It throws me off a little, seeing him vulnerable.
“Angelina…” Kayla’s voice echoes, panic rising in her voice. “He’s not breathing!”
“We’re going to jail for this. Oh my god, we’re going to…” Mateo stumbles back and curls on the floor, spilling his stomach’s contents.
“Is he dead?” I whisper again. “Is he—”
The world. Everything around it. It becomes so narrow.Small dark dots sprinkle in my vision, blooming until…
And then, nothing.
Just quiet.
Just dark.
EPILOGUE
MARCH, 2017
Beckett
The night Lucia diedis one I recall only in bits.
It lives in fragments. Blurry pieces. Scattered memories. Confused, disjointed thoughts. I try not to dwell on it, just like I tell myself not to dwell on anything bad.
It’s because I miss her too much, I often say to myself.
Yeah, no kidding. Besides, there are other things to think about besides your own sister dying.
I remember parts of it vividly, though. Waking up on the couch to some knocking at the door. Antony and his mom—her perfume hit me before my vision caught up, too floral and too sweet. Her face was pale, and his eyes were worried.
I remember thinking to myself, Antony never worries.
“Put your goddamn shoes on,” he barked. “And come with us.”
And then.
“Lucia’s car went over the bridge.”
I asked. “What bridge?”
As if there had been dozens around Port des Ondes.
There was only one.
And anyway, I once read somewhere on the Internet that it takes on average two to five minutes for someone to bleed out. Television is quicker. But death—real death—drags.
That never made sense to me until now. Now that I see Nathaniel Rivera’s blood drying in my palms, everything comes back to me clearly.
The sirens.
Angelina hyperventilating in a corner.
Neighbors whispering.
“She isn’t dead, is she?”
“I’ll go down there,” I said quietly. “And see it for myself.”