Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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Eleven months earlier...
The house throbs with the music and bodies. Damien's house is full of his friends and possibly every person in our neighbourhood that's spilling out onto the street. People lurk outside the front door, on the porch, laying in the dew-soaked grass as they stare hazy-eyed at the stars. The night sky hangs overhead in judgement.
Damien's house is gated and far back from the main road, hidden from view by trees that tower over the fence. So no one on the street can see quite how drunk people are, how wild things have grown. I slip in through the open door. The house is dark but green and blue lights flash from somewhere, and I feel like I'm walking underwater. People are squeezed into hallways, lurking in corners. The heat of their bodies turns the air thick and salty.
I make my way through the house. Uncomfortable in the outfit I've borrowed from Alice's wardrobe, her chunky heeled boots catching on the thick carpet. I'm tugging hard on a crop top, trying to make it meet the waist of my jeans, but I'm failing. I feel awkward and exposed. It's been a few weeks since Halloween and Damien is throwing a party. It's a standard affair whenever his parents are away, but I've never been invited before. Technically, I'm not invited now. There are too many random people here for me to call it crashing, but I suppose that's what I'm doing, but I don't feel anxious like I would have before. Before, I would have been concerned people would see me, recognise the parts of me that didn't belong, that had grown out of shape from missing all the life experience markers they'd hit with outward ease. But something had changed at Halloween. Maybe it was my disappointment in Damien. My years of dreaming, of constructing fantasies around the contours of his lips had crumbled into dust. I didn't miss them, which surprised me, but it did leave me feeling untethered. As if liking Damien was the one thing connecting me to the life I should have been leading, the life I would have had if I hadn't got sick. But I had got sick, and I didn't belong here anymore. For that reason, crashing a party seemed a little exciting, naughty, and I didn't really care if people saw me and judged my presence here.
I'm not sure why I'm doing this. I think a part of me hasn't quite let go. Whenever I think of Damien, I'm dragged back to the roughness of Owen's hands on my waist, his lips sliding across mine. How something hot and bright had sparked between us. But Owen was not an option, and Damien still could be.
I can't see Damien anywhere. Trying to spot anyone in the mix of shadows and light-bleached faces is unsettling, the music is so loud it battles my heartbeat and I need to stop and catch my breath, let the sensation settle. So I cut through the crowd and make my way up to the top floor of the house. It's too dark for anyone to see me and tonight, I'm dressed in a way that makes me fit in. It's interesting how belonging looks a lot like being invisible. When I reach the top of the staircase, I lean against a wall. It's quiet up here, the party left to the floors below, but I hear laughter coming from Damien's room. As I breathe deeply, I hear it again - the giggle. It snaps my spine straight and settles like lead in the base of my belly. I move away from the wall, stumbling closer to Damien's open bedroom.
