Page 142 of Irreversible

Mind-numbing grief.

“No,” I cry through the mask, as a needle glides into the underside of my elbow. “No!”

My husband.

My husband and my best friend.

They’re together.

A nurse holds me down while the other tinkers with my IV. Thrashing and moaning, I wail, tears blotting my vision.

I slide my hand underneath the pillow and latch on to the blue guitar pick, curling into a ball and trembling with soul-crushing pain. Medication flows through my veins, doing what it can to calm my agonized mind. This can’t be real. I traded a nightmare for a new nightmare.

As my cries weaken to whimpers, I think about the snap—the loss of him—while sedatives steal me away. I see it in a whole new light, my greatest fear bursting to life in vivid color.

Jasper and Allison moved on. Left me behind, like a ghost tethered to a place no one visits anymore.

I see it now: the world didn’t forget about me.

But they did.

PART 2

“LIFE IS AN IRREVERSIBLE PROCESS AND FOR THAT REASON ITS FUTURE CAN NEVER BE A REPETITION OF THE PAST.” — WALTER LIPPMAN

33

With my arm in a sling and my mind buzzing, I follow Dad into his office the next day, eager to uncover my mysterious treasure. It’d better be cool—I’ve earned it.

After all, last night’s adventure landed me in the ER for a sprained wrist, this ugly sling, and mild dehydration. As much as I wanted to go straight to the lab when we got home, Mom and Dad insisted I was in no condition to play detective until I’d gotten some rest.

Closing the door behind me, I hear the sound echo through the bright, sterile office that smells like latex and science experiments. The whole room feels serious, like a place where age-old mysteries get solved.

And standing in the middle of it, I’m pretty sure I’m about to crack one of them.

Dad sets the box down on his massive oak desk, careful not to damage the frame. Dirt crumbles off the edges, scattering across a few manila folders, but the face remains caked in stubborn patches of mud.

My gaze locks onto the carved letters etched into the wood:FOREVER.

Definitely suspicious.

While my little sister was more intrigued by the assortment of stringy cobwebs dangling from the box, I was laser-focused on the contents inside. The box is old, the kind of old that smells like damp wood and secrets. A miniature coffin.

I watch as my dad studies the box, his eyes doing that thing they do when he’s analyzing the data—squinting slightly, flicking back and forth between the object and his mental notes, as if he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see.

“What do you think’s inside?” I ask, leaning my hip against the desk. “Old love letters? Treasure? A mummified body?”

The box isn’t big enough to hold a body, but there could be a head.

Maybe a femur or two.

Dad’s mouth quirks as he throws me a sidelong look and runs a hand through his mop of curly brown hair. “Why do I get the feeling you’re rooting for the last one?”

“Because I’m your kid, and you have the coolest job in the world.”

His expression softens, a hint of something wistful crossing his face. “Doesn’t always feel that way.” He rubs his palms together and sighs, nodding at something across the room. “Hand me that precision rotary tool kit. The one with the fine diamond-tipped bits.”

I grab the sleek case and place it on the desk.

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