“What do you mean she didn’t make it?” The mug was suddenly too heavy. She set it down. Her hands were shaking again, worse than before. Worse than they’d ever shaken. “She was supposed to lock the door. She was supposed to be asleep. She was?—”
“They broke in around two.” Mack’s voice stayed level, controlled, but his eyes were sad. “They thought?—”
“No.” The word came out flat. She shook her head. “No, that’s not right—she locked the door. I told her to lock the door. If she locked the door, then they couldn’t have.”
“Lyssa.”
She was cold. When had she gotten so cold? The cabin had been warm two minutes ago, and now she couldn’t feel her fingers. Couldn’t feel anything except the spreading numbness in her chest. Her ears were filled with a high-pitched sound.
Mack grabbed her hand, squeezed. “Talk to me.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.” Her voice was too high, too ragged. “Tell me exactly.”
He did. The words came in short, specific sentences. The cartel had sent a professional killer. The person had broken into the apartment—the locked door hadn’t mattered. The killer thought Jenna was Alyssa. Similar build. Similar hair. Same apartment.
There were signs of a struggle, suggesting Jenna had confronted the man.
“Of course she did,” Alyssa whispered. “That was Jenna. Brave and stupid and wonderful.”
“She died quickly,” Mack said. “She didn’t suffer. The fire was set to cover evidence.”
Each detail was another brick. Another piece of reality she couldn’t deny or logic her way around. The wall was building around her, closing her in, and she couldn’t breathe, but she also couldn’t stop listening because if she stopped listening, then she’d have to feel it. She wasn’t ready to feel it.
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not,” Mack said. He was still sitting across the table and watching her with that careful, controlled expression.
“She died because of me.”
“She died because of the cartel.”
“She died because I walked into that room.” Her voice was rising again. The control was slipping, and she couldn’t stop it. “She died because they were looking for me. She died instead of me. How is that not my fault?”
“You couldn’t have known that would happen.”
“I called her.” She shot to her feet, unable to control the pain and the need to move coursing through her body. “I warned her. I told her something happened. I told her to lock the door.” She was repeating herself, but she couldn’t stop. “I should have been clearer. If I’d told her exactly what was happening instead of being vague because I didn’t want to scare her, maybe she wouldn’t have even stayed there. If I’d just told her there were people after me…”
“Stop, sweetheart,” Mack’s voice was soothing. His calloused hand was comforting. “You’re in shock.”
The room was tilting, and her chest was constricting, tightening; the air wouldn’t come in. There was pressure building behind her eyes that she recognized as the migraine resurfacing, but it was so much worse than a migraine, it was everything, it was?—
I should have gone home instead of getting in his car.
I should never have taken the job at Rob’s party.
I should have been there.
I should have been the one?—
“I need—” She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t breathe. Her free hand found the edge of the table and gripped it. “I can’t?—”
Jenna’s voicemail greeting. That’s what did it. Not the fire or the gun or the professional killer or any of it.
Jenna’s voicemail greeting.
Hey, it’s Jenna! Leave me something fun!
Bright and warm and so achingly, impossibly her that Alyssa could hear it perfectly in her head. Could see Jenna’s face when she’d recorded it, laughing, making faces at herself in the mirror because that’s what Jenna did.