Page 1 of Alliance

Prologue

BEFORE THE INCIDENT, I HADnever given much thought to what sound a skull would make as it’d hit the pavement, falling from a third floor balcony.

But now, that was the noise that lived in my mind, playing on repeat at any chance it got. Instead of ghosts, I was haunted by an echo.

You could say I’ve clung on to the odd memories of that night.

The scent of her rose and bergamot perfume lingering in the air, the honey-colored wisps of her hair flowing behind her. I think about her outfit, a pretty summer dress that moved with the breeze. My sister looked hauntingly beautiful for her meeting with death.

In my memories, I can see her swinging her legs over the iron railing. I don’t think she notices me entering her room; her eyes looking forward as she lets go, free falling. From that second, my recollections of that night blur. The edges cracked, the images distorted, I don’t know what happens next.

I remember my parents. My mother lets loose a shrill scream as she rushes toward the balcony. I often wonder what she thought she could do. Reach out and grab Lily? It was too late. She was already gone.

My mind raced to think about how high of a fall it would be from her balcony to the concrete slab below her. Three floors, maybe nine feet for each level, or is it more? The first floor has taller ceilings… so maybe it’s over thirty feet. Can you hear a body smack against the pavement from that height?

Regardless, I did. I heard the sound of her skull cracking. Whether it’s a figment of my imagination or not, I can’t tell.

My back hit the pale-pink painted walls of my sister’s room as I slid down to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth in shock. I wish I could say I did something more heroic as my sister took her last breaths, but I didn’t. Instead, I curled into a ball and let the numbness take over.

I often revisit this moment, wondering if there was something I could have done. Some way I could have prevented this.

But how can you prevent a suicide that you had no idea was coming?

My sister, my best friend, was gone and I had no idea why she did it.

Chills skated over my arms, goosebumps rising on my skin. My chest stopped moving, my lungs refusing to suck in oxygen. My whole world was crashing down, starting from the second she swung her legs over that iron railing.

This is the moment everything changes, everything shifts, a new reality is created, and I am irrevocably broken.

I remember the sounds.

Crying…no, wailing. It’s my mother, her thin arms flung over the metal banister, it’s the only thing supporting her weight as she cries out into the sky.

My father says something, but I can’t pull it out of my memory; can’t hear the words.

Strong arms reach forward, and I realize he’s shaking me. There’s a ringing in my ears. Sometimes I can still hear it if I relive too many of the memories at the same time.

The memories I have are reserved for private moments when I’m tucked behind a locked door and it’s safe to let the tears flow. I can’t recall them all at once. My heart rate will spike, the tears will blur my eyes. Instead, I have to separate them, mourning small moments — one at a time.

It’s an audible click before all the sounds of the room come rushing back. I was in a haze.

I don’t remember whenheenters her room. Dressed in all black with shiny leather loafers crossing the floor. He looks over the balcony, presumably down at Lily’s mangled body. I watch his face; he doesn’t even grimace when he sees her there. A sick part of me wants to know what he saw. What did my sister's body look like sprawled out on the pavement? Were her bones protruding from the skin, limbs twisted in unnatural ways?

“Well, then…”hepurrs, his voice just slightly annoyed by the situation at hand. “Guess that won’t work.”

“Is she okay?” It’s a new voice that assaults my senses now.

This is the memory I hate the most. Because while my sister had just died, my eyes lock onto the stranger. Taking in his tanned skin, the flecks of black ink peeking beneath his button-down shirt, the light stubble covering his jaw. He’s wearing a gold saint pendant, not all that odd for Italian men but his looks worn and dirty, as if his fingers had been rubbing over the charm for years.

“I don’t know,” my father hisses, the cool air of his breath hits my cheek, and like a reminder I suck in my own breath of air.

“Jesus, Lana!” His eyes close for a second, as if he’s relieved to see me respond, tobreathe.

The other man has his hand on my shoulder and his warm brown eyes are peering into mine. I want to lose myself in the swirls of chocolate and gold if only to avoid that situation unfolding around me. “Are you okay?” he asks, a slight drawl to his words.

“I don’t know.”

I’ll repeat this answer for the next few years to everyone who asks.

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