Page 102 of Before Now

“I need the truth—from you.” I step closer. Of all thewhys I’ve wanted to ask, this wasn’t one. I didn’t need to ask because I knew. But now, I need toreallyknow. “Why did you disappear on me?”

She blinks up at me, right before changing everything. “Because he killed her.”

29

REMI

Before…

The thrumof my pulse intensifies as I hit send on the picture to Foster. The all-of-me picture.

And he promised to send his back.

I smile, clutching my phone and closing my eyes.

Yeah, it’s over for me. I’m done for him.

The flutters and tingles carry me up the trellis. I toss my bag by the bed, strip off my coat, and fall back on the mattress. While waiting for his reply, I scroll through our messages as a distraction. One stands out from the rest.

Foster

You’re dangerous, Remi Saint.

Shit. He still thinks it’s Saint and not Sinner. I blame him, though. It’s his own fault for distracting me with everything him the past few weeks. I could forget the whole world with how he takes over my mind.

Returning to my picture at the bottom, I consider whether to clear it up now or wait for his text. Before I decide, I hear a noise from downstairs. My gaze trains on the door as I wait for another.

Shouting breaches the pillows.

My gut twists, overshadowing the Foster high, and I sit up, listening for more. Only nothing else breaks through.

The tear inside me happens anyway, forcing me to make the choice all over again. Little girl or me.

I keep waiting for another sound. At least a few minutes pass before I get up. My screen’s dark. Foster hasn’t responded yet. I hope he doesn’t for a little longer, so his real doesn’t tangle with this reality.

A reality I’m a week from escaping.

Tucking my phone into my skirt, I kick the pillows out of the way, tired of not knowing. I ease the door open and quietly step into the hall, to the banister. As I grip the wooden railing, I scan the living room below. It looks like it often does—a lamp knocked over, picture frame on the floor, the fireplace tools scattered like they were thrown.

Except one thing doesn’t match all the other times.

My mother’s unmoving on the floor in front of the fireplace. She’s wrong, though. Blood runs from her nose and a gash to her forehead, but it also soaks her top and covers her exposed skin. It absorbs into the rug from what has pooled on the hardwood around her.

“Mom,” I shout, already running down the stairs.

I land on my knees beside her body. Because that’s what I’m looking at—my mom’s body.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I check for a pulse. But I already know, blinking rapidly at the puncture wound on the other side of her chest just above the neckline of her sweater.

Then I see the blood on the fireplace’s hearth. The poker lying on its side, pointed tip wet and darkened with more.

I look down again, and my hand falls away from where her pulse used to be. A sob bursts out of me, my stomach roiling.

“…take care of it.”

My head jerks toward the kitchen—to the muffled voice.

Daniel appears from around the corner, on the phone. He stops when he sees me, surveying me on the floor, kneeling in blood. “Make sure Marlo’s the unit they send to the house.” He ends his call, and I can’t breathe as he holds out a hand, gesturing to the body—the body. “I heard a crash on my way in from the garage. Someone was running out the front door, and … she was already gone.”

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