Page 138 of Runaways

"I needed her complacent so she wouldn't try to run, or this wouldn't work."

"Tate!"

"What!?" he shouts back. "This solves my problem, and you have lived the vast majority of more than two years without her. You don't need her.Wedon't need her. She's untrustworthy, and she's a liar. Noah ran away from you when you went to buy her snacks, Silas. She ghosted you after a decade of friendship, and you spiraled into a months-long depression and an even more self-destructive behavior pattern than usual. And where was she?"

"She left because ofyou."

Tate ignores me, continuing. "She let her friends literally torture my sister to death and didn't even bother to go to her funeral…or my mother's. If you took the time to think about it, you'd probably realize you don't even love her; you just love the idea of her and a time when everything was a lot more simple."

"You know what? I think that's what you try to tell yourself. But you're wrong."

"Wow. That's deep. You should write one of your fucking poems about it."

"Fuck you, Tate."

I rifle through my backpack, and he jumps from the bed. "Hey…" he says, crossing the room and placing his hands on my shoulders before turning me to face him. His tone is gentle again, sweet even. His eyes have come back to life, and I wonder if they're real or not, too, or if it's always just been something he can turn on and off. "Look at me." His hands slide down my arms and take hold of my own. "We don't need her. We haven't needed her. And this will be fine—it'll be better than not knowing; you'll see. You'll always know where she is, and I bet the trial will even be on TV. She'll be safe."

"Prison isn't safe, Tate. She'll be miserable…and scared and alone. She isn't…" Isn't what? A psychopath? Isn't like us? "She's not even a killer."

"Yeah, tell that to the gash in my fucking shoulder."

"That's not fucking funny," I say, shrugging him off. I go back to digging through my bag; I know it's in here somewhere…unless he found it.

"I'm not trying to be funny!"

If he found it…if he knew what I wanted and what I was planning for and he still did this to herandto me, then I don't know what I'll do. I love him, but…

"It's too much, Tate. It's too far. You've done enough to her." My hand closes around the passport and driver's license, and I exhale a sigh of relief. "And she loves you."

"Well, that's her mistake. It's not my fault she's so fucked in the head that she doesn't know what love looks like."

"Yes, it is, Tate," I throw back before storming toward the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Tate calls after me. "Silas, I do loveyou. You know I love you. I would never hurt you."

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Red seeps into my peripheral vision, and I take a moment to squeeze my eyes shut and breathe. It isn't the first or second time rage has crept up on me like this, and I know if I don't get it in check now, I'm going to fucking lose it, and I won't be able to reel it back in until it's too late.

I can't do that with Tate. I can't do that with Noah, either.

One more deep breath before it recedes, and I push the door open.

She's still there. I don't see her at first; she's in the same place like she promised, but she slid down the wall and now sits on the sidewalk in my hoodie, hugging her knees to her chest.

Noah isn't my Sydney; she's my Eurydice. I guess this is what we both get for looking back.

Maybe she knows me well enough that she sees in my eyes, even through the darkness, that something is wrong. We've always communicated well in silence. Or maybe it's that I come back alone, and there's only one reason I'd be doing that.

"Noah…I…"

She looks away and drops her head to her knees. I sit beside her and wrap my arm around her.

Tate steps out, peeks around the corner at us, and then just goes back inside without saying a word.

"Noah, I'm so sorry. I have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."

"Yeah, I know," she says.

"I don't think you do."

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