Dec 19th, 2013 - 2nd Choice Timeline

Max sat there in that overexposure, head bowed in her hands, and she let the tears come. They poured out of her as all of the pain and the anguish of the past thirty minutes, her past thirty minutes, washed over her in an instant.

She recalled the pain of the semi-truck colliding with Warren's car; of the seat belt snapping taut as she hurled from her seat; of her head and arm slamming into the collapsing door, and of the glass shards tearing into her cheeks. She remembered the shock of time resuming and herself slamming into the ditch, her ribs snapping. She remembered the pain of the pressure building in her head with each subsequent rewind, trying to save her friends as that madness played itself out on the road from the cemetery. She still felt the agony as she had landed on that shattered arm, again and again, and she could remember the piercing explosion in her head as she had pushed herself past her limit manipulating time back further than she ever had, rewinding and pausing and slowing time in so many combinations.

All of that pain, all of that shock, flooded through her system, and Max felt the tension and the anxiety and the adrenaline of her fight or flight response surging through her once more. As it did, other memories took hold as well. She remembered the image of the trucker's face as she shot him, as that bullet pierced his forehead and blew out his skull; the soft spray of mist (not mist) peppering her face. She could still see him as she hit the man over and over with the butt of his rifle, stopped in time — and could not push out the image of him collapsing as time resumed. She relived every moment of attacking the bent-nose man — the man that had killed her friends: the man that had shot Warren, and Dana, and Alyssa; the man that had driven a van into Victoria. Max could still feel every assault on his person: kneeing him in the groin, kicking out the back of his knee, punching him in the jaw (her knuckles throbbing from the impact), kicking him in the ribs, raking her nails through his cheeks, biting out the join of flesh between his thumb and index finger (the salty taste of his blood on her tongue), the click of the trigger as she pulled it and fired that fatal bullet just below his eye.

Max bent over and she retched, wondering what type of person she had become. She had inflicted so much pain, and she had killed two people; shot them both dead. No matter if she had rewound time, reset it, erased it, it didn't matter. She had still pulled the trigger. She had still taken lives. She cried and she vomited up bile and coffee and whatever lunch this Max had eaten. She wept and she vomited some more, and the surge of memories and pain kept coming, flooding forth in the release of any immediate necessity, the relaxation that came in the absence of any prioritized task. She had turned back time; she had undone the deaths of her friends and she had saved Chloe in that bathroom and she had warned herself to choose Chloe over the Bay (and killed your friends all over again). She had done what had needed to be done, and now no one needed her and Max's will had cracked and all the strength that had been holding back her pain and her anguish and her hurt at everything that she had experienced and done had fallen away and it all slammed into her at once, crushing her under its unimaginable weight.

The physical pain and the guilt alone would have been enough to break her, but they were not without company. They came with horrible companions, not the least of which was the grief of the loss that she had experienced. She had watched Warren impaled by a steering wheel, then seen him shot, not once, but numerous times by both the "trucker" and that bent-nose man. She had watched Trevor obliterated and torn apart as a semi-truck crashed into their car. She had seen Dana thrown from her seat and being pulled beneath Warren's rolling hatchback; then she had seen her shot by that same "trucker" that had killed Warren. She had seen Alyssa killed by the bent-nose man, a bullet to her head. And more, she had seen Victoria sacrificing herself, running out to save Kate from that beige van; and she had held Victoria's hand as her friend's life had drained out of her; listened to the girl's final whispered and anguished words, and the fear that had hung in that battered voice.

So much grief poured over Max, mingling with that guilt and that pain, and even that just wasn't enough for the universe. She could still hear the click of the camera's shutter and the flash as that picture snapped in the bathroom and she came to moments before Chloe was shot. She could hear that shutter and feel the Dark Room stealing in, and Jefferson's slick, pretentious voice so full of false charm waiting there in that darkness. Her breathing hitched as she wiped the bile from her lips, and she felt that panic stealing in, mixing with that fear, that pain, that guilt, and that deep, deep hurt.

And just past the click of that shutter, more panic waited. She could still hear Nathan's manic pep talk, and the fear in Chloe's voice as she spotted Nathan's gun and Max could feel as well that pain in her own gut and the surge of emotion pouring through her as once more Chloe found herself in peril. And with that moment of peril came so many others — guns going off in a school bathroom, bullets firing in a junkyard, ricocheting off bumpers, trains blaring warnings as they barreled down the tracks, other guns firing over an open grave, torrential rains falling as a storm bore down upon the town and Chloe begged Max to save Arcadia Bay. So many moments in time fought for Max's attention — so many moments of pain.

Then there she stood at Chloe's grave, grieving the friend with whom she would never truly reunite, as a preacher delivered an inappropriate eulogy in a somber affair that Chloe never would have wanted. Max felt months of grief and loss and depression slam into her chest, and finally she had had enough.

She screamed and she wailed, and she fell to her hands and knees and let all the pain and all of the hurt hemorrhage out of her. Max could not hold it in any longer. She had failed; she had failed Chloe; she had failed her friends; and she had failed time. She had brought The Storm and now nothing but pain remained.

She wept and a soft hand fell upon her shoulder.

"Max?" The question came whispered and shaky, the voice vaguely familiar, yet lost to time. Max glanced back over her shoulder, trying to focus behind her and to take in this new reality. The world still hid in a fog, however, even though the overexposure of the jump had long since faded; now that world hid instead behind a veil of tears.

"Max, you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

Max swallowed the lump in her throat and rubbed at her eyes, but the tears would not stop and before she knew what was happening, her whole body began to shake and her breath became tangled in the onslaught of panic and grief flooding through her, and the world began to tunnel in. She didn't know who was there. She couldn't dredge up any memory of that voice, nor could she hear it with any level of clarity through the cacophony of her own sobbing.

The hand on her shoulder tightened and another hand reached under her arm hauling her to her feet. Max didn't even resist. She had no will of her own in that moment, unable to guide herself any more than she was to shut off the spigot of emotion that had just burst.

"Let's get you somewhere more… private. Okay?"

"K," Max managed through labored breaths. I must be somewhere public, she thought, and that thought horrified her; just one more cosmic slap in the face.

"Fantastic," came that vaguely familiar voice, seemingly pleased that Max had been able to respond at all.

Max tried to take in the world around her and to discern anything about her present, but the tears would not ebb and her breathing would not steady, so instead the world remained blurred, and she stumbled on blindly, led away by an unknown friend. And this was a friend, right? Had to be. Who else would try so tenderly to quell Max's tears and help her to some privacy.

She wanted to believe that it was Chloe at her side, yet somehow she doubted it. There was a kindness in that grip under her arm, but Chloe had a more vibrant energy about her. Plus, whomever was helping Max carried her at a distance, not leaning into her space, but instead respecting the bubble that Max so often kept about herself. Before Max's world had shattered, destroyed by some cosmic joke, only Chloe had been allowed within that bubble – and "allowed" would have been a stretch; there had never been any keeping Chloe away. No, if Chloe had been at her side, Max would have felt her pressed into that side. She would have been held tighter and closer, and, she imagined, the smell of cigarettes and weed would have hung thick about her. Here she smelled only a hint of vanilla and patchouli… and of sea air?

Yes, there was a distinct breeze and that salty aroma that clung to the coast. Max was near the ocean; that much she could discern; that and the sounds of traffic along with the electronic beep of a crosswalk.

"Come on, Max." That voice called to her and the hand under her arm tugged her forward at a hurried clip. "Just a little further."

Max followed along, dabbing at her eyes and focusing on her rapid breaths, trying her best to slow them. She had to look ridiculous, being led, a sobbing mess, across some street, not looking where she was going, just struggling to breathe and wipe away the tears and snot from her face. She hurried after her companion, her sneakers echoing off the asphalt beneath her feet, and while she could feel a light breeze, she could tell that she was in shade from the blurring of light and shadow around her. If she had to guess, Max would wager that she was being led across the street below an overpass of some kind.

Then, the beeping stopped, replaced by an electronic warning, and that hand hauled her with more urgency, lifting her up as well, and Max stepped up onto the opposite curb from where they had started. The scent of the ocean breeze seemed stronger here, and every so often Max could make out the tinny ring of an entrance bell down the street, buried beneath the soft murmur of foot traffic. The two of them must have been on a sidewalk outside a row of seaside storefronts.

"Careful. Mind the stairs."

Max wiped at her eyes some more, and the world began to come into focus, if only for a moment. She stood at the top of an angled, cement stairway weaving down an alley between two aged buildings dotted with storefronts along the hill-side alley.

"Pike Street?"

"Yeah, Max," her friend said. "Just down the stairs a little. That bench outside the cafe there."

Max nodded. She knew the one, nestled on one of the many landings of the Pike Street Hill Climb, just under a row of foliage.

"It'll be free?"

"It's 39 degrees out. Seems likely."

Max grunted in response, her vision blurring once more as her entire body shook. She knew that she was safe now. She knew that the danger had passed, and that the deaths she had seen had now never happened, and the guilt she felt was for deeds never done, but her body knew only adrenaline and panic, and no amount of logic could convince it to shut down that anxiety and that urge to both run and breakdown simultaneously. Max hugged her arms tight around herself as if she could hold herself still, then followed after her friend…

…after Kristen. It had to be Kristen. She was in Seattle at one of their old haunts and it was winter break. Of course she was here with Kristen.

"Fernando?" Max asked between sobs.

"Don't worry about him. I'll text him once we've got you settled, ok?"

Max nodded, then lurched forward, missing a step on her way down. Kristen's hand tightened its grip under her arm, while her other hand pushed gently into Max's sternum, holding her up.

"Whoa there, girl. Take a little care, will you?"

Max tried to respond, but she couldn't find the words, her breath catching once more as the near fall sent her already confused system into panic overdrive. She couldn't breathe; she couldn't focus; she couldn't do anything but follow in Kristen's wake, trusting that her friend knew best. Yet all the while, one thought drowned out all others. Where was Chloe?


A moment later Max was seated in the shade on a bench about a third of the way down the Pike Street Hill Climb, tucked partially under the stairs and hidden from the main foot traffic. Kristen sat beside her, dressed in a thick winter coat with a faux fur collar in a vibrant purple, her dark, shoulder-length hair tucked back behind her ears, one hand fidgeting with that hair as it fell loose. She had always fidgeted with her hair when nervous, and Max felt yet another stab of guilt knowing the stress that she was laying on her old friend — and even more guilt in her silence. She couldn't tell Kristen what had happened; she couldn't even think of a logical place to start.

Kristen had tried to coax Max into telling her what was wrong, but even had Max been able to calm herself long enough to speak somewhat intelligibly, she didn't have a single clue what she would have said. How could she explain the trauma that she had experienced when as far as this Kristen knew, Max had just been away to school, losing an old friend, but otherwise…

… but what? What has this Max lived through?

She had brought The Storm, hadn't she? She had saved her best friend from a psychopath and likely uncovered the death of Rachel Amber. And The Storm had come, had it not? Max needed to know. She needed to ground herself and gain some understanding of the world and timeline in which she had landed.

Beside her, Kristen tapped away at her phone, apparently filling Fernando in on their whereabouts. The best that Max had been able to make out, Fernando had still been in Golden Age Collectables while Kristen and Max had headed out to find some coffee. That plan had been derailed by Max's unexplained panic attack (for lack of a better descriptor), and now Kristen was working with Fernando to satisfy their caffeine needs.

Now was as good a time as any for Max to solidify her footing.

She slipped her phone from her pocket, leaned back a moment shutting her eyes and pulling in a deep breath, attempting to gain some semblance of calm, then unlocked the screen. A quick Google search later and there they were — the inevitable headlines:

Freak Tornado Strikes Arcadia Bay

Oregon Town Devastated by Unexplained Tornado

Mysterious Weather in Arcadia Bay Culminates in Massive F5 Tornado

Oregon Tornado Aftermath: Survivors Found in Torture Bunker

Famed Seattle Photographer Arrested; Tied to Serial Abductions

60s Bunker Craze Saves Lucky Few Arcadia Bay Residents

Sean Prescott Vows to Rebuild Devastated Coastal Town

Still No Explanation for Disastrous Oregon Weather Event

So much information bubbled up, right there at her fingertips, ready to be consumed and yet, Max was not ready for a deeper dive. She simply needed a cursory glance… that and an estimate. Knowing she had caused the Storm was not enough. She had to dig deeper. She had to know the full extent of what she had done. A few keystrokes later and she had her answer.

1,747 Confirmed Dead, 243 Missing After Deadly Arcadia Bay Tornado

She knew. Now, she knew. Now… now Max had to throw up.

She lunged to her feet, and hurried to a nearby bathroom, her feet unsteady, her body still trembling, but she wouldn't throw up here; not out in the open. She had humiliated herself enough for one day. Pushing open the door, she rushed to the nearest stall and fell to her knees, retching.

A moment later she heard the door open and those inevitable footsteps of Kristen approaching. She still wasn't ready to confront Kristen. What did Kristen know? What had this Max told her Seattle friends? And where was Chloe? There were too many questions.

"Uh, Max? You… um… are you okay in there?"

"Uh-huh," Max managed, before retching again as those numbers flashed through her head. 1,747 dead. 243 missing. Nearly 2,000 lives destroyed, not to mention all the lives impacted by that loss. What had she done?

"Not so convincing, Maxi."

"I just…" Max shook, her breathing still erratic. "Just… I need a minute."

"A minute?"

"Ten?"

"How about five?"

"Sure." Max wanted to say more, but she felt the bile rising and clutched to the toilet bowl.

"Okay, Maxi. Five minutes. I just… you know that you can be open with me, right?"

Max tried to speak, to assure her friend; instead, she gasped, then vomited, tears flowing anew. At least these were tears of pain; they came from something tangible in the here and now — not one more temporal trauma. She cried and she retched, then, wiping the spit and filth from her lips, she tried again.

"I know," she said. "Just five minutes. Okay?"

"Okay."

Kristen's footsteps retreated until at last Max heard the bathroom door swing open, then slowly shut. Finally, she was alone.

She held to the bowl of the toilet, dreading vomiting even more, yet her stomach seemed to have settled. At least a little. Apparently, it doesn't take long to digest the guilt of mass murder, does it, Max?

Max pulled up from her resigned slump at the toilet and slammed herself back against the stall divider, letting out a pained breath as she did. 1,747 dead. She tapped her head back against the divider. 243 missing. She slammed her head back. Nearly 2,000 lives. Her arm rose and without even thinking she struck her face as hard as she could with her open palm. She deserved this. She deserved the pain and the hurt. She was a murderer.

She slapped herself again, dwelling in that pain, knowing that she was only getting what she deserved – no, less than what she deserved; a fraction of the misery that she deserved at best. She reared back for yet another slap, but stopped as a recent memory stole over her: a memory of her by Chloe's graveside in another moment of self harm as her phone beeped, revealing a text from Victoria.

Victoria: I see you do that one more time, I'm dragging you out of here.

In relative time, Max had received that text less than an hour earlier. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Dog, she missed that Victoria. Yet, she was just one more casualty of Max's latest jump. Max hesitated, her hand still raised, palm open, ready to slap herself yet again; but she couldn't do it. That Victoria wouldn't have wanted this.

Like you know what she would have wanted. She would've wanted to live, wouldn't she, Max?

But she wouldn't have lived even if Max had stayed. Max knew this, but knowing something logically and knowing it emotionally were two very different things.

Max hugged her knees, willing her trembling form to still and her breaths to calm. She only had a few minutes. She needed to learn as much as she could about this timeline and what she had been up to since the seventh of October. This was her life now and she needed to play the part.

Her hand still shaking, she pulled out her phone and opened up her messages. The most recent texts were with Kristen and Fernando. She glanced briefly over the last day's worth of messages, but they were utilitarian at best, mainly focused on plans to meet up at the Pike Street Market on Thursday the 19th to celebrate the end of the semester. Fernando hated texting, being even more of a retro hipster than Max. She was lucky he even texted at all, the way he avoided modern technology. If left to his own devices the boy wouldn't even have a phone. He had only had one since 2011, when he finally compromised with his parents and settled on a flip phone with the bare minimum accessibility. Kristen, well, she had no aversion to technology, she had just always been a bit practical in her communication, her friendship conveyed through proximity and gossip more than an outpouring of emotion. In many ways, Kristen reminded Max of a strange amalgamation of Alyssa and Dana; yet she tried not to dwell on those similarities. It only brought forth images of Alyssa stranded in the wreckage off Main Street as the storm closed in on Arcadia Bay. Max had saved her then; but without her there in this timeline, Max doubted that Alyssa had survived the storm.

Nope. No time for that.

Max banged her head back against the divider again, then paused, trying to remind herself that Victoria would not have wanted this for her. The reminder rang as false now as it had the first time, calling up instead memories of the girl dying in her arms, begging not to be left alone. Max swallowed back the lump forming in her throat and flipped further down her messages.

There were plenty from both her mother and father, but these too were mainly of a practical nature. Texting her to come down to dinner. Letting her know they would be home late. Asking (telling) her when she'd be home. Nothing unusual or overly informative there; at least not in the most recent messages.

It looks like this Max settled very quickly back into her Seattle home life.

Lovely.

The next message chain, however, came as a surprise, the contact name causing Max's throat to constrict: Victoria. She had survived. It wouldn't be her Victoria, not the girl that she had befriended over the last two months, but some version of her was still alive.

Max's eyes watered and she swallowed back the building lump in her throat once more. Yes, this wasn't her Victoria, but she was still alive and Max couldn't help but to be overwhelmed knowing that at least one of her Arcadia Bay friends had made it through the storm – different as that friend might be from the one that she remembered.

She opened the text chain, and felt her stomach drop. It was as she suspected. The Queen Bee still reigned supreme.


Victoria: BTW THANX BUT WERE NOT FRIENDS

10/7/13 – 5:02 pm

Victoria: HI. HEARD U MADE IT

THANX 4 REACHING OUT

12/15/13 – 4:18 pm

Max: I'm so sorry. I should have. I didn't know what to say.

12/15/13 – 9:43 pm

Victoria: WHATEVER

12/15/13 – 9:46 pm


There were no further texts with Victoria. At least Max could assume she had comforted Victoria in October instead of taking a picture of her covered in paint. That was one puzzle piece, no matter how minor. It didn't do much to make her feel better however.

Yet, the next chain was just as much of a surprise if not more so than the small string of texts with Victoria, and even more a blow to the gut. There were more messages with this contact — plenty enough to begin to paint a picture.


David Madsen: This is Mr. Madsen. I can't reach Chloe. Is she with you, Max?

10/11/13 – 1:23 pm

David Madsen: Max, I hope you're okay. If Chloe is with you, please let me know. I NEED to talk to her.

10/11/13 – 9:58 pm

David Madsen: I spoke with your parents. They haven't heard from you. If you're alive, call them. They should know.

10/12/13 – 4:21 pm

David Madsen: My phone ran out of power. Just got back online. Your parents said you're with Chloe. Please have her call me.

10/16/13 – 9:16 am

Max: She's not ready.

10/16/13 – 11:15 am

David Madsen: I need to speak to her.

10/17/13 – 9:18 am

David Madsen: Please.

10/18/13 – 9:14 am

David Madsen: Thank you, Max.

10/18/13 – 5:15 pm

Max: You're welcome.

10/18/13 – 6:49 pm

David Madsen: Chloe won't respond. I'm coming up.

11/01/13 – 9:18 am

Max: Don't.

11/01/13 –10:19 am

David Madsen: I'm outside.

11/01/13 – 2:35 pm

Max: How do you know where I live?

11/01/13 –2:48 pm

David Madsen: Just let me in. I know she's here.

11/01/13 – 2:49 pm

Max: I'm at school.

11/01/13 –2:53 pm

David Madsen: I'll wait.

11/01/13 – 2:53 pm

David Madsen: Sorry to cause your family grief. I overstepped.

I'm taking some time to myself. Reach out if you or Chloe need anything.

11/04/13 – 9:15 am

David Madsen: Chloe seemed in a bad way. Is she back yet?

12/ 9/13 – 9:18 am

Max: A bad way how?

12/ 9/13 – 9:20 am

David Madsen: She didn't take the funeral well.

12/ 9/13 – 9:21 am

Max: She raged?

12/ 9/13 – 9:21 am

David Madsen: Worse. Didn't say a word. Didn't explode. Nothing.

Text me when she gets back.

12/ 9/13 – 9:21 am

David Madsen: Anything?

12/ 10/13 – 9:14 am

Max: Nothing

If you hear from her, tell me.

12/ 10/13 – 9:15 am

David Madsen: Of course. The same.

12/ 10/13 – 9:15 am

Max: She's safe.

12/ 10/13 – 8:12 pm

David Madsen: She's back?

12/ 10/13 – 8:15 pm

Max: No.

12/ 10/13 – 8:16 pm

Max: Needs time away.

12/ 10/13 – 8:18 pm

David Madsen: She'll be back, Max. I've heard how she talks about you. This is just Chloe. She yells or she runs away, but she'll come home.

12/ 10/13 – 8:20 pm

Max: I hope so.

12/ 10/13 – 8:31 pm

David Madsen: Anything?

12/ 15/13 – 9:17 am

Max: No.

12/ 15/13 – 9:18 am

David Madsen: Give her time. That's what Joyce always told me.

12/ 15/13 – 9:20 am


Well, fuck. It seemed Chloe and Max had left Arcadia Bay together, but Chloe didn't seem to be in a good place. At least the texts with Mr. Madsen were revealing. Obviously, Joyce had died in the storm - most likely in the diner. That meant Warren and Frank had probably been killed as well. Beyond that, it seemed as though Chloe had been staying with Max, at least until a little over a week ago, when she left for Joyce's funeral. Since then, well, Max would have to keep digging to figure that out.

Max paused, leaning back against the divider. Her breathing had slowed, eased down by the focus on the messages, but she could still feel herself shaking, and her throat still constricted as she tried to process all that had happened. She had come back. She had saved Chloe from Nathan, then seemingly lived that week. Then the storm had come, killing Joyce and Warren and Frank and so many others (1,747 others to be precise, Max; 1,990 others if you assume the missing are dead), and from there, she and Chloe had fled back to Seattle, taking their time to get there, only for David to show up in early November and cause some sort of trouble at the Caulfield house. Then, sometime before the ninth of December, Chloe left to attend her mother's funeral, and she hadn't been back since.

Great. I sacrificed a whole town, and Chloe's not even here.

Max bit down on her tongue, the pain chasing out that thought. It wasn't right. She sacrificed Arcadia Bay so that Chloe could live, not so that they could play house. Chloe didn't owe her anything; and if she were Chloe, she sure wouldn't pick Max. She was a murderer; a monster. Chloe deserved better.

"Maxi? It's been five minutes."

Max hadn't even heard the door open. She needed to get out of her own head.

"Five more?" she asked.

"Fern should be here in a few. I'll call when he's here."

"Thanks."

"You sure…" Kristen's voice broke and Max winced, knowing this pain, too, was on her. "You sure you don't want me to stay?"

"No," Max managed. She didn't want to hurt Kristen, but she was not ready to share. "Not yet."

"Okay, Max. I'll… I'll be outside."

The door clicked shut somewhere on the other side of the stall, leaving Max once more with her thoughts and her phone. Her thoughts, however, were a terrible spiral of shame and guilt and self-loathing that were doing nothing to help. Her phone at least held answers.

She clicked back to her messages, scrolling down past David's name to the next in the list: Hayden.

Well, the surprises just keep coming.


Hayden: Just found out you and Chloe Price managed to extricate yourselves from Dodge unscathed. Glad to hear our retro selfie master and our master of graffiti are safe and accounted for.

12/12/13 – 4:26 am

Max: Are you high? It's nearly 4:30 in the morning.

12/12/13 – 4:29 am

Hayden: The question, my fellow Blackwell survivor, is are you high?

12/12/13 – 4:30 am

Max: No

12/12/13 – 4:30 am

Hayden: No what?

12/12/13 – 4:31 am

Max: No, I'm not high

12/12/13 – 4:31 am

Hayden: who is this?

12/12/13 – 4:32 am

Max: Max

12/12/13 – 4:33 am

Hayden: Whoa! Max Caulfield. Retro Selfie Master! I heard you made it out of Dodge.

12/12/13 – 4:38 am

Max: Yes. Yes I did.

Glad to hear from you, Hayden. I'm happy you're okay.

12/12/13 – 4:39 am

Hayden: You, too. Us survivors need to keep close; commiserate and overcome and all of that shit.

12/12/13 – 4:40 am

Max: Yes. We should definitely do that.

Sometime after 9 am

12/12/13 – 4:41 am

Hayden: Cool, cool. I'll be in touch.

12/12/13 – 4:42 am


And apparently that's the last I heard from him, Max thought. So much for keeping in touch. Of course, it had only been a week, and it's not like she and Hayden had been close.

Leaving that mystery to lie, Max scrolled further down, and at the next name her breath caught and a deep sense of fear stole over her. Chloe. She had last texted Chloe on December 11th. Eight days ago.

Something had happened between them, and Max dreaded finding out what. Yet there was really no other recourse, was there? She had to check her messages from Chloe.

Now or never, she thought. Because I might as well be cliche about it.

Taking a deep breath, and doing her best to hold her hand steady – and to keep her self-loathing thoughts at bay – Max clicked into her texts with Chloe.