His constant unfeeling, low-voiced mask is broken. Nothing about him is calm or contained. He’s not the Ice Prince, anymore. He’s furious; his eyebrows tight and his mouth drawn in a cruel frown.

“I can’t trust what you say anymore,” I say.

“Then don’t! Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone! That’s the way you like it, right? That’s the way you’ve been moving through life for the past three years, right? It’s obviously working for you! So keep doing it. Have f**king fun trusting nobody for the rest of your life!” He roars.

His words sear like cold fire across my heart, leaving behind instant, dark scars. I run. I turn on my heel in one fluid motion and run. Everything is numb. I can only barely hear Jack calling after me. I’m underwater, deep, deep beneath the ocean of the past. Jack’s voice turns to Nameless’.

Ugly.

Did you think that’s what this was? Love?

I slam the driver’s side of my car shut and start the engine. I blast past the security booth and barrel home. Stoplights are mercifully green, and the ones that aren’t, I run through.

Ugly.

I don’t remember parking. I don’t remember getting out or running upstairs or locking my door.

I don’t remember what happened that night.

That’s what you get for trusting someone.

***

Mom is understanding. She knows this is my breakdown. The last one was just a warm-up. She understands breakdowns better than my aunt does, and much better than Dad does. She knows there are tiny breakdowns leading up to the big one. This is my Big One. I sleep for days. I don’t shower. My hair is a knotted mess. Mom brings me up food sometimes, but I pick at it and leave the rest. She’s so happy to help me like I’ve helped her. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I don’t cry and the don’t-cry times are somehow worse than the crying ones. Sometimes Mom holds me, sometimes I lock her out. Kayla visits me, bringing snacks and homework and talking happily about nothing at all and it helps. Her mindless chatter helps more than sleeping, more than crying. It reminds me I’m not the only one with problems, that Kayla’s life is fraught with problems that, to her, are just as big – a missing blush color at Sephora, how she forgot there was a sale at Macy’s she’d been waiting for a year on, how her little brother constantly gets into her bras and stretches them out by putting them on his head. She mentions Jack, and I snap at her to never mention him again.

“Geez, I know you hate him, but saying his name isn’t a crime, okay?”

“It might turn into one,” I mutter.

“Is he…is he why you’re so sad?”

I scoff. “As if. And I’m not sad. I have strep throat.”

“You have a lovely strep voice.”

I glower, and she smiles, handing me another cookie.

“Okay, I gotta go. Mom wants me to watch spitglob tonight while she goes out. Text me, okay?”

My anger fades. “Yeah. Thanks for coming over.”

“It’s the least I can do.” She hugs me, and then wrinkles her nose. “You smell. But I love you.”

“I love you too.” I grin.

I watch her go through the window, half wanting her to come back and half wanting her to never come back. After everything I’ve put her through, through the nasty remarks and my hidden jealousy, she’s still my friend. I’m a less-than-stellar person, but she’s stuck by me.

The days blur. It feels like I’ve been out of school for weeks, but it’s only been a few days. When I’m not sleeping, I research Northplains on Google, looking for any hint of what Jack did. The newspapers archives from back then don’t help. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Two men. A baseball bat. Something that scared Avery and Wren into silence. Did Jack beat them? But why would that convince him to give Belina money? Was Belina the wife of one of the men?

Belina was the wife. It all falls into place. She was the wife of one of the men Jack took a baseball bat to -

Mom screams, the sound echoing from downstairs and into my room. My blood goes cold, pumps slow through my body.

Mom doesn’t scream like that except in her nightmares.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

My feet fly down the stairs, jumping the last few and landing painfully but pain doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is getting to the door, getting to her, fighting off whoever is making her scream like that –

“I’LL CALL THE COPS!”

“C’mon, Georgia. We both know you won’t. Just be sensible about this.”

Mom clutches the door for support, body twisted in terror around it. The man at the door is stocky, in khakis and a gray shirt, with a black beard and the kindest face I’ve ever seen – crevassed with smile lines and crow’s feet. But I know the truth behind it. And it sickens me. The man sees me and his face lights up in a smile.

“Isis! Good to see you –”

I pull Mom away and slam the door in his face and lock it. She trembles, terrified, and clings to me as I lead her to the couch to sit down. I pull the curtains, lock the back door and windows, and grip my cellphone tightly as I approach the door to check if he’s gone. Nope – his fat, bulky ass still looms through the mottled glass of the door.

“Isis, c’mon! Georgia, tell her to open the door! I just want to talk!”

“No!” I shout. “Nobody’s talking, Leo. Leave us alone!”

“You can’t be serious! I drove all the way up here for a friend. I’ve been on the road for a whole week! I’m dusty, sweaty. Just thought I’d stop by, since I was in the neighborhood. Could use a glass of water. How about a little hospitality?”

“How about you clear off my front steps before I call the cops?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, you little bitch!” Leo’s voice switches from amiable to irritated. “Now open this door and let me talk to your mother!”

“This is your last warning, Leo. Leave, or I’ll call the cops.”

“This is an adult problem, not for snotty kids. So I’m only gonna tell you once – you open this goddamn door, or I’m breaking it.”

I suddenly can’t breathe.

“C’mon, bitch! Open up!”

He knocks on the door, hard, and the knocking turns to pounding, and Mom screams and covers her ears. With every hard pound she flinches and screams louder, burying herself into the couch, convulsing like each second of sound is a physical blow to her. This is not better. This is not healing. He’s hurting her all over again just by being here. The slams get louder, and I grab a heavy porcelain statuette from the table with one hand and start to dial 911 with the other.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s – my name is Isis Blake,” I hate the shake in my voice, the shake in my hands. “1099 Thorton Avenue, Northplains Ohio. There’s a man trying to break into my house.”

“I understand. I need you to lock all doors and windows and get into a room.”

Leo roars, using his shoulder to pound the door down, like a furious bull.

“Isis?” The emergency responder’s plea is insistent. “Talk to me, Isis. Do you know this man?”

“He’s my mom’s ex-boyfriend. Please, you have to hurry!”