TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter deals with loss, grief, and references to acts of torture. There are no vivid descriptions, but please proceed with caution.

When the panic seeped out of the air, it took the space between sounds with it. All the voices seemed to blend together, weaving between the sirens and car horns and cell phones until it was just a thick blanket of white noise. None of it was important anyway. There were only two threads that peeked above the rest, two voices that some part of my consciousness was following loosely.

"Anything from Boyd and Erica?"

"They're still not answering. Either of them."

"Well, they're running, right? Maybe they turned their phones off."

"No, they wouldn't have done that. Not with everything that's going on. They want out, but…if it came down to it, they would have come back. At least, I hope they would have."

"Hey. They're gonna be fine."

"Yeah. Well, that doesn't change the fact that we're the only ones who can fix this."

"We just have to wait until everyone leaves. They'll take Jackson to the hospital, and then everyone will clear out."

"And then what? How exactly are we supposed to go around looking for Stiles?"

"By scent."

"Yeah, I—I don't know how to do that."

"It's okay. It's like an instinct. I just have to break into his locker so we have something to go off of."

"Okay, say that works. Where do we start?"

"Well, last time the Argents took someone was when Kate had Derek. I figure if we head toward the old Hale house—"

"No, the Argents won't be there."

"What? How do you know?"

"Because that's where we've been hiding this week."

"At his house? That was Derek's super-secret hiding spot for you guys?"

"It's got defenses. Besides, after the hunters cleared out a few months ago, he figured they wouldn't think to come back."

"Okay, then…I guess we'll just start around here. It's the last place we know he was."

"And what are we supposed to do with…you know…?"

"She can't come with us."

"Why not?"

"Because we're gonna be running. None of us have a car, and we can't take the Jeep because it's probably considered evidence. Sadie will just slow us down."

"Can you two not talk about me like I'm not here?"

Isaac and Scott turned to look at me. They'd finally been able to coax me off the top of the van, back to the bleachers where I could sit with my head between my knees. Mom had come with me, rubbing my shoulders and trying to comfort me without fully understanding why I was having a breakdown. Scott had promised to watch me while she gave the police a formal statement. That left the three of us—Scott and Isaac trying to come up with some semblance of a plan while I stared at my feet, picking stray pieces of craft glitter off the trampled posterboard I'd been holding above my head just a few minutes ago. I hadn't even gotten to ask if he liked it.

"Well, it would help if you spoke up," Isaac offered. He crossed his arms over his chest, but took a few steps toward me to include me in the conversation.

"I'm not staying here."

"Sadie, you're not gonna be able to keep up with us," Scott said gently. "Your mom's definitely not gonna give you the car, and we have to—"

"Stop pretending you don't know where he is."

I put the sign aside and clasped my hands in front of me, trying to ignore the way my fingers were twitching. It wasn't out of shock anymore. Now I could finally feel my fear beginning the dangerous process of solidifying into pure rage.

"Stiles is gone," I stated, staring across the field. "Gerard is gone. Boyd and Erica are gone. And in case you haven't noticed, so are all the other hunters that were here. And Allison. And her dad. It's probably all hands on deck with three hostages to torture."

"No." Scott looked calm, but I could tell by the edge in his voice that it was more denial than correction. "Look, if—if Gerard was going to do something, he'd want us to know, right? So…Stiles is fine. They've still gotta follow the code."

"There is no code anymore. Only vengeance and survival."

I could feel Scott watching me with concern, but I kept my gaze straight ahead.

"Well, then there's Allison. She won't let anything happen to him."

"Scott, you heard her threaten to murder me if I got in her way. I'm honestly not sure I'd put anything past her right now. For all we know, this was her idea."

"Wait, Allison threatened you?" Isaac asked. "I mean…I knew I missed a few things when I was hiding but...wow…"

I finally looked up at the two of them—Isaac's shock, Scott's grim determination. I held his gaze, each of us willing the other to understand. I couldn't afford to think so optimistically, but Scott refused to think the worst of Allison. It left us at a standstill.

"Your mom's coming back," he said finally, his ears perking up. "We've gotta decide now."

I wanted to stand my ground, but I already knew the outcome. There was nothing I wanted more than to find Stiles, but I wouldn't be able to do it on my own. Once more, I found myself fleetingly regretting my decision to pass on the bite. I couldn't keep up with Isaac and Scott. I couldn't run or fight or sniff Stiles out. I didn't have a car and I didn't have a gun. What good was I to anyone like this?

"Promise me you'll go straight to their house," I demanded. "It's the best place to start."

"I promise," Scott said without the slightest hesitation. "Sadie, I promise we'll find him. Just stay with Lydia, and make sure no one's looking too closely at Jackson. We don't know what could be happening to his body."

By the time I found the energy to nod, Mom was already drawing level with us, patting the shoulder of Scott's bulky lacrosse pads in an effort to show her support. "Well, I'm sorry I didn't get to see you play most of the game, Mr. Co-Captain. Sadie says you're pretty amazing on the field."

"It's okay," he said with a shrug. "If it wasn't for Sadie, I probably would have ended up on academic suspension a long time ago."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true."

I didn't have the energy to smirk, or to even meet Scott's eye. It wasn't that Scott was a bad student, but between lacrosse practice and creatures of the night, none of us had a lot of time to study. It was a miracle we hadn't been failing for months.

"Well, congratulations on the game," Mom continued. "Both of you. You both played very well."

It seemed all Scott could do was not, so Isaac stepped in with a smile. "Thanks, Mrs. Bennet. We should probably head in, though. Pack up."

"Of course, go ahead. And…Scott?" The boys stopped for a moment, and she rested her hand on his arm. "I'm sure they'll find him. It's gonna be okay."

"Yeah. Thanks, Mrs. Bennet."

Scott looked over at me and nodded. Then he and Isaac disappeared into the locker rooms.

Mom sighed, taking a seat on the bench next to me and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. We sat like that for a few moments, rocking back and forth. I pressed my face into the arm of her sweater. The scent of laundry detergent still clung to the fabric, which helped soothe my headache away.

"Am I supposed to know the tall one?"

I sniffed, my lips twitching up into a reluctant smile. "That's Isaac. He lived across the street from…from Jackson."

"Wait, that's Isaac? No. No way." She frowned after him, looking extremely confused. "I swear he wasn't always that tall…was he?"

"It's fine, Mom. Don't worry about it."

"Okay. How ya feeling, sweetie?"

I decided to shrug instead of answering her, staring down at my hands. The red glitter stuck to my skin. It was impossible to shake off, impossible to distract myself.

"Sadie, I'm sure Stiles is fine."

"Yeah. Like Jackson's fine."

"What? No! Sadie—look, I don't know what happened to Jackson, but I doubt it has anything to do with Stiles disappearing. God, sweetheart, is that why you're so worried?"

I didn't answer her. I knew full well what had happened to Jackson, and I knew that it had everything to do with Stiles disappearing. In fact, Jackson's death was the reason Stiles had disappeared. We were all looking one way and the Argents has whisked Stiles in the other. As hard as I wracked my brains, I kept coming to the same conclusion. Gerard had given up his most lethal weapon without a fight. If he was willing to sacrifice his queen, then he had a long game set up on the board; that didn't bode well for Stiles.

I knew, in my bones, that I was being punished. Stiles was being taken from me just like I'd taken Kate from Gerard. Like I'd taken Victoria from Allison. I'd been self-centered to think it would come down to me. I just sat by and let him get taken, and now Stiles could be…

"I'm sure that—that Stiles is just nervous because of the game," Mom said, giving me a squeeze. "You said he can get like that, right? With all the attention? It was his first big game and he's probably all flushed with adrenaline and nerves and Lord knows what else. He probably just needed some time alone to calm down. And Jackson…God, I don't know what happened to Jackson. That poor kid."

"Yeah."

It was all I could get out. Sitting next to my mother and looking out at the field, my brain replayed the image of the EMTs lifting Jackson's limp body onto a stretcher and carrying him away. I remembered arguing with Jackson about the rules of lacrosse versus football. I remembered punching him in the face after Isaac had been arrested. I remembered the sympathetic look he'd sent me when we'd both been roped into decoration duty for another one of Lydia's bashes. I remembered driving him to the hospital when the scratches on his next were keeping him up at night. I remembered watching from my window as he picked Lydia up for a date, smiling freely because he thought no one was looking, before we'd been officially introduced. I remembered sitting in the transport van with him, trying to convince him of what he was, wondering whether we could ever be friends again after everything he'd done.

I guess I'd gotten my answer.

Mom grabbed my hands, pulling them apart so I would stop picking at the skin. "You sure you don't want to move away from Beacon Hills?"

"Right now, all I want to do is find Lydia."

She kissed my head, helping me to my feet and grabbing Stiles's sign before I could reach for it. She tucked it carefully under her arm, then nudged my lower back. "Go on. I'll go put this in the car."

I gravitated toward the ambulance. There was still a crowd around it, though it was thinning with every passing minute. I caught glimpses of Lydia's hair in the gaps between bystanders, but not before I heard her voice carrying over the clamor.

"What do you mean you don't know what happened? I need to know exactly what happened! I need someone to tell me! Why can't anyone tell me what's going on? I don't care if it's official, I don't care if it's against policy, and I don't care if it's family only! Tell me what you know!"

"Lydia, stop."

I grabbed her arm before she could maul the EMT she was so calmly speaking to. Lydia rounded on me, wide eyes still red. She had a hospital blanket draped over her shoulders to help with the shock. Judging by her grip on its edges, it was also to make sure she had an outlet for her anger that was not someone else's flesh.

"No! Sadie, they—they won't tell me anything! They won't tell me what's wrong with him!"

"They have to take him back to the hospital. Then they can officially—"

"I don't care if it's official! I want to know now!"

"Lyd—"

"Fine," she said hastily, shaking her head at me. "Fine, I'll find someone else to tell me. I'll find someone else."

Lydia stormed away and the crowd parted for her like the Red Sea. I wanted to go after her, but before I could, Mrs. McCall appeared at my side. She warded me back with a gentle arm.

"You might not want to do that. I think she needs a little more time to process everything."

"That bad?" I asked wryly, wrapping my arms around my torso.

"Honestly? She's doing a lot better than I'd expect from most people. She's certainly feisty."

"Yeah, that's for sure."

Mrs. McCall tried to give me a smile, though her panic twisted it into a grimace. "Any news on Stiles?"

"Uh…no. Not yet."

"Is that as bad as I think it is?"

"Probably." I glanced around, taking a few steps closer to her and lowering my voice. "Listen…no one at the hospital can know what really happened to Jackson."

"Sadie, they're gonna have to examine him," she said with a doubtful look. "A lot of people are gonna have a lot of questions, myself in included. Someone is going to notice that something's up."

I bit my lip, weighing our options. Another tragic, teenage death was not going to go unnoticed. Jackson was well-known, and his parents were big people. There would be a full-scale investigation, officers combing through evidence with a fine-tooth comb, probably an autopsy. I didn't want to think about the weird things doctors might find if they cut Jackson open.

So far we'd been able to avoid most of the tough questions, but that was pure luck. Having Mrs. McCall at the hospital as an inside man would help, but there wasn't much that one nurse could do to change the tide. Then again, she wasn't the only person at Beacon Hills Memorial who had dealt with werewolves.

"Take him to Fenris. He'll know what to do."

"Fenris? As in Doctor Conrad Fenris, who I work with?" Mrs. McCall's eyebrows rose dangerously close to her curls. "He knows about all of this?"

"Uh…sort of…?"

In an instant, her look of disbelief changed to suspicion. "Why do I feel like that's not a story I want to hear?"

I smiled, remembering how Stiles and Scott had cowered behind me when Fenris pulled a gun on us after we'd broken into his kitchen.

"I'm sure Scott will explain everything later."

"Uh huh. Great." Mrs. McCall pressed a hand to her forehead and shot a quick glance to the ambulance behind her. "Okay, alright. Fenris. Anything else?"

"I don't think so. Thanks, Mrs. McCall."

She watched me for a moment, and the sympathy in her gaze made it hard to keep smiling. That kind of sympathy only came during really bad situations, when people were sure there was no way to help you or offer you hope.

Mrs. McCall fumbled with her purse, pulling out a pen and what looked like half of a ripped receipt. She scribbled with difficulty, and cursed when the pen tore right through the paper, but after a few seconds she handed me what was left.

"Here's my phone number, in case anything comes up. You call me with any updates. Like when you find Stiles." Something on my face must have betrayed my doubt, because she grabbed my hand without hesitation. "Hey, I mean that. You're going to find him, and when you do, you call me. And tell him I'll kick his ass if he disappears like this again, MVP or not."

I nodded, trying my best to hold back any tears headed for my cheeks. "Okay. Thanks again, Mrs. McCall. Really."

"Sadie, you can call me Melissa. I think we've reached that point." She smiled, squeezing my hand briefly before she backed up to the ambulance. "Good luck. Let me know if you need anything."

At her dismissal, I headed back toward the van. It almost felt like I was still learning to walk. My head was miles away, split in seven different places as I mentally searched the town for other places the Argents might have stashed Stiles. I barely felt the asphalt under my feet. Melissa's reassurance hadn't…well, reassured me, but it did feel like it had grounded me. I wasn't lost or floating. I had an objective, and I would follow through.

Mom appeared around the front of the van, looking around wildly as I approached. "Where's Lydia?"

"What do you mean, where's Lydia? She's…"

I turned on the spot, expecting to spot fiery hair somewhere nearby, but Lydia was nowhere to be found in the lingering crowd. I listened for a moment, but couldn't hear her either—no shrill voice demanding answers or dishing out threats. Then, as the ambulance rolled into motion, I caught sight of the spot where she'd illegally parked her car earlier. Empty.

I sighed in relief. "Mom, she's fine."

"What? How—"

"Her car's gone. She's probably halfway to the hospital already to get her answers."

"Before Jackson gets there?"

"Don't ask me to explain. We need to go."

"Woah! Okay, hold on!" Mom held up both hands, blocking my path to the driver's seat. "You think I'm letting your drive in this state? Uh-uh, missy. Let's go. Passenger side."

Enduring my mother's law-abiding driving during a crisis was one of the last things I wanted to do in that moment, but because it was still a step above staying in the parking lot and doing nothing, I relented. I climbed into the passenger seat and tucked my knees up under my chin.

He had to be okay. He would be fine.

Mom usually drove a respectable amount above the speed limit. It might have been my own nervous imagination, but that trip to the hospital felt like a sluggish crawl. I couldn't bring myself to look at the numbers. The lines on the road whipped by, but every time I checked, we'd only made it a few blocks. I wanted to grab the wheel, slam my foot on the gas, and force time to move faster. I kept my head on my knees and stared out the window instead.

Jackson's body beat us to the hospital. That much was plain by the nurses shuffling down the hallway in groups, whispering to each other with horrified expressions. We followed the trail of orderlies and finally found ourselves in the waiting room. Groups of semi-familiar faces lined the walls, sitting in chairs or pacing nervously. Danny was crying openly, comforted by his on-again-off-again boyfriend, Bryan. Coach Finstock was pacing up and down the hallway, his hair becoming more wild with every lap. One of the nurses behind the counter was on the phone, trying in vain to reach Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore. And Lydia sat in one of the waiting room chairs, staring a hole into the tile at her feet.

"Lydia, thank God," Mom sighed in relief. She ran over and pulled Lydia out of her seat, hugging her tightly. "Don't ever do that again. What were you thinking? Everything that's going on and you drive away without telling anyone? You shouldn't be driving like this! None of you should be going anywhere!"

"No one will tell me anything." Lydia's voice was weak. She avoided my mother's gaze, still staring into space as she rocked on her feet. "I—I need to know what happened, and no one will tell me anything."

"Sweetheart, I don't think anyone will know for sure until they finish the examination."

"No, you don't understand, I need to know! I need to know what happened to him!"

"Okay," I said, stepping in to grab Lydia's arm. "Mom, could you maybe get us a few water bottles?"

"Sadie—"

"Please? We'll be right here."

She hesitated, but with Lydia pulling away from her and huddling closer to me, she seemed to understand that we needed to be alone. She nodded, lamely patted Lydia on the back, and walked off to give us some privacy.

I helped Lydia back into her chair and sat down next to her. "Hey, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, Lyd."

"H-how can you say that? How is anything going to be okay? Jackson's…Jackson is…"

But she couldn't bring herself to say the word. That, at least, I could understand

"God, Lydia, I'm so sorry."

"It's all my fault. If—if I hadn't gotten so caught up in the game—"

"Lydia, no. That's not your fault. We were all thinking about the game. That's what Gerard wanted. It's his fault, and no one else's."

I squeezed her hand, willing myself to believe the words. We hadn't done anything. We'd done nothing.

"Look, we'll—we'll figure something out."

"Like what?" Lydia asked, wiping her eyes and scoffing. "What can anyone here do?"

I looked around the room again: Danny, Bryan, Coach, all our classmates and teachers. Lydia was right. For someone who had been such a colossal asshole the past few months, if not the past few years of his life, there were a lot of people who had shown up to wait at the hospital. They'd pronounced Jackson dead before they took him off the field. The ambulance hadn't rushed. Jackson had left in a body bag, not hooked up to any special equipment, clinging to life. There was nothing to wait for. We all knew that. And yet, no one seemed ready to go home.

"I'm the only one who can do anything."

I turned to Lydia in surprise, but she still wasn't looking at me. She'd gone back to looking at the floor, hands clasped in front of her—just as I'd been sitting on the lacrosse field.

"That's why I need to know what happened to him," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. "If I know exactly what happened to him…"

"Lydia, you do know what happened to him. You're one of the only people who does. There's nothing you can do."

"Can't I? I…I brought Peter back, right?"

I felt the bottom of my stomach drop out. All the time I'd spent numb on the lacrosse field—not screaming, not crying, not reacting at all—finally seemed to catch up to me at the same moment. I clasped a shaking hand over my mouth as Lydia blurred in and out of focus. She didn't even notice that I was crying. She was focusing all her attention on her last ember of hope.

"I don't know what I am, but—but if I could bring him back, then I can bring Jackson back. So it doesn't matter if he's dead, b-because I can bring him back."

"Lydia, I—I don't think that's how it works…"

"That's how it works. I—I know it. He's gonna be fine. He has to be fine. Sadie, he—h-he…"

She looked up at me in desperation. But my face was answer enough.

Lydia burst into tears, and I pulled her into my chest. It was hard to say which one of us was crying harder. It felt like we were destined to be like that forever, one life mirroring the other's tragedies. We'd both lost our fathers in the same month, and now here we were, crying in our small town hospital because we'd lost our boyfriends on the same day. Crippling hopelessness crept in on all sides. It felt like we were trapped in the same never-ending cycle.

Our crying caused a scene. Danny and Bryan moved over to sit with us, and my mom fussed when she returned with the water bottles. Coach patted me on the shoulder, then returned to pacing on the other side of the room to give us and our emotions a wide berth. We sat together, the pain eased ever so slightly by our solidarity. It was still an eternity before anyone came to answer our questions.

Lydia had fallen asleep on Danny's shoulder. He held her hand, running his thumb over her fingers while Bryan did the same for him. Mom had gone off to explain the situation to Natalie, who'd shown up in a panic when we'd never come back from the game. I was sitting alone in my thoughts, trying to shut them down, trying to wake up so I could do something, anything that would make me feel useful.

The sound of footsteps made me look up, and I finally saw Sheriff Stilinski making his way toward us. He looked exhausted. All of the enthusiasm and energy from the lacrosse game had vanished, leaving him looking a lot older. He wiped a hand down his face, and was reluctant to meet my eyes when he drew level with us.

"How are you kids holding up?"

"How does it look like we're holding up?" Danny asked flatly. I shot him a scolding look, and he sunk back in his chair.

"Not great," I answered, turning back to the sheriff. I nodded to the notebook he was tapping against his leg. "Any news?"

Sheriff Stilinski hesitated, looking at each of us in turn. Finally he sighed and tucked the book away in his jacket.

"They're thinking there might have been foul play. His stomach was in pretty bad shape, not something anyone could have done with their bare hands. How anyone would have been able to do something that quickly, I don't know, but…with everyone focused on the game, it looks like they found the time."

"Who would have done that?" Danny asked, his voice on the verge of breaking.

"I don't know. Those…those are just the preliminary findings. We won't know anything for certain until…well, until later. You kids can't think of anyone who wanted to hurt him?"

Bryan shook his head. After a moment, so did Danny. I did nothing. I couldn't bring myself to lie.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Sheriff Stilinski sighed. He looked at Lydia for a moment, her tear-soaked face pressed into Danny's shoulder as she slept. He nodded to himself, and finally turned back to me. "Sadie, could I…could I talk to you for a sec?"

I wasn't entirely surprised. I nodded, following him out of the waiting room and down to a more private part of the hallway. I felt like it was winter formal again, everyone confused and desperate, lives hanging in the balance. This time, the sheriff dropped his professionalism from the start. As soon as we stopped, he turned around to give me a hug. I wasn't sure if it was meant to comfort me or himself, but he squeezed me tight enough that I held my breath. When he pulled back, he held me out at arm's length.

"You okay?"

I thought about telling him that I was fine, if only to put him at ease, by my head was already shaking back and forth.

"Yeah. Me too." He squeezed my shoulder and his arms dropped to his sides. "You haven't heard anything? Nothing from Stiles?"

I shook my head again, which seemed to be the answer he expected. Part of me wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, even though I knew that it wouldn't. Part of me knew that I should really be the one comforting him. From his perspective, whoever had attacked Jackson was the number one suspect in Stiles's disappearance. He wasn't entirely wrong, but I couldn't tell him that. Not when his son could be in even more danger than he realized. Instead, we both stood there, thinking about lying, but deciding against it.

"It's like I can't feel anything," I said suddenly. "It's like…I'm so worried about finding him that I can't even worry about it. I'm just sitting here watching everything happen around me, and there's nothing I can do—for Stiles, for Jackson, for Lydia and…I feel like I'm going out of my mind. It's just like…it's…just like the day my dad died…"

I ducked my head, feeling worse now that I'd articulated it out loud. I knew something terrible was happening. I knew that I had to do something. And I couldn't move. If Stiles turned up dead, everyone would comfort me in the same way, saying that it wasn't my fault, that I there was nothing I could have done. I had to do something.

"You think you'd feel better if you got out of the hospital?" Sheriff Stilinski asked.

I shrugged, burying my face in my hands. I kept them pressed over my face, trying to breathe through my palms. When that became too difficult, I tilted my head back and pushed the hair out of my face. I didn't want to start crying again, but teetering on the edge, all the pressure building up inside of me—that was almost just as bad.

The sheriff watched me carefully, hands in his pockets.

"There's not much more I can do here until they get ahold of Jackson's parents, and…I don't want to be stuck here either. I thought I might head home, call Stiles, try to see if I can find anything that might point to where he'd go. If you want, uh…I wouldn't mind some help."

I lifted my head, taken aback, but the sheriff was being earnest. He wanted help, didn't mind the idea of bringing me into his home. I guess, at the heart of it, he didn't want to be alone. Alone missing his son when hopelessness would set in. Being with someone who might miss Stiles as much as he did…at least we'd have a good reason to put on a brave face.

I nodded, and Sheriff Stilinski smiled. "Okay. Okay, then let's—let's find your mom."

He steered me back to the waiting room with a hand on my shoulder. Bryan, Danny, and Lydia were still sitting where we'd left them, though Lydia had woken up. Mom and Natalie were speaking in hushed voices on the opposite side of the room. They looked over sharply when we reappeared.

I was grateful for the hesitation in the sheriff's step. I gently rolled his hand off my shoulder, letting him deal with my mom while I walked back over to my friends.

"He give you a hard time?" Bryan asked, nodding toward the sheriff.

"Are you kidding?" Danny scoffed. "She's dating his kid. I'm pretty sure he likes her better than Stiles."

"Shut up," I said with a tired smile.

Danny held up his hands. "Sorry. Did…did they find him?"

"No. Not yet. But I think I'm gonna go with the sheriff. If anyone finds Stiles, he'll be the first to know."

"You're leaving?" Lydia asked weakly.

I squatted in front of her, choosing my words carefully as Danny and Bryan watched on. "Lydia, I can't sit here and do nothing. But I don't want you to feel like I'm leaving you behind again. If you want to come, you can."

Lydia bit her lip, glancing over my head at the hallway that lead to the morgue. She didn't say anything. I nodded and rubbed her knee reassuringly.

"It's okay. You should stay with him. I'm only a phone call away if you need anything. And if you need…anything else…Scott's mom is around somewhere."

Lydia nodded while Danny rolled his eyes. "And we're here too. Not that that's important."

I stood up, kissing Lydia and Danny each on the cheek. Bryan received a stiff nod. Danny could get back together with him as many times as he wanted. It was my job to continue not liking him.

I drifted across the room, walking up to the group of parents as they all quickly went silent. I grimaced. "You guys don't have to stop talking about me. I get it."

That made them smile, though mom still looked sick with sympathy. "Are you sure you don't want to stay, sweetie?"

"Oh, Claire, take Sadie and get out of here," Natalie sighed. "There's nothing you two can do. Lydia and I will stay here and find Jackson's parents. Go find that poor boy. We'll be fine."

She gave my mother a pointed look and patted the sheriff on the shoulder. Then she headed back the way I'd come, taking my seat next to Lydia and wrapping a protective arm around her.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Mom asked Sheriff Stilinski yet again. "I know it's a very hectic time, and I'd never want to impose—"

"I'm positive," he said stoutly. "Sadie's always been a pleasure. I don't mind at all."

"Okay, well…I guess we'll follow your lead. Come on, sweetie."

I was thankful that we were following the squad car, so I didn't have to give my mom directions. The drive was quiet, and I stayed balled up in my seat, staring out the window. Mom tapped anxiously on the steering wheel; I could tell she was nervous about intruding upon someone else's space, but she wasn't about to tell the sheriff how he needed to grieve.

When the Stilinski house finally rolled into view, I expected it to feel like a punch to the gut. But it didn't. It was just Stiles's house. It was the same numbness I'd felt when we lost dad, not quite comprehending what that might mean yet.

"Sorry about the mess," Sheriff Stilinski said as we filed into the dining room. "We're not really used to guests."

Mom waved a hand. "It's not a problem. Robbie used to be the same way with his paperwork. I know the drill."

"Can I get you guys anything? Uh, coffee, water…?"

"You know, I—I could make some coffee if you'd like," Mom offered. "I mean, if you guys wanted to start looking. I don't mind."

"Oh no, I wouldn't ask—"

"Noah, it's just coffee. It's the least I can do, really."

Eventually, Sheriff Stilinski relented, moving back to the kitchen to show her where everything was. I wandered away, my feet carrying my automatically to Stiles's bedroom. I hesitated in the door.

Everything looked the same. Stiles could have stepped out for a moment, and any second he'd be running back to apologize for the clutter. His laundry was still scattered on the floor, papers still spread over his desk. His bed was unmade, and the bright yellow wrapping paper from my birthday gift was unravelling on the floor next to his dresser, disappearing under a pile of abandoned objects.

I strayed over to the heap, looking around at the bright bags of clothes, stacks of comic books, bottles of perfume. There were a dozen different bracelets splayed across the dresser, spilling onto the floor with rings and necklaces. A box with a flat screen TV blocked most of the closet, next to a tower of video games stacked about twenty high. Three different paint-by-number kits, a pile of fake flowers, a bouquet of real flowers, still wrapped in their plastic bag and beginning to wilt, a stuffed wolf, and five different flannels, all dotting the floor and blocking out any inch of the carpet. Stiles was usually a mess, but this was especially chaotic.

"I told him he didn't need to buy all that."

I barely jumped as Sheriff Stilinski walked into the room behind me. He joined me at the edge of the debris, tired hands resting on his hips.

"He really wanted you to have a good birthday."

"…Me?"

"Well, most of it's for you. I think he bought some of it for your friend, Lydia. Turns out when it came down to it, he couldn't figure out what she'd like. Everything else…I'm pretty sure he's been collecting gifts for you since Christmas. He just kept finding something better, and it all uh…built up…God, I hope he's got a receipt for that TV. I don't know where he gets half these things."

I wanted to laugh, but something else had caught my attention in the hoard of objects. I could only see a bit of it, stuffed in the closet behind the bulk of the TV: the corner of a canvas, smeared with purple and brown paint. I grabbed it without invitation.

Most of it was still blank. The violet at the edges was poorly mixed, dark purple and white streaking unevenly over the canvas like pulled peppermint. There was a scratchy blotch on one of the corners, a shape ruined by the brush's frustration. A blob of brown stretched down from the center, messy tresses with lopsided highlights tumbling one over the other. It wasn't neat or detailed, but the shade was unmistakable.

Sheriff Stilinski chuckled behind me. "I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be a portrait. Painting's never been his strong suit, but hey. You've gotta give him credit for trying."

The canvas blurred in front of my eyes, one color blending into the next until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the pile on the floor. My hands were shaking. The sheriff rested a hand on my shoulder, but there wasn't anything to be said.

I can't remember whether or not I said anything. I might have mumbled an apology, or some half-hearted excuse, but I dropped the painting on top of the flat screen and scrambled out of the room.

How could I think that this was going to be a good idea? I didn't need to find clues. I knew exactly where Stiles was, and it wasn't in his bedroom. All there was here was a list of reasons I didn't want him to be gone.

It felt like I was suffocating. There wasn't any air in the hallway, and I knew there wouldn't be any in the kitchen with my mother. Without many options, I locked myself in the bathroom, collapsing next to the toilet and knotting my fingers in my hair. I bit my lip and rocked back and forth on my knees. I did my best to keep my retching silent.

Everything was wrong. I'd come here to feel better, to be supportive. I was supposed to be strong. I was supposed to go out and find Stiles. I was supposed to save him. I was supposed to take care of our parents and keep them safe. Instead, here I was, crying myself sick in the bathroom, so stricken with panic that I could move. I should be doing more. I should be doing more.

I cried until my entire face felt raw and my throat felt like it was bleeding. Finally, I rested my head on the toilet seat. I was too weak to do much else. My hair was falling in my face, fluttering with each breath and tangling with my eyelashes. It was several minutes before I could coax myself to reach for my phone, several more before I actually managed to get it out of my pocket. I dropped it on the seat next to my face, tapping the screen until it lit up.

No new messages. No missed calls.

Another wave of panic loomed over me, and I pushed myself back to lean on the wall. What did it mean that Scott hadn't called me yet? The school had to have been empty by now. He and Isaac easily could have gotten something from Stiles's locker, or from the Jeep, and made it over to Allison's house. He'd promised to call me if he found anything. Did that mean Stiles hadn't been with the Argents? Did it mean Scott had never gone? I knew he didn't want to believe that Allison could know what was going on, but I had been so sure her house was the place to start. If Stiles wasn't there, then we were back to square one. We were behind square one. We were hopeless.

I didn't realize I'd started crying again until there was a knock on the door. I looked up, surprised to find the bathroom as just a blur of light and tile. Coughing, I tried to wipe my face with my sleeves.

"Uh—j-just a second!"

It took a few times for me to get to my feet. There wasn't a single part of my body that was ready to leave the bathroom, and all my muscles were seizing in protest. I wanted to sit here for the rest of the night, to wake up and find that Stiles had never been gone in the first place, or that I'd already found the strength to save him and this was all some terrible nightmare. My legs were stiff, and as the blood rushed to redistribute itself through my body, they lit up with pins and needles. I winced and tried not to move.

There was another knock on the door, making me huff.

"I know, I just—one second!"

I stumbled over myself, but managed to lean far enough to look in the mirror. I looked atrocious, but I shouldn't have expected more after crying and vomiting for God knows how long. I rinsed my mouth out and ran a finger under my eyes, trying to push my smudged eyeliner back into place. After deciding that I looked a fraction less like a foraging raccoon, I hobbled over to the door.

"Sorry, I'm fine, I promise. I was just…"

The rest of the sentence died in my throat.

Stiles was standing in the hallway, still dressed in his lacrosse gear. He looked about as awful as I did, if not more. There were deep circles under his eyes, as if he'd been awake for days, and there was blood stippled across his cheek. He lifted his eyes to meet mine. His gaze was hollow, but there was relief there too. He was just as surprised to be standing in front of me as I was to see him standing there.

"Uh…hi…"

I launched forward, pins and needles long forgotten. Stiles and I both swayed into the hall, then staggered back into the bathroom as I yanked him to my chest. I clutched at every part of him that I could, blocked at every turn by his lacrosse uniform. Desperate, I grabbed his face and kissed him hard, remembering too late that I should be trying to be gentle.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow…"

"I'm sorry! I'm—I'm so sorry! I'm—Oh God, Stiles…"

In the full light, I could see just how badly his face was injured. There were bruises forming around each of his eyes, and the blood on his cheekbone was still oozing out of a fresh wound. There wasn't a cut or a slash; the skin there had simply been beat raw, pounded so many times that the skin split in a thousand places and the flesh gave way. I was surprised his orbital bone was still intact. His lip was cut too, bleeding again now that I'd gone and aggravated it. Stiles poked the split with his finger and winced.

I pried my hands from my mouth, still trembling.

"God, Stiles…what happened?"

"Uh, Gerard. His buddies blindsided me when the lights went out, and then he…sort of kicked the crap out of me."

I lifted a hand to his cheek, but couldn't bring myself to actually touch him. "Stiles, I…I thought…"

"Yeah." He grabbed my hand, pressing it against his neck where it wouldn't hurt. "Yeah, me too."

"How…? How are you—"

"Here? I don't know. They dropped me in the basement at the house, and I saw Boyd and Erica, all strung up with wires."

"It stops them from transforming," I explained, my fears confirmed. "Kate said she did the same thing to Derek."

"Yeah. Well, I—I tried to get them down, but I couldn't. And then Gerard showed up and threatened me, and then he was punching me for a while, before…anyway. I guess he stopped just short of completely rearranging my face. Then a couple hunters threw me back in the van, dropped me on my ass. That was it."

"They just let you go? But why? Why would they—where were you? How did you get home?"

"I just walked. I kept expecting them to drag me back, but…" Stiles shook his head. "Hey, if—if anyone asks, it was a bunch of kids from the other team, right? I didn't get a good look at any of them. Easy enough."

"Yeah, sure. Okay." I nodded, staring at his face for a few seconds until my brain caught up. "Oh—oh my God! You're home! We—we have to find your dad, and my mom, and I have to call—"

"Sadie! Sadie, hey, it's fine." He caught me against his chest, wincing again but stopping me from running out into the hall. "You seriously think I made it in the house without my dad finding out? I already talked to him. I think your mom's spiking his coffee. Between the two of them, they've probably already called everyone in Beacon Hills."

I relaxed in his grip. Quickly as it had come, all the energy seemed to have drained out of me. I held his face, gently this time, and careful to avoid any of the tender flesh.

"God, I…you scared the shit out of me, Stiles."

"Why? You were worried? About me?" He scoffed, but the effect was ruined when he flinched in pain. "Please. I'm perfectly fine."

"Shut up. Let me fix your face, idiot."

Stiles didn't argue as I pushed him down on the toilet. I turned on the sink, grabbing a washcloth and rummaging through the medicine cabinet. I didn't really know what I was looking for, but I felt that some action needed to be taken. I'd spent too much time doing nothing to help him.

I settled on some rubbing alcohol and a wad of tissue, then turned back to start cleaning the wounds. Stiles winced when I dabbed his cheek with the washcloth, but for the most part, he didn't complain. Only when I finished washing his face and moved onto the alcohol did he clear his throat.

"It's kinda weird seeing your mom in my kitchen. Just like, making coffee."

"Sorry," I said with a weak smile. "We, uh…decided to wait here. Instead of the hospital."

"Hospital?" He pulled back in alarm. "What? Why were you at the hospital?"

I hesitated, biting my lip. "Jackson's dead."

"What? Jackson's…? What do you mean he's dead?"

"Gerard gave Scott until the end of the game to give Derek up, otherwise Jackson was gonna kill someone. We thought it was gonna be me, but…I guess Jackson killed himself instead. I…I don't know if he did it, or if Gerard told him to so—so that they could take you, but…yeah…"

Stiles gaped up at me. "That's…God, that's really fucked up. You're sure?"

"Yeah. They brough his body to the hospital to examine him, declared foul play. They think he was stabbed, not clawed."

"How's Lydia?"

"Awful. I didn't want to leave her at the hospital, but…"

I trailed off, the thought lost. I'd looked down to pour more rubbing alcohol and caught sight of something on Stiles's knee. I hadn't noticed at first—his uniform was already so red—but there was a dark stain on his thigh, and blood had trickled down his leg. It had been wiped away, but there were still traces on his knee.

"Sadie?" Stiles asked warily. "What…?"

I put the bottle down on the counter and knelt in front of him. The moment I reached for his pantleg, Stiles pushed my hands away. I tried again, but he flinched back, grabbing my wrists so I couldn't continue. I looked up at him in confusion, but the broken, guilty look in his eye told me all I needed to know.

"Sadie, don't—"

I ripped my hands out of his grasp and pushed his shorts up. There were two slashes in the skin of his thigh, bloody but no longer bleeding. They weren't deep, not enough to prevent him from walking, but deep enough to scar if he didn't get the right treatment. The severity of the cut didn't worry me. That wasn't the reason that my jaw dropped in horror, or that tears sprang into my eyes. The two cuts were crisscrossed, forming a large X.

Stiles grabbed my hands again, stopping me from investigating any further, but it was too late. I didn't need my hands to see the dark stain on his jersey, the trace of blood that was staining the twenty-four from the inside. He had a cut there, too, probably the same shape.

One in the leg. One in the shoulder.

"Sadie, hey." Stiles slid his hands up my arms, trying to force me to look at him. "Sadie, it doesn't matter, okay? I'm right here. I'm fine."

"They know. He—he took you, and he did this—he knows—"

"Sadie, look at me. It doesn't matter, okay? They let me go—"

"Because of me! He did this to you because of me and because he knows and because he wants me to be scared and he wants me next and you're hurt and it's my fault and—"

Stiles leapt from his seat, crushing me into a hug as the world began to spiral. He was bleeding, and he was hurt, and it was my fault. I had shot Kate, and she'd died, and it was my fault. Derek had bitten Victoria, and she'd killed herself, and it was my fault. I'd lied to Allison, and she'd told Gerard, and he'd tortured Stiles, and it was my fault. It was my fault, my fault, my fault…

"It's not," Stiles argued against my thoughts, his hands cupping my face. "Sadie, I don't blame you, okay? Not even—not even a scrap. You didn't do this. This isn't your fault."

"He hurt you because of me," I cried, the words barely recognizable as I choked them out. "Because of what I did, because he knows that I—"

"Hey, Gerard did this because he's—because he's a really fucked up dude, okay? And we knew that. That doesn't make this your fault. If he—if he wants revenge for Kate's death then—then fine. I don't care that he kicked the crap out of me. I don't care about the cuts, okay? I thought he was gonna kill you, and he didn't. That is literally the only thing I care about."

Stiles's whole face looked pink through my tears. The blood was mixing with white of his skin, streaking my vision, like the pulled peppermint, like the poorly mixed paint…

"Stiles, I—I should have been the one that found you." I shook my head, grabbing fistfuls of his lacrosse jersey. "I was so afraid that I was gonna lose you, and—and I just sat here and I didn't do anything and, God I'm—I'm so sorry, Stiles. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, no. It's okay. Sadie, I'm right here. It's okay."

He hugged me to his chest again, cradling my head and wrapping an arm around my waist. I was afraid to touch him, afraid to hurt him anymore than purely knowing me had already hurt him, but I was already crying. I buried my face in his neck, sobbing in relief, in horror, in frustration that crying was the only thing I ever seemed able to do.

It took Stiles a while to coax me out of the bathroom. He ushered me to his room, hurrying me to the bed so I could sit on something that wasn't tiled floor. He hesitated, running a thumb over my cheek as I sniffled and tried to swallow the rest of my tears.

"Uh…I've gotta change. Out of my uniform, so…do you want me to go to the bathroom, or…?"

I bit my bottom lip, placing my hand over his. I didn't want to be alone.

"Yeah, okay," he said, without me having to answer. "Just give me a second, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Stiles ran over to his dresser. I could hear him sifting through piles of unreturned gifts, struggling to open his drawers. I rubbed at my face until it was dry again. I was being stupid. There were things going on. I needed to call Scott, check in on Lydia, face Gerard. But sitting on Stiles's bed, there was nothing more I wanted to do than curl up and reassure myself that he was still breathing. They hadn't killed him. I hadn't killed him.

I kicked off my shoes and laid back on the bed. I listened to the quiet shuffling as Stiles changed, and a few minutes later, the mattress dipped next to me. Stiles flopped down in a clean T-shirt and sweatpants, immediately pulling me into his chest. I pressed my face into his good shoulder, trying not to think about how he had a bad shoulder, and closed my eyes.

"Hey," he said quietly, though the sound rumbled through his chest under my ear. "Was that the sign you made me when I got on first line?"

"Yeah."

"Why'd you keep it?"

"I told you I would. You got another chance to play, and I wanted to be there to support you."

His chest jolted under my head as he let out a breath of laughter. Impossible as it all was, I smiled into his shirt.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah, I loved it. Especially the part where you started screaming about how much you loved me in front of the whole school."

"Shut up," I giggled, and I felt him kiss the top of my head. The laughter had loosened my tears again, and I pressed my lips into a tight line. "Stiles? Don't…don't do that to me again."

"Yeah, I know. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Sadie."

We stayed like that for a while, Stiles playing with my hair as I tangled my legs with his. I remember wondering how long we would be allowed to rest like that, just with each other. Eventually, one of our parents would come in to check on us, just as nervous as I was that Stiles was about to vanish again. Eventually, my phone would go off and Scott would bring us back to reality so we could face the Argents. Eventually, Gerard would follow through on his warning that he was coming for me too. But for a few moments, everyone seemed to understand that we needed to be alone. Just for a little while.