Page 68 of Until Forever Falls

“Dylan…” My name breaks in his throat, and his hands are fucking shaking when they reach for me, like he already knows he’s about to rip my entire world apart. But he’s not close enough to catch me before I fall.

He fights for air, his breath ragged, and then he fucking chokes on the word. “Beckett…”

“Beckettwhat?” My throat’s on fire, and I’m screaming now, every inch of me shaking. “Tell me, what the hell is going on?”

“Beckett…died last night.”

Something cold and rotten knots itself in my chest. “No.” It’s not a word, it’s a plea, a denial, a scream I can’t quite get out. “No, that’s not—that’s not fucking true!”

Brooks closes his eyes, breathing out like it physically hurts him. “There was an accident last night.”

The sound I make is inhuman, ripped from some place inside me I didn’t know existed. It’s like being kicked in the ribs, the pain spreading before I even register what’s happening.

“No.” I backpedal, shaking my head so hard my vision swims, hitting my chest because I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe, why can’t I breathe—

“NO.”

“NO!”

“FUCKING—NO!”

I spit it out like it’ll reverse time, like I can fucking undo it. “He was just here. He just—” I still can’t get enough air, can’t make sense of the words.

Beckett. Died.

It doesn’t fucking compute. A strangled sob rips free, but I swallow it back, turning it to rage. “Bullshit! You’re fucking lying to me.” My chest heaves, my whole body shaking. “Why? Why would you lie to me? Take it back! Please, take it back!”

His next words hit like a car crash.

Metal twisting. Glass snaping. Brakes screeching too late.

I hear Brooks say it again—Beckett died—but it gets lost in the roar in my head. Colt. Miles.Survived.

My throat makes some awful sound—choked, wet, broken. My knees give out. My hands slap the floor. I don’t even feel it. I don’tfeelanything except this burning, this breaking, this goddamn undoing inside me.

“No.” I rasp. “That’s not—he wouldn’t—he always called shotgun. He never sat in the back. You’re WRONG, Brooks.”

He always—

He always called shotgun.

I whip toward Brooks, like a marionette with its strings cut, I go slack—then stiff—then fucking feral. “Why? WHY WAS HE IN THE BACK?”

My feet carry me to the bathroom, and I slam the door shut like I can trap thisfucking agonyinside with me. The lock clicks. I hit the floor hard, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters.

Beckett should be here.

Beckett. My twin. My best friend.Gone.

I press my palms into my eyes, trying to squeeze the grief out of my fucking skull, but it just keeps growing. Spreading. Crushing.

My hands claw at my face, my ribs, my hair because it feels like something inside me is trying to get out, to escape this fucking nightmare.

But I can’t.

I can’t escape this.

Colt and Miles made it. They’re in the hospital, breathing. And all I can think is—

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