cafe's awning for a moment, watching the street turn into a river, before I decided I didn't care. I hobbled out into the storm, my cast quickly becoming

d inside, dripping water all over th

rite blankets, looking pale and fragile. The house was warm and smelled of chicken noodle soup, the kind Liam only made wh

quely domestic it stole

in surprise. "Olivia! You're soa

looked at Scarlett, who was watching me with a triumphant glint

e bedroom, leaving a trail of water behind me. I could feel

chilling cold, the pain in my leg, and the sickening twist in

e living room, followed by Scarlett's shrill, fake

pieces, was a clay vase I'd made in a pottery class years ago. It was lopsided and ugly, but

mile on her lips. "It was an accident," she

to feel a pang of loss, of anger. Instead, I felt... nothi

d, my voice flat. I turned

able where I kept a small, framed photo. It was the only picture I had of my mother, who h

he asked, feigning curiosity. And then, with a delibera

om my throat. I lunged at her, my cast-encased leg forgotte

asn't thinking, I was just reacting, a primal need to hur

livia, stop it! What the hell is wrong with you?"

picture!" I sobbed, pointing a tremblin

s defending her. He was blaming me. "You know how fragile she is! Why do you always have to

few months coalesced into a single, crushing weight. The room tilted, the edges of my vision