciate it, really – "

Bring!

I jumped at the foreign sound, the whirring of my phone was a noise lost from the hours of silence. Kat's eyes flashed open, wider and rounder than I'd ever seen them. I fumbled, with both anxiety and lack of coordination from loss of sleep, to grab the phone from my pocket. I glanced down, felt a sinking, and looked back up at Kat.

"It's Sophie."

Her face noticeably paled, and she gave a short, curt nod.

I picked up, heart hammering painfully against my chest.

"Hello?"

"Ryan."

The voice, still as cold as ice and hard as steel. But flimsy, this time around. Breaking with what sounded like exhaustion.

"Soph," I said hoarsely, my own voice strained. "What's going on?"

"I'm out front," she said softly, and I could hear the light chirping of birds from somewhere in the distance. "Can you talk?"

I nodded, but remembered all too quickly she couldn't see me. "Yeah – yeah, I'll be right out."

I disconnected, dropping my phone back into my pocket as I rose from the table. Katrina looked up at me, eyes narrowed with concern.

"Out?" she asked.

"Sophie's out front," I said, reaching blindly for my jacket behind me. "Gotta go talk to her – not sure what's going on."

"Where's Harlow?" Katrina asked, peering cautiously over her shoulder.

My thoughts exactly.

"Be right back," I muttered, flinging my coat over my arm.

I beelined through the living room, narrowly dodging the sleeping bodies littered along the floor. My own exhaustion was only evident in my slightly uncoordinated movement – I hadn't felt this awake in what felt like years.

I stepped out the front door, shutting it with a soft snap behind me. In front of my house, gleaming and exquisite, was a sleek, black as onyx BMW. The make clashed horribly with the middle-class suburb it was parked in, but more so than the car, the girl leaning against it made an even more significant mark.

Still beautiful, that much was obvious, but her frame was wilting, skin pinched with pale and sleeplessness. Her corn husk hair thrown up in a messy top knot, bags dug harshly beneath the ice of her eyes. I saw a faint puff of vapor escape out her downturned mouth, her eyes following me cautiously – almost nervously – as I made my way to her car.

"Sophie," I said, coming to a stop a few feet in front of her – regardless of the time or situation, Sophie and I were never quite comfortable enough to be closer than a handful of feet.

"She's alive," she said, her own voice brittle and rough as bark.

"She's … Lindsay?" I asked, the heaviness lining my stomach suddenly lighter. "She's alive?"

Sophie nodded, but her face stayed the same harsh mask. "Alive. By some miracle … alive."

"Oh God," I muttered – my heart was beating a painful tattoo against my chest. "Thank God … I can't believe it …"

She nodded again. "That makes two of us. She's in rough shape. Lost a lot of blood. They've restrained her, just in case … you know. But she's stable. Not out of the woods, but stable."

"God, I'm so happy to hear," I sighed, feeling legitimately lighter – I didn't know Lindsay as well as I'd known Kimmy, or even as well as I know Soph, but I knew and remembered her with nothing but love.

"That's the good news," she said softly, discomfort sliding slowly over her face, contorting her body into a tense mess.

The lightness disappeared – that heavy-as-a-brick pit in my stomach came back as suddenly as it had gone.

"Good news?" I muttered, my brain trying desperately to catch up with her. "You mean … Harlow? Where's Harlow?"

She looked at me, but for once, the harsh and judgmental lines of her face had vanished. She looked as anxious and tentative as a child – in front of her, her thin hands writhed in a knot. Her eyes were globes of blue, round with nervousness.

"She left," she said quietly, looking somberly over her shoulder.

"Left?" I felt my stomach drop.

"Not permanently," she clarified, running a hand uncomfortably up and down her arm. "Just … to Jersey."

"I … I thought she was leaving tomorrow?" I whispered, thinking desperately back to what she'd told me prior – my mind was blank, but I swore her departure date was tomorrow.

Sophie nodded. "Supposed to. When we were at the hospital, she kept getting phone calls – I assumed they were all from you, but …"

"I only called once," I said, feeling that sick knot twist in my stomach. "Just the one time."

"I know," she said softly, great icy eyes boring through me – they weren't angry, not now. Just sad. "It was the hospital."

"The hospital?"

"Kingston's institution," she clarified, hands wringing once more in front of her. "They called to let her know that … well, it's Kingston. He's dead."