

LIGHTHOUSE NIGHTS

copyright ©2011 jake vander ark

all rights reserved.

third edition: september, 2017

isbn: 978-1-257-80761-1

www.jakevanderark.com

jake.vander.ark@gmail.com

cover design by susannah bailey

for richard.

dp. collaborator. friend.

the MIDNIGHT MASTERMIND series

was written without traditional capitalization

for a pulp, rapid-fire reading experience.
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**prologue**

it was unmatched life experience that bestowed in her eyes the sultry gleam that separates women from girls. although she viewed her life experiences like bruises on a peach, men of all ages still found ways of looking past the damage long enough to offer her a drink. hell, it was less than an hour ago that one of them called her "gothic perfection" and cried on her shoulder.

her boyfriend agreed that a crazy life can "grow a girl up quick"; it was only last november that she turned seventeen.

in public, her demeanor was trim, graceful and uninhibited. in the privacy of a jacksonville motel bathroom, she straddled the toilet seat backwards and used the tank's lid as a desk. she signed the bottom of her handwritten note, _"miss you, dusty,"_ creased the letter in thirds, and slipped it in the envelope.

fishnets pressed patterned diamonds into her thighs beneath a mesh skirt—flared and sagging like a sickly tutu—and boots with leather laces fell an inch short of the scar on her left knee. raven-black hair framed her cheeks. crimped lashes fluttered against heavy rings of liner. plastic pearls crowned her blouse with a single lacework sleeve while matching bracelets garnished the bare arm. a stud in her brow. a stud in her nose. six earrings and two open piercings.

the ensemble was black—always black—except the silver eyelets on the boots, blue painted nails, and brown irises in her sleepy eyes.

the bags were black too; garbage bags swelling with the life of a dead man, now like tumors in the sterile bathroom. she couldn't remember his name, though his expression as he begged for death was crystalline in her memory. out of all four, he was the first to plead for the pills, nearly snatching them from her palm after demonstrating the difficulty of using a shotgun.

"the butt sits on the ground like this. see, robin?"

(her name wasn't robin.)

"but my arms are too short to reach. i tied floss from the trigger to my toe, but i wasn't strong enough to go through with it. i bought a revolver last week. before i could use it, i found you."

he asked if they could do it with the shotgun—she would do him, then herself—but the pills were cleaner so she talked him out of the weapon.

jules (her name was jules again) untied the neon drawstring of the first trash bag. an invisible billow of cologne and tobacco puffed from the open tumor and the stench watered her eyes and clung to the bathroom walls. she inhaled through her mouth, rummaged through the bag, and placed the items in a row along the faux-marble countertop: a leaking bottle of old spice, ten balled neckties with gold tacks and cufflinks, a leather wallet containing twelve-hundred dollars, a cellphone, the revolver, a universal remote control, headphones, reading glasses, a wooden box of cigars, a polaroid camera—

"julesie-baby! get the hell in here!" trevor was in the bedroom, drunk and probably naked.

"give me two minutes!" she called back and transferred fifty dollars from the wallet into dusty's envelope.

jules turned the camera over in her hands. her mother owned a similar model years ago. the old hag once spanked jules and her sister for wasting such expensive film on make-believe fashion shoots and pictures of their baby brother with a staged cigarette hanging from his lip.

jules held the camera two inches above her eye line, pursed her own charcoal lips, and snapped a picture. the device whirred and clicked and spat out a photo. she shook it and waited as the yellow milk became the image of a girl.

mom referred to her dad as "hollywood" on the few occasions jules got up the nerve to ask questions. she never met the douche, but knew from her own mysterious physique that his nickname held at least a dime-bag of truth. her skin was olive, not the paper-thin wonderbread skin of her cousins and friends; easy stretch marks, flat cheeks, and beady eyes like a calling card for TRASH. where jules came from, even the skinny girls had stretch marks.

she refocused her attention on the photo, held it to the light, and narrowed her eyes. she rubbed her thumb on the girl's face, then crumpled up the picture, threw it in the bag, and sighed. she knuckled both hands on the counter between the dead man's artifacts and studied herself in the mirror. she sighed again.

the wig came off first. she unpinned the synthetic hair and dropped it in the sink. her real hair was the color of a railroad spike; about the same length too.

"jules! get your trashy ass out of the bathroom!"

"trev, chill!"

mascara left blotches and streaks on the folded washcloth like ink from a broken quill. she pressed the rag into her cheek and buffed away cream foundation to reveal the freckles she loathed. she pulled the blouse up her body and over her head, draped it on the curtain rod, then readjusted her white tank-top.

for the second time, she posed for the camera. when the picture emerged, she yanked it out and shoved it in the envelope without glancing at her transformation. she licked the glue and sealed the letter; money and photo inside the manilla sheath.

"hey in there!" trevor yelled again, "are we gonna do this?"

"i'll be right out!" jules looked again at the defiled cloth, then whispered to herself, "i need to put on my makeup."

* * *

gabriel jones extended his brand-new, bright-orange shoes to balance the folding chair on its hind legs. he admired the vast banquet hall of his dream college; wrought-iron chandeliers, decorative carpet with patterns of burgundy swirls, hints of greece in the molding, and twenty-foot ionic columns supporting the mezzanine rim.

gabe observed the other prospective students and couldn't contain a silly grin. _they were just like him._

one guy sat in a cubical of his own paintings, eyes narrowed on his work, flickering over flaws and woulda-coulda-shouldas in constant scrutinization. another boy sat with his parents, coffee in hand, leg bouncing to the rhythm of his subconscious. a girl—cute—sketched on the paper tablecloth with a pencil stub she found on the floor.

gabe felt at home with these like-minded equals; all searching the depths of mid-america for salvation from the confines of institutions that labeled them as outcasts. at _the school of the art institute of chicago_ , they would finally be free of the high school masquerade.

every few minutes, a woman appeared at the top of the staircase to address the horde of hopeful artists with a number. today—only today—their work would be critiqued by one of the school's professors who would decide if the blossoming artists belonged in the student body.

no application. no personal essay. no waiting required.

the boy with the bouncing leg was summoned next. gabe watched as he hugged his parents, grasped a nylon portfolio, and ascended the opulent staircase to his personal day of judgement.

gabe's own portfolio represented the culmination of three years huddled in the high school art room, not unlike dr. frankenstein in demeanor and reputation. his final presentation contained fifteen photorealistic renderings: a pencil drawing of the neighbor's golden retriever catching a frisbee, a pastel sunset over lake michigan, a pen-and-ink portrait of his crush from sophomore year. each piece was executed with exquisite detail, and anyone who eyed gabe's work would find themselves leaning forward to assure themselves they weren't looking at photographs.

"gabriel jones, number four-three-one."

he dropped the chair to all fours and stood. his parents were off perusing the furniture stores on michigan avenue so there wasn't anyone to hug. gabe snatched his portfolio and refrained from bounding up the stairs as eyes needled the back of his neck.

the woman shook his hand and walked him around the mezzanine, between rows of tables covered in paintings, sculptures, photographs and more. a professor sat at one end of each table; a kid at the other.

gabe's faculty critic was younger than he anticipated—african-american, sweater-vest, glasses pressing dents into his nose—"welcome to the art institute" were the only words he spoke while actually looking gabe in the eyes.

"thanks," he said and took a seat.

the man opened gabe's portfolio as if he was thumbing insurance forms instead of a boy's lifeblood. "tell me about yourself," he said.

_this was it!_ "well, i'm eighteen years old and dying to finish my senior year of high school. i live about three hours north, in grand harbor, michigan. before i could even talk, my parents found me doodling."

the man seemed to be fully engaged with the portfolio. "go on," he said without looking up.

"well, the art institute is my dream school. it's the only college i applied to because, honestly, nothing else compares. i'm currently enrolled in a summer photography class—"

"tell me something real."

"i'm sorry?"

"tell me something real," the professor repeated.

gabe's brain became liquid and seeped from his forehead pores. his ribs trapped a dozen seagulls in his chest and their beating feathers tickled his heart.

_breathe through your nose,_ he told himself. _you've got this._

"your technical proficiency is the best i've seen today."

"thank you," gabe said.

"but i don't see anything new in your work."

"i—"

"where do you stand politically, gabriel?"

"i don't—"

"what are your thoughts on organized religion?"

"sir, i—"

"what excites you? what frightens you? what turns you on? what can you show me that i haven't seen fifty times today other than skilled use of a pen?"

gabe's throat swelled.

"i think you're a romantic, gabriel."

"what does that mean?"

"do you feel prepared for daily critiques?"

he nodded. "i do."

"then retort."

"i'm sorry?"

"where's your anger? why aren't you throwing your hands in the air, telling me i'm full of shit for thinking a photorealistic drawing of a dog catching a frisbee belongs in a hospital waiting room?"

gabe's leg bounced. if he didn't think of something fast—

the man flipped backward through the pages, then closed the portfolio altogether. he folded his hands, placed them on gabe's work like a twisted headstone, and looked up for the first time. "there's nothing in here to disturb the soul in the slightest. i would recommend taking a few years to develop a unique worldview. run away from home, get stoned, lose your sentimental outlook... and we'll reconsider your application next year."

_shit._
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**part one**

the sun was always brighter on weekends in grand harbor. it performed its usual routine during the week, but on saturday and sunday the rays worked overtime, searching the visible stretch of lake michigan for every facet of every ripple, glimmering across the water like a navy sequined dress.

from the sky, the pier looked like a twig stuck in the endless lake at the sandy crest of a beach town. from gabe's point of view, it extended past the horizon to an infinite vanishing point with two red lighthouses dominating the afternoon sky.

he stood on his bike peddles and drifted to the corn-dog hut at the base of the pier; white wood, yellow trim, a mile-long line of candy-coated vacationers in an endless search of local flavor. a handwritten note was taped to the glass: _"the original corn dog includes a hotdog, breading, ketchup, mustard, napkin, and a stick. fat-free option includes napkin and a stick."_

gabe unstrapped his orange backpack and waited in line until the heat made his t-shirt stick to his ribcage like a new layer of skin. he ordered three dogs with just mustard, hoisted his sack to his shoulders, and biked with one hand down the length of the pier.

_his_ pier.

the catwalk flickered overhead as gabe weaved between its trail of black arches. a group of teens egged on a comrade as he considered biking off the edge.

on gabe's right, a photo of his mother greeted the pier with a photoshopped smile from a bench ad. "welcome to your new home," her speech bubble declared; followed by a phone number, website and "bethany jones realty" in bold yellow print.

the first lighthouse was a cylinder, tapered at the top with a cement base big enough for kids to play tag. gabe peddled faster, rounding the massive obstruction and dodging a clump of old people fully engaged on a landmark tour of the city.

the second lighthouse was a cube mounted at the tip of the pier with a similar cement ledge around its base. the ledge was gabe's throne.

he dismounted his bike, snapped the kick-stand, removed his backpack and placed it on the ground.

a covey of bikini-clad coeds nested on beach towels in front of him. the lineup created an eye-pleasing barrier of color between the concrete pier and lapping water, and gabe tried keep his eyes on his work instead of the oiled curves and crevices of GIRL splayed before him.

he brushed a strand of brown from his eye, a developing habit after three months of declined haircuts. from his bag he removed a twelve-megapixel slr camera, three additional lenses, and a set of filters. it was the best amateur photography kit money could buy.

the assignment: _three photographs depicting REAL emotion._

simple enough. gabe held the viewfinder to his eye and watched his world contract and blur until the vignette dissolved into a beach. he took a picture and checked the result in the digital display.

_develop a unique worldview. run away from home. get stoned. lose your sentimental outlook on life._ the words were annoyingly persistent; a continuous loop in gabe's brain since the day his dreams were axed, dismembered, and shoved in a dairy queen dumpster.

he focused his lens on a fisherman. the man relaxed in a canvas folding chair, pole in one hand and a cigarette in the other. gabe twisted the zoom on the wrinkled face; a matted beard, fading liver marks, and unblinking eyes that found peace in some distant memory.

was it unique? no. was it sentimental? maybe. gabe snapped a picture anyway.

the next thirty minutes were spent with his eye behind the lens, searching the mess of faces for any hint of REAL; real joy, real pain, real darkness, _you're a romantic gabriel,_ and he thought of rose.

most girls were pretty in gabe's post-pubescent eyes, but rose was the prettiest. she attended the same monday-night photography class and—since their very first session—sat beside him. gabe didn't sit by her... she. sat. by. him.

after five class periods of innocuous flirtation, it was time to make a move.

gabe unhooked the strap from his neck, secured the lens cap, placed his _precious_ back in the bag, then removed a pen and sketchbook.

the sunbathing girls erupted into a spontaneous fit of giggles as gabe chewed his pen and longed to touch them; to graze fingertips along blonde arm hair, dark thighs, puckered bellybuttons; to smell the fruit in their hair and the sugar on their breath; to pull the dangling end of a rainbow knot, to expose creamy lines in a flawless tan; to delve with all five senses into the cherry enigma between their legs.

he inhaled through pursed lips, then wiped the saliva off his pen and allowed the newfound passion to influence his sketch. it was a flower— _a rose for rose_ —with a thorny stem and bulging heart.

his phone beeped with a text from john. _"doing bad. chat later?"_

gabe responded, _"hang in there, bud. be home in 2 hours."_

john was a new friend; maybe gabe's only friend. he lived in japan.

when the sun became a useless source of UV rays, the girls pulled out their cellphones and feverishly tapped the thumb pads. within minutes, muscle-appropriate boys arrived with baseball caps turned sideways and sun bleached hair flipping from the rims. from his perch, gabe watched the immature displays of affection as bikini straps were snapped, asses pinched, and breasts groped by hands twice the size of his own.

_focus gabriel._

the drawing became an invitation: _to rose. dune grass grill. tuesday evening. 9:00. will you join me?_ he signed his name and tore it from his sketchbook.

_this had to work._

* * *

**sick.chick.emma:** _i can't do it :'( he'll never stop_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _that shouldn't happen to anyone... ever._

**sick.chick.emma:** _people have gone 2 jail 4 less_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _did you threaten him? _

**sick.chick.emma:** _with what, killing myself?_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _yes, like we talked about. _

**sick.chick.emma:** _no. he'd like it... he'd molest my dead rotting body_

another hotel, the fifth in three months. new york this time.

in addition to her usual makeup, jules wore blue tights under a pair of trevor's black boxers and her favorite bra with purple trim. she laid face up across the foot of the king-sized bed. her laptop sat on her chest and illuminated her face with a violet glow. bars of pink text ran the length of the screen; "gothic_butterfly1" was her pseudonym.

"'my dead rotting body.' i love it!" trevor wore green boxers, a wife beater, a valet cap, and a plastic name tag that reads _"stanley"_ in capital letters. he sat on the floor, used the bed as a backrest, and watched the conversation unfold on his own computer. when his head moved, his hair tickled jules' waist.

a new message from emma:

**sick.chick.emma:** _i want 2 kill mark..._

"we're so close," jules said. "say something awful."

"sure thing, boss," trev replied with a tip of stanley's hat. he typed under the name, _"00sexboy00."_

**00sexboy00:** _yourself. kill YOURSELF. stupid bitch got what u deserve._

jules typed her next message:

**gothic_butterfly1:** _leave her alone, sexboy. she'll do it when she's ready._

trevor groaned. "it's been three nights of this shit."

"two minutes, baby," jules said. "two minutes and i'll have her addy."

**sick.chick.emma:** _i cant do it alone_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _nobody wants to do it alone, emma. have you thought more about a pact?_

**sick.chick.emma:** _i dont know. r u still thinking about it 2?_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _it's all i ever think about. your stepdad... my boyfriend... we can't let them treat us like shit anymore. this is our only way out._

trevor asked, "what's wrong with your boyfriend?" he twisted his neck to face jules with a pout and emerald puppy eyes.

she tilted her head and kissed him. "you taste like butter."

"it's the lobster."

"you know that thing used to be alive?"

"fish don't feel pain, dork."

"lobsters aren't fish."

trevor slurped more butter from his thumb. "but you gotta love room service!" he reached into his pocket and pulled out a snickers bar.

"seriously?" jules said. "that's disgusting."

he noshed half the bar in one bite, then tipped his hat, smiled with chocolate-stained teeth, and turned back to his computer. for a twenty-four-year-old, trev could be such a child.

a new message appeared in the room: _"john-ff7 has joined the chat."_

"asian-john signed on," trevor said.

"i see him," jules replied.

* * *

" _john-ff7 has joined the chat."_

gabe scanned the new text on his computer screen and smiled. between the constant talk of death, depression, and loneliness in the suicide chat room, john was a breath of fresh air. whenever the guy joined the chat, gabe stopped watching the drama from the sidelines and piped up.

he zipped his fingers across the keys, pressed return, and watched his message appear:

**dante_fire18:** _johhhhn! what's up my brotha?_

**00sexboy00:** _its asian-john! whats up asian-john?_

"sexboy," gabe muttered to himself, "such a dick."

john didn't respond to either greeting. the last time they talked online was saturday evening when john encouraged gabe to give the invitation to rose and gabe encouraged john to live another day.

he dipped a cracker in a smudge of peanut butter and ate it. he took another cracker, leaned over his computer desk, and dropped it into edgar's dish between the vertical metal bars. (gabe was aware that poe wrote about a RAVEN and not a CROW, but the name "edgar" fit his bird's personality so he ignored the technicality.)

edgar hopped around his floor-to-ceiling cage and snatched the cracker in his beak.

"enjoy it, little man," gabe said.

his bedroom layout was defined in the darkness by dusky patches of light. a desk lamp and computer screen created the amber aura at his workspace, spilling just enough light to catch the sheen of edgar's feathers and the bars of the cage. broken moonlight spilled through the second-story windows on both sides of his desk. a digital projector was mounted to the ceiling above his head and threw a mirrored image of his computer screen on the far wall; the image of chat-room text was as tall as the bedroom and more than eleven feet wide. bounced light from the projector touched the foosball table on the right, the bookshelves on the left, and the couch in the center.

gabe watched his bird peck the cracker, then swiveled in his aeron chair and refocused on the chat between emma and butterfly.

"gothic butterfly" wanted to kill herself. she talked about suicide pacts every night since gabe stumbled into the chat room three weeks ago. now she was determined to find a partner in death despite his pleas to reconsider.

the conversations gabe witnessed in the digital world almost made him wish he had a reason to kill himself too. if he could understand that darkness, maybe he would be a better artist.

he bit another cracker and typed again.

**dante_fire18:** _john? you here? i have good news!_

* * *

"where the hell is asian-john?" trevor asked.

jules was transfixed on her screen. "we're so close to emma..."

**john_ff7:** _hey dante... sup sexboy..._

"there he is!" trevor exclaimed and typed back.

**00sexboy00:** _hey there asian-john! emmas PMSing again_

**sick.chick.emma:** _i am not_

**00sexboy00:** _her dads touchin her cunny again_

"you know i hate that word," jules said.

"if you don't like the way i talk, don't read my messages."

**gothic_butterfly1:** _men are assholes. shut up and die, sexboy._

**dante_fire18:** _john john john! i'm goin' on a date with rose :) i gave her the invitation in class tonight. looked like she might say no, but then she said yesss._

"who's rose?" trevor asked.

"girl in dante's photography class. he's obsessed."

trevor gestured two thumbs down, then stuck out his tongue and made a farting noise.

"grow up." she smacked him on the side of the head.

"watch the cap!" he said and readjusted the green hat.

"that's sick. and take off his name-tag too."

**john_ff7:** _doesn't matter dante...... someday you'll see that it just doesn't matter......._

**dante_fire18:** _umm, hell yeah it matters!_

**john_ff7: __**_dante.... tonights the night........ _

"oh shit," trevor said. "is he gonna do it?"

"calm down. see what he says."

"oh shit! he's gonna do it!"

**dante_fire18:** _tonight's the night for what john? _

**00sexboy00:** _when the devil calls!_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _you still there emma? talk to me honey. _

**john_ff7:** _IM SO FUCKKIN SICK OF THIS THSESE PEOPLE THIS SJOB THAT BOSS AND MY UCKING SHRIKN_

**dante_fire18:** _calm down, man. you're not gonna do anything crazy tonight. _

**00sexboy00:** _prove it fool! set up the cam_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _sexboy, shut the hell up! are you there, emma?_

**dante_fire18:** _john, you're not going to do it tonight. okay?_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _emma, give me your address honey. you don't have to be alone._

a new box appeared; live video of a japanese man with a yellow rope in his hands.

trevor's fist shot in the air. "we've got web feed on asian-john!"

* * *

"oh, buddy. not tonight." gabe's back stiffened and he leaned forward in his chair. the video was crystal clear on his monitor AND the wall behind him. john's eyes were swollen. he was shirtless. this wasn't the first time he spoke of suicide—this was a suicide chat room after all—but gabe had always managed to calm him down... and he could do it again tonight.

**dante_fire18:** _why don't we talk on the phone? screw the crazy bill._

**00sexboy00:** _tonights the night to catch the bus john! u been crying u pussy? ur slanty eyes are all red_

john squeezed them shut and nodded.

gabe wanted to reach a hand through the monitor to comfort his friend. but all he could do was type.

**dante_fire18:** _how bout it man? huh? show me your phone buddy._

**gothic_butterfly1: __**_emma? i can see you're online. talk to me, hon._

**00sexboy00:** _i don't believe youll do it_

john looked down and his hair filled the video feed. gabe could hear faint clicks of a keyboard as his friend typed his next message.

**john_ff7:** _yellow nylon rope. a centimeter thick. just like you said sexboy._

**00sexboy00:** _im proud of u asian-john_

john turned away from the camera and paced a circle in his bare white bedroom. he was naked. his arms clutched the rope to his chest. even on the webcam, it was clear he was trembling.

gabe held his cellphone with one hand and flipped through his sketchbook with the other. "come on, come on. where are you..." he found it; a fifteen-digit number scrawled in his own blocky penmanship.

**dante_fire18:** _i'm calling you john. pick up your fucking phone._

* * *

"where's his dick?" trevor asked and cackled so hard that he nearly choked on the candy bar.

a phone rang in john's video.

"dante's actually calling him," jules said. she watched the naked man set the rope on his bed. he marched toward the computer and his face filled the screen. he looked directly in the camera—at jules, at trevor, at a dozen other spectators—and stammered with a japanese accent, "i'm sorry gabe."

"well," trevor said, "now we know dante's name is gabe."

"don't encourage john. the poor guy lives in japan."

trevor typed:

**00sexboy00:** _do it do it do it do it do it _

"asshole," she said.

**gothic_butterfly1:** _john, don't do it like this. we had everything prepared._

**dante_fire18:** _JOHN, PICK UP YOUR PHONE_

on the video, john lifted his phone and silenced the ringer. he turned around, opened his nightstand drawer, and removed a hammer.

"seriously," trevor said, "this guy has no dick."

john pulled a chair to the middle of the room, climbed up, slammed the hammer into the ceiling, and coughed in the falling plaster.

"i'm not watching this." jules ran her fingers through her wig. "damnit emma. we were so close."

the hole in john's ceiling was large enough to access the rafter. he tossed the yellow rope around the wood and tied a knot. a loop was already formed at the other end. he placed the noose around his head and pulled it tight, tested the slack with a gentle tug, then looked to the webcam from across the room.

trevor's fingers punched the same five keys in rapid succession.

**00sexboy00:** _do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it_

* * *

gabe leaned forward, his wet eyes only an inch from the video.

john rocked the chair beneath his feet.

"please don't."

the chair tipped. john dropped. his neck popped.

"NO!" gabe cried and turned away, but the projector still mirrored the computer and john's naked body was convulsing—life-sized—on the bedroom wall.

gabe threw his cellphone at the image and it shattered.

* * *

trevor raised his arms in a victory pose.

jules exhaled a pillow of oxygen with a hiss. it wasn't the most fucked-up thing she'd seen, but it was the most unnecessary.

john's body stopped shaking. the rope made an audible creek as his cadaver settled. _would the webcam stay on until someone found him?_

jules typed:

**gothic_butterfly1:** _holy shit... _

trevor's fingers flew back to his keyboard.

**00sexyboy00:** _beautiful!!!! that guy did what all u pussies dream about!_

_"dante_fire18 has left the chat."_

"poor gabe..." jules was about to exit the chat too, but a new message stopped her.

**sick.chick.emma:** _butterfly?_

"hey," jules whispered to trevor. "she's back." she carefully pressed the letters as if too much noise might scare the girl away.

**gothic_butterfly1:** _yeah emma?_

jules held her breath... and emma responded.

**sick.chick.emma:** _i live in chicago. im ready for a pact._

__

* * *

trevor awoke to the eight o'clock courtesy call and found jules asleep on her stomach. he thumbed her panties, whispered in her ear, "i love you to the moon and back," then peeled back the black lace and kissed her cheek.

he stretched his calves in the body-length mirror and touched his toes to pop his back. thirty pushups. forty sit-ups. he tucked the tip of his erection in the band of his boxers and pumped out another twenty of each.

this project was trevor's baby... _but julesie made it work._ she had the personality, the empathy, the look; she was convincing and relatable. she took his good idea and made it shine.

besides, nobody wanted to spill their darkest secrets to a dude. especially not other dudes.

trev sat on the floor by the lobster carcass, opened his computer, and signed into the chat room. john's webcam was still online, his body still hanging.

jules was still pissed that trevor got off on last night's suicide, but she couldn't possibly understand the joy he found in that thrashing body. HE may be the mastermind, but SHE got to have all the fun; john's death was the first time trev got to participate in the sickness.

they had big plans this afternoon, then a thirteen-hour car ride tonight. trevor thought of jules and that body and rubbed one out in the shower.

stoner-stanley (aka: NUMBER FIVE) was a waste of time, artistry, and pills. in the end he was worth eight bucks, a dell laptop, an old-school nintendo (with ten games and a broken controller), fifty dvds, various electronics, a dime bag of weed (which he gave to jules), a pair of rollerblades... and the itchy green uniform with the name tag. _barely worth the gas money from jacksonville._

but for every waste-of-skin pothead like stanley, there were three spoiled brats boo-hooing about hating life or being fags or bad grades or stubbed toes just WAITING to top off. shotgun-doug (aka: NUMBER FOUR) was a spoiled brat. from the sound of it, emma was too.

to make up for stoner-stanley's profitless suicide, trevor had a plan.

he brushed lint from the sleeves, buttoned the top button, worked his fingers into stiff white valet gloves, and tossed stanley's name tag in the trash.

hotel checkout was at one. that gave him four hours to do this right.

* * *

"we heard he offed himself," said dominique, "or OD'd... maybe he OD'd."

"stan was the kinda kid you don't let in bell towers," said mike, "if ya know what i mean."

"i dunno why they hired him. terrible with clients. mumbled a lot..." the valet looked at trev. "hey dude, where's your name tag?"

trevor stooped to the parking-garage floor and plucked a butt with an inch of good smoke. "they still need to make me one," he said, though he didn't know who "they" were. he simply donned the outfit, found the hotel's address on stoner-stanley's pay stub, and discovered these two knobs parking cars and taking keys. "got a light?" he asked.

dom stood in the middle of a luggage cart with arms extended to both bronze polls. he shook his head.

mike flipped a chrome zippo and covered the flame with his glove.

trevor leaned into it and breathed in to start the burn.

"how much you bench?" mike asked and snapped the lighter.

"haven't touched a weight since college," trevor said.

"that uniform barely fits. you're doin' somethin' right."

(the uniform made him feel like a shriner monkey.)

"you're lucky," mike continued. "jerry doesn't usually schedule three valets on tuesday mornings."

trevor shaped his mouth into an "o" and coughed a smoke ring. "it's part of the new training program. just until i'm settled."

a shadow at the entrance caught trevor's attention. it was an SUV. silver acura. _perfect._

"do you fellas mind if i get this one?" trevor asked.

"you know where to park it?"

"i'll manage. jerry showed me the ropes over the weekend."

mike gestured "after you" and trevor dropped the butt, heeled it, and stepped through a break in the faux-velvet rope. the SUV careened tediously into position and eased to a stop.

trevor stood tall and proper, then opened the passenger door, flashed his pussy-kissin' smile, and found the arm of an old lady with a face like a crumpled grocery bag.

"oh my! what a gentleman!" she said and stretched her leg to the concrete with trevor's support.

"good morning, ma'am!" he exclaimed with aggressive enthusiasm. "how has this lovely new-york morning been treating you?"

"it's a beautiful day out there, isn't it? we've been in the car since four this morning and i'm just glad to be safe and sound!"

"oh dear! that's too early!" trevor led the woman toward the revolving door while mike and dom helped the husband with bags.

"we make the trip about once a year to visit jeffry over at columbia. darrel's getting better at navigating the big-city streets, but i still keep my eyes closed half the time!"

"oh my! taxi cabs all week, then?"

"thank the lord, yes! take those keys from my husband and keep 'em 'til friday!"

"will do!" trevor released the woman's arm and placed his hand on her shoulder. "whereabouts are you from?"

the woman grinned. "we live in a neighborhood called 'victorian village' in columbus, ohio."

"perfect!"

"you know it?"

"not yet!"

"well it's quite hip." she lowered her voice and squealed. "and very gay friendly!"

"how quaint," trevor said.

"you are such a handsome young man. i bet the ladies come running just to see that smile." the woman unsnapped her purse and fluttered through her wallet with surprising dexterity. she removed a twenty and slipped it in the top of trevor's pants. "i've been with darrel for twenty-three years, but i'd give it up for a glass of merlot and a night with those dimples." she winked.

trevor feigned naughty embarrassment with wide eyes and an open mouth, then put his finger to his lips and whispered, "here comes hubby!"

darrell approached with mike, dom, and the bags. he tossed the keys to trevor and said, "take care of her."

"yes sir," trevor replied. he winked at the woman, slapped mike on the back, and hopped in his new ride.

* * *

the rest was simple: trevor parked the car in slot sixteen, removed the keys from the ignition, jogged back to the valet boys, "which spot?" they asked, "sixteen" he said, then stepped to the key rack, swapped another set of keys from hook "fifteen" to hook "sixteen," pocketed the SUV keys, faked sick ("i'll call jerry on the way home"), jogged back to the SUV, un-pocketed the keys, started the ignition, and drove away free.

the geezers wouldn't need their car until friday. the valets would assume the keys were on the hook. and thanks to stoner-stanley's fancy gloves, no fingerprints!

a car seat was buckled in the back and ghosts of tiny hands mashed the windows. _the geezers were new grandparents._ jules wouldn't approve. he'd have to dump the seat before picking her up at the hotel.

he tapped a screen in the dash and a global positioning system sprang to life. the "find home" option was the first button in the menu. he touched it. there was a moment of computation... then a new window appeared. _"would you like to set your destination for columbus, ohio?"_

"yep."

_right on the way to chicago._

* * *

trevor made a left turn and cut three lanes of traffic to reach jules at the curb; the temple of her forehead kissed the street lamp and her melancholy poise graced the pole like a model of exotic couture. stoner-stanley's trash bag hung like a modish purse across her shoulder.

trev honked to get her attention, then parked, kissed her, and tossed their bags into the empty back seat.

"it worked?" jules asked and glanced around the interior.

"and nobody got hurt."

"who were the owners?"

"kids. perverts. i think they were drunk. they won't miss it."

"good. what about our junker?"

"you cleaned it?"

"spotless."

"checked between the seats?"

"and wiped it down."

"the revolver?"

she raised the trash bag. "got it."

"good. they'll tow her in a day or two. probably to the dump."

"where next?"

"pawn shop and lunch when we're out of the city." _trevor-rule number three_ : _never pawn shit in the city you stole it from._

jules unlaced her boots and dropped them in back, then slouched, bent her knees to her chest, and set her nylon feet on the dash. she unsnapped the breast pocket of her corset and removed a torn piece of paper.

"you stole a page from the gideon?" trev asked.

"stanley didn't leave any papers." she plucked the baggie of cannabis from the same pocket.

"cheap bastard."

"i think i want a tattoo," she said.

"a tattoo will distinguish you if something goes wrong. think about it, julesie."

"something simple. maybe a star or a heart on my neck. would that be cute or tacky?"

"sexy."

"really?"

"hell yeah."

she smiled and dropped a pinch of grass on leviticus, then rolled, licked, and sealed the makeshift joint. "maybe when we're settled then."

* * *

thirty miles out, jules got the munchies. trevor dropped her off at a deli for a veggie sandwich while he earned some cash across the street.

_stoner-stanley's life pawned for ninety fucking bucks._

they reached ohio at eight PM. the gps brought them straight to victorian village and guided them into the driveway of a purple house with steeple points and a round porch. trevor pressed a rubber button on the overhead console, waited for the lavender garage, and pulled inside.

jules relaxed with the car stereo while trevor made his rounds. when he returned with the final load, her eyes were glassy-pink. "how much?" she asked.

"are you high again?"

"babyyyy, how much?"

"ass-loads. no cash but lots of jewelry. if we can spread this shit over several brokers, we're lookin' at five grand." he held up a bag of trail-mix. "stole us some chow too."

"you. are. amazing," she said. "have i ever told you that?"

* * *

the midwest highway stretched toward a starless horizon. a lightning bug hit the windshield with perfect timing and—for a split second—the splatter glowed yellow.

"you have somethin' on your nose, baby," trevor said.

"what? where?"

he motioned to his left nostril. "right about here."

jules snapped the vizor down and flipped open the mirror... and a silver watch fell in her lap.

"what is—"

"it's not stolen," he said. "i bought it while you were getting lunch."

the face was purple and shaped like a heart.

"it's white gold," he said. "reminded me of you."

"why—"

"just because."

jules buckled the gift around her wrist and looked up. "it's perfect."

"glad you like it." trevor ignored the headlights and taillights and the endless pulse of the dotted white line. he looked at his girl and smiled. "i love you julesie."

* * *

nobody came to rescue john.

nobody came, nobody heard, nobody saw. nobody smelled the sepsis or barged through the bedroom door to discover the fleshy sack of blood and bones. nobody wailed at the pendulous loss of life.

the light drained from john's apartment as japan's setting sun became michigan's morning. gabe watched the shadows rise in that pixelated room. the body was a shadow too, clinging first to the inside of gabe's computer screen, then to his imagination. his date-night blazer was pressed and hung on the open bathroom door, but with the lights out, it became john; so still and quiet in the dark that gabe swore he heard the taut creak of yellow rope. at eight AM he slept— _finally—_ and john was there too.

when gabe awoke, the video feed was gone. maybe someone discovered the body and turned off the camera. maybe the computer shut down automatically. maybe john was at the morgue... or maybe he was still hanging alone in the shadows.

gabe sketched the tragedy from memory; charcoal outline, then thick strokes with a black marker. it wasn't his usual style. a pen and pencil might capture detailed reality, but the marker captured a mindset.

seven o'clock; two hours until his date. gabe dropped his boxers and pulled off his nightshirt.

his naked form wasn't much different from john's. where john was brown, gabe was white. where john was black, gabe was brown. he flexed in the mirror but his muscles barely twitched. if rose still liked him after tonight, he would vow to start a workout routine.

gabe usually wore whatever wrinkled tee appeared next on the stack, but not tonight. tonight he donned the dark-blue blazer his mom bought for his grandfather's funeral. gabe rolled his shoulders in the loose fabric and felt like he was playing dress-up with his dad's clothes. he brushed his teeth for the second time, then unwrapped a bottle of men's body spray, crossed himself like a catholic, and coughed in the potent mist.

"how do i look?" he asked edgar.

no reply.

"thanks, buddy. wish me luck."

* * *

five minutes to nine.

the dune grass grill smelled like steak and cayenne pepper. an acoustic duet sat on stools and plucked the melody of _fire and rain_ , but gabe could barely hear the words over the chatter of vacationers. the smell, music, low light and comfy window booth made for a romantic yet casual atmosphere.

a single red rose; too much for a first date? would rose's artistic sensibilities scoff at the cliché?

gabe laid his knife across the rim of his coke glass. he balanced the salt shaker on the knife.

should he tell her about john? other than this date, the yellow rope was the only thing on his mind. it was imperative to begin a relationship with full disclosure, but how could he explain the suicide chat room without sounding tragically emo or revealing his failed attempt at a college portfolio?

rose wore summer dresses to class. the visible stitches and crooked seams were clues that she had sewn the clothes herself, but her ambition was adorable. despite the promise ring on her left hand and the aura of pony-tail innocence, her photos were the best in the class. gabe could teach her a few things about lens selection and basic composition, but her subject matter dug a layer deeper than the hospital-waiting-room crap offered by the others.

if rose enjoyed their time together, maybe he'd have a date for his birthday on thursday.

gabe stuck a toothpick in the middle hole of the saltshaker, then fashioned a flag from his napkin, licked the edge, and stuck it to the toothpick pole. the waiter noticed his dwindling coke and brought another.

* * *

two refills later, gabe thought she was late.

five refills later, he knew she wasn't coming.

his cell was in pieces on his bedroom floor, but rose didn't have his number anyway. maybe there was a real problem and she couldn't call.

(maybe.)

the waiter danced around the embarrassment and asked gabe if he wanted to go ahead and order.

"no," he replied, "but i'd like a bottle of your chateau grand traverse, late harvest riesling."

"great choice," the waiter said. "the riesling has a unique citrus flavor and a sweet finish that i'm sure you'll enjoy. i just need to see some ID."

gabe pulled a five from his wallet, placed it by the flower, and left.

* * *

"emma?"

"yeah?"

"remember when you were just a kid and too stupid to know how bad life really is?"

"i do..."

"i want to find that moment tonight. for a few hours i'd like to forget why i'm here. i think if we can do that, we'll have the best night of our lives."

online, emma was a status-update cliché with rhyming poetry and lyrics that hinted not so subtly at her desolation. in person, she was that solitary girl with headphones glued to her ears, downtrodden, lifting hazel eyes only to peruse passing boys. she wasn't fat, but a wannarexic pudge of a girl; a pro-ana bracelet squeezing her wrist and boasting something she would never achieve. bark-brown hair with expensive streaks of blond—a mother's attempt at normalcy—now bounced untamed through the lamplit streets of chicago.

jules was delilah tonight. trevor chose the name at random, and when emma called her, jules forgot to look.

the girls dashed across the wabash bridge. the placid stream borrowed the rational light of the waterfront restaurants and, like a kaleidoscope, bent and twirled the colors into new organic forms. the warm breeze tugged emma's cream dress in slow-motion ripples.

jules followed a pace behind and opened her lungs to the fresh air. her heart pumped to the beat of their galloping duet.

the "magnificent mile" closed in thirty minutes. jules stopped to catch her breath beneath a lavish window display with plastic mannequins in designer outfits. she panted, then nodded to the store. "wanna browse?"

emma seized a cramp and braced herself on jules' shoulder. "i have mark's credit card," she said and her smile grew wide with mischievous delight. "for. emergencies. only."

the girls dashed inside and shopped until the storefronts dimmed and iron gates fell into place. jules suggested they withdraw cash from emma's bank account. "as much as the atm allows!"

"for the woman's shelter?" emma asked.

"for the woman's shelter," jules replied.

_trevor-rule number five: atm machines have cameras._ while emma punched her pin, jules took a bathroom break.

"it only gave me four-hundred," the girl said when jules returned.

"how long 'til your parents get home?"

"three hours. at least."

"should we head back?"

emma shook her head. "not yet."

a sixteen-dollar cab ride brought the ladies to navy pier. emma led the way through gardens and boats and kiosks selling paper lamps in the shape of stars.

emma's bliss was purchased for ten dollars. she clasped jules' hand and helped her aboard a candy-red carriage on the navy pier ferris wheel. they were the last customers before closing, so they rode alone.

paper bags at their feet and a poem on emma's palm; she read it aloud in the criss-cross sanctuary of gliding metal bars. "streets like veins pumping with life. my father, the mean one, causing our strife."

"it's beautiful," jules whispered.

emma nodded and her eyes turned to the obsidian lake. jules watched the reflected strips of ferris-wheel lights inside those distant orbs.

at the peek of their circular journey, when an outstretched arm could reach the highest building, jules felt emma's fingertips against her cheek and followed the pressure into a kiss. she allowed the embrace long enough to smell the peroxide on the girl's cheek and to taste the salt on her tongue, then she broke it off and turned away.

* * *

emma's bedroom smelled like wet vitamins and fabric softener. the wallpaper was overbearing; the girliest shade of pink possible with a border of white butterflies hovering above the ceremony. the girl wedged a chair beneath the door handle and jules noticed a dozen more carpet divots around the legs.

a full-length mirror hung on the back of the door, its edges framed with layers of stickers, stamps, and glued celebrity cutouts. emma slid the cotton dress from her body and removed a gown (beauty-queen pink to match the walls) from a shopping bag. she stood sideways to inspect the fit. she smoothed the fabric down her waist. "am i sexy, or what?"

"if i were a boy, i'd have my way with you all over that bed." jules sat cross-legged on the floor and felt like a demon in such a precious room. she took a pretend swig of vodka (in accordance with _trevor-rule number two: never drink on the job_ ) and offered the bottle to emma.

"wait!" the girl opened the bottom drawer of her vanity. she pulled out a jewelry box—ivory with a curved lid—then sat beside jules so their knees touched. she unlatched the tiny chest and revealed a plastic ballerina rotating to a delicate, plinking tune.

from the lowest compartment, emma removed a single joint as if she was collecting a robin's egg from a nest. "it's the only thing that makes me forget." she ritualistically placed the cigarette on the carpet and looked to her leader for approval.

"have a lighter?" jules asked.

emma grinned at the official sanction, then removed a bic from the box and positioned it on the floor beside the weed.

"perfect."

"i've got something else." emma reached into the depths of the singing chest and clutched a small bag of pills. she opened her hand to show off her treasure.

jules snatched the baggie and shook the pills into her frantic palm.

emma stammered, "they're oxycodone—"

"i know what they are. how many do you need?"

"what?"

"take what you want. now."

emma's eyes flicked between jules and the pills. "i—"

"honey, take what you need from my hand."

she took three.

jules forced the vodka into emma's hand. "swallow them."

the girl obeyed, one at a time, wincing with every gulp until her eyes watered.

jules stood up and marched to the bathroom, dropped the remaining tablets in the toilet, and flushed.

"is everything okay?" emma asked when jules returned to the floor.

"yeah, hon. everything's fine. are you ready to do this?"

* * *

jules held the balm in her lungs, closed her eyes, then released from her lips a controlled ribbon of smoke. she used a CD case as an ashtray and held the garbage bag open.

emma dropped the ballerina music box inside, then scoured the room for items of value: a pink ipod, three purses, a fleece blanket, romance novels, a pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a digital video camera, armfuls of loose and expensive makeup, ("maybe they can use my scrapbook if i take out the pictures..."), a porcelain bank shaped like a kitten, empty frames, two coloring books, and more of the like. she found a tattered teddybear under her pillow. "i've had sarah for sixteen years." makeup couldn't suppress the red blotches materializing across her cheekbone as she considered the bear's fate. finally, she kissed sarah's fabric nose, placed her in the bag, and took the joint from jules. "did you bring anything to give?" she asked.

jules removed a clump of bills from her breast pocket and dropped it in the bag. "i left everything else at home."

"what about your watch?"

jules glanced at trevor's gift. "the watch can stay."

emma nodded and pulled the drawstring of the last bag, suffocating her bear inside. "the egyptians did this."

"the egyptians were buried with their valuables to carry them to the afterlife. we're giving ours to people in need." she pressed a sticky-note to the top of the sack and recited the words: _"'to whom it may concern, the contents of these bags now belongs to the women's center of chicago. please make sure they arrive safely.'_ sound good?"

"do you think there's an afterlife, delilah?"

_they always ask about heaven._ jules ignored the question. "do you have paper and pens?"

"right... for the notes." emma found a star-shaped pad of stationary on her vanity, tore off two pieces, and handed one to jules.

"explain that you gave away your possessions as part of the ritual."

"okay."

"and let's not mention each other. this isn't about me. be specific about YOUR feelings."

"okay." emma sat, put her pen to the paper, then paused. "what are you writing about?"

"my ex. how he treated me." (a lie; jules was writing the lyrics to _the fresh prince of bel-air_ theme song.) "you should blame it on your stepfather."

"should i say he..."

"yes, honey. say it all."

the relief of full disclosure was apparent in emma's single nod. her pen quickened as she convicted her stepdad in writing. "i told them i wanted to die. they never believed me."

"now they will," jules said.

"i tried to do it with a belt last month. mark found out and took away my computer. when i came back to the chat room, sexboy said i failed at failing."

the medley of intoxications began to affect emma's motor skills. the last line of her note came out crooked and larger than the rest, and there were no longer hearts punctuating the "i"s, but tiny dots like her own pin-point pupils. her back slouched like one of her curlicue commas; a brief pause before the inevitable.

when the letters were finished, folded, and placed with the bags, jules slid her skirt above her thigh to expose a miniature satchel attached to her garter. a silver snap kept the brass pill-case secured to her leg. with a flick of her thumb, she removed the tiny container and emptied the pills in her hand.

"is that—"

"the yellow pills make us sleep. the silver pill ends it."

the rosacea bridged emma's nose and webbed crimson veins across her forehead. her breathing was shallow.

"it only takes a few seconds," jules said.

"there's nothing else to prepare?"

"i'm ready when you are, honey."

emma took another swig of vodka. she stared at the pills in jules' outstretched palm and whispered something, but jules couldn't make out the words. she gasped, hard, _loud_ , and tears ran down her face, broke at the precipice of her upper lip, then dripped to the hem of her new dress. she took the pills—three yellows and a silver—and placed them on her tongue. she found the eyes of jules and kept them in hers.

"if there's an afterlife emma, your stepdad will never be there." jules tossed the tablets in her mouth and swallowed, never breaking eye contact with the child.

emma's tongue became a puddle of yellow mush. she tilted her head, wrapped her lips around the tip of the vodka bottle...

jules keeled first.

emma whispered, chanted, cried unfamiliar words; drifted, dreamless, silent screams of drug-induced euphoria. her neck rolled, chest heaved, heart buckled, and she fell to the rug.

* * *

trevor's heart wailed against his ribcage but his leather hand remained still. the soles of his shoes stayed flat on the hood of the SUV. he paced his breath. his eyes—snake-like before these moments—didn't blink. all senses were trained on emma's glowing-pink window in the second story of the townhouse.

the bedroom lights flickered three times. trevor slid from the roof and his feet hit the pavement—the first beat in the rhythm of his kill—and he marched across the strip of grass, through the iron gate, up the walkway, and through the front door in rapid strides with black-plastic wings and iron-grit teeth; up the stairs—grabbing trinkets that didn't slow his stride—he found the bedroom door with lighted seams, barreled through, and split the chair barricade in half. "fuck!" he said and saw jules leaning against the closet molding, facing away, emma at her feet but she wouldn't look down. _sonofabitch, she always did this_. "julesie julesie julesie let's go go go!" he clapped once and she snapped into action, using her shirt to clean what she previously touched. he tossed her an empty bag and they finished what emma started, pinching anything worth more than a value-menu burger. trevor reveled in the adrenaline—HIS drug of choice—a more potent high than anything jules could offer. he stooped to the ground less than a foot from emma's open eye and uncreased her starry letter, scanned it, approved it, "note's good!" he said, then found jules' letter, threw it in his bag, tied the drawstrings, and snapped open another while walking out of the room.

"only mark's stuff!" jules called, "emma wouldn't steal from her mom!"

"lipstick trick, baby!" trevor shouted from the hallway and found the room where the rich-pricks spent their fornicating nights neglecting the suicidal baby in the other room. he ran his arm over the mother's vanity and swiped jewelry like he was bussing tables again, corralling the items in the nook of his arm and pulling them into the open bag. he unspooled a stick of emma's lipstick and wrote in bold capitals across the vanity mirror, _"fuck you mom."_

he dragged the bulging bag to emma's door, dropped it, stooped to the child's stiffening body, pressed her thumbprint into the gold casing of her own lipstick, and left it by her hand.

"fingerprints are clear," jules said. "let's go."

trevor led the way— _this was the best part_ —down the hall, down the stairs, down into the chambers of hell; he turned sideways so the bags would fit through the front door, scouted the neighboring homes through phallus-shaped hedges, then scurried through shadows to his car with unlocked doors and no plates.

bags in back; _easy on the trunk._ jules rode shotgun and trevor leapt in the driver's seat. he turned the ignition, put the car in gear, and drove away.

* * *

glow from the brake lights faded as the SUV abandoned the scene. crickets proclaimed the evening's status quo.

then, new headlights arrived, illuminating the row of townhouse fronts, iron gates, and the yellow eyeshine of a cat slinking along the curb. the car parked in the newly-vacated space and emma's mother and stepfather emerged. they laughed together—a joke they heard earlier that evening—then walked across the concrete walkway with high-heel clicks and loafer clomps. the couple opened the front door and stepped inside.

* * *

jules yawned. the high from emma's joint was wearing thin.

the hallways of the palmer house hotel swirled with pastels and opulent fixtures in a cross between her great-aunt's funeral dress and the interior of a hippy love bus. she carried two bags of groceries down the dizzy corridor, turned the corner, and stumbled over a remote-control car.

"watch your feet!" trevor shouted from his kneeling position in the middle of the gaud, back arched and elbows planted on the baby-blue and salmon carpet. he zipped the car backwards, then raced it toward a ramp made from emma's coloring books. the car launched three feet and crashed in the belly of sarah-the-teddy-bear.

jules glided down the hallway—gracefully despite new heels—then stepped over trev, draped her skirt across his head, and twisted the handle of the hotel room door.

he extended his neck, found the patch of flesh between the elastic straps of her garter and the tiny box of pills, and pecked the inside of her thigh.

it may have been pheromones that caused trevor to lose interest in his toys (he left the car, ramp and bear in the hallway) or it could have been the physical high from a night of playing god. either way, his hands began probing her curves before she could put away the food.

"hi there," she said.

"wipe off your lipstick."

"i'm trying to be wifey. see the groceries?"

"i don't want a wife," he tugged her mesh skirt.

jules turned to face trevor. his stubble was cut smooth. he smelled of aftershave, dry deodorant and sex-tarnished bedsheets. those eyes—green, strong, inlaid beneath a firm brow that displayed such hate and SUCH love—they seduced her every time... but not tonight. "remember our deal?" she asked and lifted herself to the counter beneath a tin halogen.

trevor worked his abdomen between her knees. "only four grand left."

"four thousand? that means we're at—"

"twenty-one, give or take. i'm only estimating tonight's score."

jules wrapped her legs around his back and allowed his hands to untie her leather bodice. "just one more time—"

"one more GOOD time. like emma, not like the stoner valet."

"one more good score and it's over..."

"one more good score and it's a white picket fence and a job at starbucks."

she smiled and kissed him, leaving a black smudge on his cheek.

"what did i tell you?"

she reached for the nearest paper bag and ripped off a corner. she blotted her lipstick, kissed him again, and found her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers folded through his hair like the bow on a supremely gorgeous present. "promise me," she said.

trevor leaned forward, forcing her legs wide as he pressed his abs against her crotch. "i already made that promise," he said. "i don't lie."

"you manipulate."

"put it out of your mind."

the combination of trevor's reassurance and cinnamon breath flipped the final switch. jules loosened his belt. he unlaced her corset. she mounted her feet on the rim of his jeans and pushed. no boxers. no stubble. smooth and molded in all the right places; he unstrapped her garter and peeled the knee-highs down her thighs, ankles, feet and toes.

the single halogen drew hard lines across their interwoven limbs and defined trevor's shirtless torso for her viewing pleasure.

he sucked his purple signature into the tender of her neck and jules responded by pulling his hair and nailing streaks down his back. she felt dirty when she let him in, as if her body was trying to reject a mis-matched kidney. but she fought it, accepted it, and sunk deeper into trevor's vicious embrace.

* * *

gabe awoke thursday morning to discover a pair of gift-wrapped presents atop his copy of _the inferno_. orange paper, no bows, and a greeting card: _"happy birthday! mom's getting a new car and you get the minivan!"_ _"mom"_ and _"dad"_ were signed in the same handwriting.

the first gift was the key to the minivan. the second was an iphone.

edgar said good morning, but it sounded like _"ood orming, ood orming, ood orming."_

gabe rubbed his eyes, stood, and meandered through shafts of sunlight and moguls of discarded clothes. "can you say happy birthday?" he asked when he reached the cage.

the crow cocked its head, then jumped from the perch to the door and pecked at the latch.

"here you go, little man." gabe opened the cage and edgar fluttered to his shoulder.

gabe turned on his computer and projector. he shied from edgar's pointed kisses and logged into his email.

one message. a note from rose. the subject line read, _"sorry about that..."_ he held his breath and opened the note.

" _hey gabe, so sorry for standing u up the other nite! :( its not like me to do something like that..... but u gave me the PERFECT idea for our assignment about real emotion and i couldnt resist. dont b mad, k??_

_i attached the photos. let me know what u think :) i would never use them without ur permission but it makes an incredible series and i think its some of my best work._

_also.... i have a boyfriend. but ur a cool guy and a great listener. see u monday? :)_

_—rose xoxo"_

the photos appeared in a vertical column at the bottom of the email. the first pic showed gabe sitting at the table through the giant window. the lighting was beautiful, reflecting off the table's glossy veneer and illuminating his anxiety. the next photo was the exact same shot, but there were two empty glasses instead of one and the rose had become more prominent in the frame. by the fifth photo, gabe had created a leaning tower of cups and silverware. by the seventh, rose captured his heartbreak. he didn't remember making the face; downturned eyes, the corner of his mouth pulled back, an elbow on the table with a hand ruffling his hair, eyes gazing out the window... _he was practically looking at the girl who stood him up._

the last photo depicted a empty booth and a stack of glasses beside the abandoned rose.

how poetic.

gabe didn't reply. he closed the message, pulled his overbite behind his bottom teeth, and clenched his jaws together until his cheeks burned.

_i'm never going back to that class._

edgar hopped to the desk. his nails clicked against the wood and scratched gabe's art, then he nibbled the marker sketch of john.

"scat!" gabe said and shooed edgar away with the back of his hand. he studied the drawing. he felt sick when he looked at it.

sick was good.

with john gone, nobody in the suicide chat room would give a damn about gabe's birthday. he logged in anyway. anything—even the collective anger of the online community—was better than DWELLING.

"00sexboy00" was the only screen name that gabe recognized.

**dante_fire18:** _sexboy._

**00sexboy00:** _danteeeeee whats up_

**dante_fire18:** _bored out of my effin' mind. where's butterfly?_

**00sexboy00:** _do i look like her mom?_

**dante_fire18:** _maybe you do. i've never seen you._

**00sexboy00:** _need a shoulder to cry on cause that bitch stood u up?_

**dante_fire18:** _just looking for somebody to chat._

**00sexboy00:** _lookin for a pact?_

gabe furrowed his brow and typed _"no"_ into the text box. he paused, then reread sexboy's question, _"lookin for a pact?"_ he stood from his chair and walked to the foosball table. edgar followed with a swoop and perfect landing on the head of a miniature soccer player.

gabe looked into the crow's eyes; wet, black, pearl eyes.

he returned to his desk. he focused on the keyboard, then cautiously pressed each letter between moments of deliberation.

**dante_fire18:** _yeah. maybe. who do i talk to?_

sexboy responded immediately.

**00sexboy00:** _butterfly. she's been lookin for someone like u_

**dante_fire18:** _that's what i hear._

_"gothic_butterfly1 has joined the chat."_

**00sexboy00:** _speak of the devil!_

**gothic_butterfly1:** _what's going on, boys?_

**00sexboy00:** _dantes lookin for a pact!!!_

**dante_fire18:** _maybe... should we talk on the phone butterfly?_

gabe took several deep breaths as he waited for a response.

a full minute passed without a reply. he typed:

**dante_fire18:** _hello?_

* * *

"are you totally, completely, ABSOLUTELY positive that you wanna do this again so soon?" jules asked.

"why would we wait?" trev said. "this is huge!"

less than a minute ago, trevor woke her up by dropping the laptop an inch from her face. now she paced the suite from computer to window with the chicago expanse shuttering and honking beneath her. "it feels rushed."

"find out where he lives, jules. now."

she bit her thumbnail and scraped her lower teeth against the polish. "we're so close, aren't we?"

trevor was shirtless and sweaty from his morning routine. "he's waiting, baby. don't let this one get away."

"you think he's rich? you think he's worth it?"

"it's always worth it. now sit at your computer and do your fucking job."

* * *

"screw it," gabe muttered.

he moved his cursor to close the chat window. a split second before he clicked, another message appeared.

**gothic_butterfly1:** _what's your number, dante?_

if gabe hesitated, he wouldn't do it. so he typed his number, pressed return, and rapped his fingers on the desk.

he was expecting his usual cellphone ring. instead, a soft hum pulsated from across the room and he remembered his gift. he jumped up, snatched the box from the nightstand, tore it open, and plopped the black device into his palm. "h—hello?" he stammered.

("ello?" edgar said.)

"hi." her voice **—** even in that solitary word—was porcelain.

"sorry," gabe said. "i was... my phone... i got a new phone. what's your name?" he winced at his stupidity and walked figure-eights around the foosball table and couch.

"sarah," she replied.

"sarah. cool."

"where do you live, gabe?"

"how do you know my **—** "

"john said your name the other night."

"oh. right. that was—"

"yeah."

"so... how does this work? do you still want to—"

"end my life?"

"yeah... that."

* * *

"i do," jules continued. "but i'm afraid of doing it alone." she eased her back into trevor's chest and forced his body against the paisley curtains. his hands explored her midriff as she stared at the city and spoke with NUMBER SEVEN.

"what do you look like?" the boy asked.

"does it matter?"

"no. i'm sorry."

she sighed. "straight black hair. about five-nine. slender."

trevor pinched her waist and said, "what a perv."

jules nudged him to keep him quiet.

"you'll come here?" gabe asked.

"if that's where you want to do it. i just had a pretty awful experience... but i'm in chicago now."

"you're only three hours away."

"three hours?" she repeated for trevor's benefit. "perfect."

"is it just you?"

"just me. unless you have a friend who's interested."

"no." the boy sounded on the verge of throwing up.

"you need to be sure about this. i won't drive three hours to have you pussy out on me. are you as serious about this as i am?"

"yeah," he said. "definitely."

"there's no going back."

"i understand."

"tonight then?"

trevor jutted his pelvis into her rear.

"tonight sounds good," the boy said.

jules smiled and pressed her butt against trev. "what's your address, hon?"

* * *

wisps of fog emerged from the lake like specters rising from graves. they wove between the catwalk arches, slid and twirled across the cement, and toyed with the anglers' plaid collars before slipping quietly into the streets of grand harbor.

the weekend heat lasted just long enough to make children run on tiptoes across the sand, but not long enough to make the lake swimmable. the unusually cool water brought the salmon and smallmouth bass to the pier, as well as wrinkled hands teaching little hands how to hold a rod.

gabe's grandfather grew up on the great lakes; never taught him how to fish, but often complained about the dwindling population of perch in the area. gabe's last memory of the old man was watching him cook fish on dad's stainless-steel grill.

gabe sat in his usual spot beneath the square lighthouse at the tip of the pier.

sarah's call had unlocked something new and filthy like the time he flashed his new ID at a sex shop on his eighteenth birthday and perused the colorful merchandise. the thought of this _butterfly_ driving three hours to perform a horrifying ritual bestowed an unfamiliar confidence in his stride and a newfound air of credibility in his demeanor. when a brunette cartwheeled on the walkway and her skirt billowed open (so close that he could smell the tanning lotion on her thigh), he was ABOVE it.

a fisherman sat on an upside-down bucket at the open corner of the pier. gabe brought his knees to his chest as the man hammered a spike through the head of a flopping bottom feeder and into a blood-stained block of wood. the man caught gabe staring, nodded, then traded the hammer for a pliers. he pinched the fish's skin and peeled it off.

when the time came to actually perform the deed, gabe wouldn't let sarah go through with it. he would use their time together to show her that life is worth living (though he was beginning to doubt that too). if she was attractive, maybe she'd spend the night in his bed.

gabe knew it was HER through two-hundred feet of thickening cloud. he knew it was her because she stepped with the graceful poise of a dark angel through banal rows of fishermen, youth-group rollerblading parties, and pregnant women chatting on the ledge. her facial features were hazy from so far away, but gabe was already entranced by her wonderland aura.

heads turned in the girl's wake, scrutinizing her appearance with the wrath of mid-west sensitivity; _"is this halloween?" "where's her mother?" "slut!"_

gabe wiped his palms on his jeans.

sarah looked up. she noticed him immediately and swept a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. beneath the piercings and makeup, _she was beautiful_... and gabe wondered why such a pretty girl would want to end her life.

"cute town." she smoothed her skirt down the back of her legs before posing herself on the ledge.

gabe sat beside her and watched the fisherman fillet meat from bone. "sexboy told me about emma."

"she got anxious. i knocked on her door and her mom answered sobbing. i've never been so embarrassed."

"did you see her?"

"no."

"how'd she do it?"

sarah didn't respond, but unstrapped her backpack and leaned against the lighthouse.

"you said you brought pills?" gabe asked.

"that's about all i brought."

"we do it tonight?"

"sooner the better for me."

"i don't feel ready. i hardly know you."

"you don't need to know me."

"my parents'll be out tomorrow night. can we do it then?"

sarah's eyes were fixed on the old man's hands as he ripped the spine from the fish and tossed it in the lake. "yeah," she said. "tomorrow should be fine."

* * *

jules grew concerned when gabe unlocked a sky-blue minivan with wood siding and rust-speckled dents. based on the boy's online personality, she and trevor appraised his suicide at four grand... but if the car and clothes were any indication of his worth, his death wouldn't bring them any closer to their goal. (and there would be another.)

gabe's neighborhood wasn't the usual suburban tack or city-cuff townhouses. these homes were MANSIONS and they rolled with the hills and peeked from the mid-west jungle of leaf-collection trees: maple, oak, and the feathery white trunks of birch. several homes were guarded by gates, cameras and codes, but NUMBER SEVEN'S house had minimal security. the gravel drive circled an island of tamed foliage and connected gabe's home with two others. (trevor would have a difficult time watching from the street, but the driveway was vulnerable and wouldn't work as a safe lookout.)

she spotted a body of water through the branches and leaned forward to see if it was the lake.

"we live on a bayou," said the boy. "if you follow the curve to the channel, it brings you to the lake and pier."

jules ignored the anecdote and settled back in her seat.

gabe parked the van in a three-stall garage and pulled the key from the ignition. "it's eight-thirty," he said. "parents'll be in the media room, so we should be safe. if they DO see you, just say—"

"they can't," jules said. "no one knows i'm here. got it?"

he nodded and combed his fingers through two inches of light-brown hair.

jules stared at gabe's boyish features. he was a year older than she was, but with kindergarten flesh void of the divots and razor burn like brail on her own boyfriend's chin. his eyes were wide though, tender, and grey. if gabe lived long enough to NUT UP, he might just grow into his bony awkwardness.

in the foyer, shoes lived in precious rows on a rubber mat. gabe untied his sneakers and aligned them with the others. jules placed her foot on a chest with mallard painted on the lid, unlaced one boot at a time, then folded them inside her backpack.

the living room's twenty-foot ceiling confirmed that the sky-blue beater was a ruse. the final sliver of sun highlighted the room's expanse and the crystal knickknacks on the fireplace mantle. jules crept behind gabe, every sense attuned to the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather, the muffled tv chatter from another room, and the smell of lemon wood cleaner.

nautical accents grew from the home's crannies like weeds; starfish-embroidered pillows, a lamp with a sailboat base, braided molding, and a gnarled hunk of coral crowning a stack of _people_ magazines on the coffee table. a wet bar flaunted the jones' bold taste and provided a welcomed break from the sails and fish. jules observed upside down wine glasses—two missing—and a jar of pistachios on the mahogany countertop.

"can i get you a drink?" gabe asked.

"i'd like to be in your bedroom before your parents come out."

he shrugged.

a collage of black-and-white family photos led the way up the stairs, but gabe kept his eyes on the steps.

jules recalled the stained yellow pages of her mother's photo album. the plastic sheets were meant to arrange and bind the pictures, but when mom peeled them back to remove jesse, the glue lost its tack and the remaining polaroids slipped out the bottom. (trevor always joked about white-picket fences, homemade pies, and other pursuit-of-happiness stereotypes, but he knew that was never her goal. she wanted a home—even a shack would do—where family photos were hung in frames.)

gabe's bedroom was the first door on the left. the others, jules assumed, were guest rooms and closets.

he opened the door and hit the lights. the walls glowed carrot-orange. "that's edgar," he said and directed her attention to the floor-to-ceiling cage in the left corner of the room.

she mentally scoffed at the name's allusion, but eyed the bird's frozen body and inquisitive head.

"it's illegal to keep crows as pets," gabe proclaimed as if he just ate a worm on a playground dare.

jules thumbed the straps of her backpack and stepped lightly on the hardwood floor. the rest of the room caught her attention in bursts; a foosball table with paper plates littering the field, orange curtains smushed between a desk and window, a magnetic board with lifelike sketches of wildlife and demons and flowers and girls, and open shelves which served as a partial barrier between the desk and queen-sized bed where gabe was sitting. he eyed her over books and mason jars half-filled with teal sea glass—the only nautical decoration in the boy's domain. she recognized several of the books: _the complete works of shakespeare_ , _the complete poems of ee cummings,_ a picture book of mc esher's sketches, _the wizard of oz_ boxset _,_ and a meticulously-sorted collection of manga.

she scanned the room and sized the worth of NUMBER SEVEN. depending on his access to a parent-supported bank account, she and trev could hit their goal by tomorrow night.

a brand-new digital camera sat on the desk; _two grand_ with the lenses and case. jules considered grabbing the equipment, shoving the kid into his fancy bookcase, and bolting out the door... but she wasn't a criminal.

she slid a graphic novel from the shelf and thumbed the pages. "you don't do so well with the ladies, do you?" she asked. she meant it as a joke, but gabe's eyes found hers through the open shelves and she knew she hurt him.

she returned the book to its slot, then ran her fingers over a sprig of parsley growing from the base of a hydroponic garden. "who are your parents robbing to buy this shit?"

"mom's a realtor," gabe said. "top salesman in her firm for six straight years. dad's a lawyer."

"ah." one last detail caught her eye: in the center of the room stood a wooden beam like an afterthought in the design. tacked in the center of the post was a marker drawing of john.

she might have looked away if she tried.

_gabe's the last one, julsie,_ she reassured herself. _go to bed. sleep all day. when his parents leave tomorrow night, you'll end this._

she finally pried her gaze from the unsettling sketch. "do you have a bathroom?"

gabe pointed to a door hidden behind his blazers. "clean towels under the sink. let me know if i can—"

"i'll be fine."

in the bathroom, jules lowered the toilet seat, sat down, peed, and sent trevor a text. _"biggest score yet. the kid's a mess. tomorrow night for sure. xoxo to the moon and back."_

she promptly deleted the message as well as trevor's reply: _"make it happen. xoxoxoxo to the sun and back!"_

she wiped and flushed, then twisted an orange knob until the tap turned warm. an electric razor sat beside the sink in a dusting of white fuzz. she washed her hands, inspected her wig in the mirror, and sighed.

no words were exchanged when jules reentered the moonlit bedroom. the covers were folded halfway down the bed and a new pillow had been fluffed and propped on the headboard.

the boy pulled off his shirt and shorts. an elastic band proclaimed "american eagle" in bold letters, but barely held the boxers to his skinny waist.

jules stepped out of her skirt, unwound the laces of her corset, unclasped the armor from her chest, and pulled the fishnets from her legs like twin snakes shedding their skin.

gabe climbed in bed and faced the bookshelves.

jules slid beside him (with six inches of space separating his flesh from hers) and watched the stars through the skylight. the bird's talons scuttled on its perch.

within an hour, gabe's breathing shifted from his mouth to his nostrils.

jules fell asleep minutes later. her last thought was of the strange boy laying beside her. if he couldn't find joy in his spoiled-rotten life, then he probably deserved what was coming.

* * *

"sarah?" gabe pushed aside the alarm clock and magazines, then balanced a tray of food on the nightstand beside the head of his sleeping stowaway. her pillowcase was smeared with charcoal streaks of eyeliner and gabe remembered waking up to her midnight ramblings. "sarah?" he said again, louder this time.

her eyes yawned, then flicked back and forth as she reoriented herself in the bedroom. she locked onto gabe and narrowed her brow.

"i made eggs," he said.

she pushed herself up, grappled a butter knife from the tray, and held it to her face. it took gabe a full ten seconds to realize she was using the knife as a mirror; pursing her lips, adjusting the curve of her smeared liner, testing the grip of the black jewel on her nose, and straightening fallen strands of hair. she sighed, placed the knife back on the tray, and hugged the sheet around her bra. she noticed her mess on the pillow and rubbed her thumb on the dark streaks. "shit," she said. "i normally sleep on my back."

"no worries." gabe hid his amusement from the butter-knife charade. "it's just the case. if you ruined the actual pillow, we might've had a problem." he could still see the black outline of lacy bra through the sheets.

sarah was the literary foil to rose-the-photographer. her dark and dramatic style stood in sharp contrast to the airy floral dresses of the bitch who stood him up.

gabe pried his eyes from her chest and grabbed a tee from the floor. "here."

sarah shook out the wrinkles and pulled it over her head. "thanks."

he placed the tray on her lap and rolled the office chair to her side of the bed. breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs (sprinkled with green peppers and cubes of ham), toast, bacon, and orange juice.

"you didn't have to do this," she said, her fork picking the eggs like edgar's beak searching for seeds.

gabe mentally slapped his forehead. "you're a vegetarian, aren't you?"

sarah tried to hide her first genuine smile. "maybe."

"there's no animal in the toast or juice. i swear."

(over the last several months, gabe began to grow sheepishly aware of the creature living inside of him. it had always been there, clamoring for the same desire as every other wimp and depressive: SYMPATHY. when he was a kid, friends called the urgings "pissy fits." the art-institute critic called them "romantic." the longer gabe dwelled on the creature, the more he could control it. but now it smelled the moist aroma of GIRL and battled with gabe's brain, tongue, and lips to coax out a silly statement that might finally bring a healthy serving of pity.) "i've never had a girlfriend," he said.

(sarah's quick response squished the creature and hampered his heart.) "you still don't."

gabe covered his embarrassment with a gulp of oj. "i didn't mean..." he stammered, "i was just tryin' to break the ice. my parents'll be in and out until they leave for the party. that means i get to spend the day with you, and i'd like it to be less awkward than it was last night. i told you something about myself; that i've never had a girlfriend."

"you really wanna get to know me right before we off ourselves?"

"why not?"

sarah set her fork across her breakfast. "i've never been on a boat."

"that wasn't so hard, was it?"

she cocked her head in fake annoyance.

"never been on a boat..." he repeated. "not a cruise or a rowboat or—"

"nada."

"how old are you?"

"how old do i look?" she lowered her chin but kept her eyes on his.

"twenty-two?"

"seventeen."

_seventeen!?_ he thought.

"your family probably has ten boats," she said.

"just one. i think it was built in the seventies."

"i haven't been on a boat, but i HAVE been to all forty-eight states."

"damn, your family must like to travel. i've been to three."

"bull. you've been all over the world."

"my parents have."

"what a gyp." sarah took her first sip of juice. her lips blotched the rim with day-old lipstick.

gabe stood from his chair and took the tray from her lap. "yeah, life sucks."

"let's try to make it through the day without being depressing, okay?"

he walked across the room with the tray on his palm, then opened the door and set it on the hallway carpet. mom would get it later. (she might wonder about the second plate and glass, but she wouldn't ask.)

"so, what's the plan?" gabe said when he returned to his chair.

sarah distracted herself by wrapping her finger around a loose thread from the borrowed shirt. she snapped it off and flicked it to the floor. "remember when you were just a kid and too stupid to know how bad life really is?"

gabe almost laughed at the sudden change in tone, then remembered sarah was actually suicidal. "i remember," he said.

"i want to find that moment again tonight. for a few hours, i'd like to forget why i'm here. i think if we can do that, we'll have the best night of our lives."

"what did you have in mind?"

"why don't you plan the perfect day for us? i don't have any cash... maybe you could max out your debit card and take me to dinner."

gabe masked his trepidation with a grin. this girl wanted to end her life... in his bedroom... TONIGHT. if he was going to stop it, he needed to implement his plan.

_part one: find out why she's sad._

_part two: show her a good time._

"well?" sarah prodded gabe from his train of thought. "what do you think?"

he nodded. "yeah. let's do it."

* * *

once again, jules became a black-and-white demon in a technicolor world; a candy store this time, with racks and jars topped with assorted sugar. so far, dante's idea of fun wasn't far from her boyfriend's.

the boy had sent her to get candy while he plundered the bread shop. now she perused the glass cases and selected chocolate-covered raspberries, caramel turtles, and maple sugar candies in the hardened shape of leaves. she remembered the melt-in-your-mouth delicacies from the autumn festival in the hills north-east of LA and wondered if they were as delicious now as they were back then.

"is that everything?" asked the man behind the counter.

jules fished a bill from her cleavage. "can you break a hundred?"

* * *

downtown grand harbor was worthy of the usual brochure adjectives like "quaint," "homey," and "historic," and based on the constant stream of foot traffic, the vacationers agreed.

jules unwrapped a maple leaf and placed it on her tongue.

_jesse._

their final trip to the autumn festival was a distant blur before the taste of maple rekindled the memory. now jules could feel her sister's tiny hands shaking her shoulders beside the llama in that shit-stinking petting zoo. jesse wiped sugary drool from the corners of her big sister's mouth as they sat together in the straw and droppings.

she asked why jules was smiling. she asked why jules wouldn't talk.

now the taste of MAPLE was inseparable from the chemical euphoria of hillbilly heroin— _oxycodon_ —and back in grand harbor, jules spit the candy to the curb.

"you don't like it," gabe asked as he approached from the bread store.

jules scraped her tongue with her teeth. "it tasted weird."

"you didn't steal anything, did you? my dad knows the owner."

"why would i rob them? you just gave me two hundred dollars to buy candy."

gabe reached into his own bag, tore off a piece of blueberry bread, and brought it to her mouth. the gesture startled her, but she bit the lump from his fingers and let the sponge soak up the leftover nostalgia.

"best bread in the world?" he asked.

jules nodded. "mm hmm."

* * *

when trev developed this scheme over a year ago, jules considered using SEXUALITY to form her connections. but out of six targets, none of them showed signs of physical attraction. doug ( _shotgun-doug_ from jacksonville) came the closest when he asked if she had any unfulfilled desires. when she declined, he offered her a cigar. the other three boys were too fixated on self-loathing to see the girl before them. ashley (NUMBER ONE) didn't show any signs of bisexual tendencies. emma kissed her, but not out of attraction.

gabriel jones, however, was infatuated.

"ready?" asked the boy.

"i'm not doing that," she said. "it's not even dangerous. it's just stupid."

"but it's on my bucket list!"

"not mine." jules stood beside him on a wooden platform at the tip-top of "the region's largest sand dune." the front of the hill was gold with patches of slender beach grass. grand harbor webbed from the base, clear and bright in the afternoon sun.

gabe stretched his arms. "i did this when i was a kid but i was only allowed to go halfway."

"are you five?"

"are you chicken?"

before jules could retort, an SUV pulled into the turnaround behind them. "you go," she said. "i'll walk."

"your loss," gabe said and leapt from the platform to the sand. he crossed his arms over his chest, howled with glee, and tumbled down the hill.

jules waited until the boy became a distant speck, then turned and swaggered to the open window of trevor's car. she leaned inside, sucked her boyfriend's lower lip, then crossed her arms on the frame. "missed you," she said.

"tell me what you're doing in public in the middle of the afternoon."

"it's his last day."

"so?"

"you know why i do it."

"if someone sees you—"

"if you take this away from me, i'm done."

trevor sneered and mocked her words with a baby voice. "this town is shit and the only motel with a vacancy smells like taint. what the fuck went wrong last night?"

"chill, baby. he's not the first to need more time. his parents were home, but—"

"how sweet! did they welcome you in? did they make a nice dinner? did they get a good look at your face so they can describe you to a sketch artist when you screw this up?"

"they didn't know i was there."

"where'd you sleep?"

"on a couch in his room."

"if they see you—"

"TREV. i'm careful."

"what about tonight?"

"they're going to a party."

"you're sure?"

"calm down, baby. this one's worth the wait."

trevor squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "i knew that brat was loaded. he's gonna go through with it?"

"honestly, i'm not sure. he's not like the others—"

"but you'll make it happen?"

she smiled.

trevor wrapped his hand beneath the back of her wig and tangled his fingers through real hair. he squeezed. she winced. "you're doin' good julesie-baby." he pulled her head into the car and opened her lips with his.

when trevor had his fill, he quit the kiss, tightened his grip, and spoke in her ear. "we'll celebrate tonight, sweet girl."

* * *

gabe was laying on the ground when jules made it to the bottom of the hill. sand was stuck to his face and arms and every other inch of exposed skin, and half-digested chocolate-covered raspberries formed a river of vomit beside his feet.

"where next?" she asked.

"i think i need to wash off," he said.

* * *

jules hadn't worn a bathing suit since she was twelve and wouldn't be caught dead in a mismatched two-piece like the gaggle of girls splashing in the water or soaking up melanoma in slutfest rows across the beach. three well-positioned post-it notes would do a better job covering the meager breasts and hairless no-nos of the girls gabe dared not gander in the presence of his overdressed date.

fully clothed, he dove through a speedboat's wake and emerged lanky, tan, and shaking mud from his hair.

jules stood a foot from the shore. she stepped back before the wave reached her ankles.

gabe motioned for her to join.

she shook her head.

he stepped toward her with outstretched arms, fingers skimming the top of the water, joyful menace in his eyes.

jules lowered her chin. "if you splash me. i will kill you."

* * *

_shit shit shit..._

gabe had lied to sarah for too long: his parents weren't going to a party tonight... _the party was coming to them._

organic patterns pulsated on his wall from a projected music visualizer. the shapes danced, morphed and spun in ten-foot hurricanes of dizzying color.

gabe paced circles around his foosball table, smacking his palm against each handle to twirl the players. he maintained a frown, sighed repeatedly (loud enough for sarah to hear over the music), and tried his best to look forlorn.

sarah didn't need to pretend. her body—perky and authoritative this afternoon—seemed weighed down by thoughts of the impending pact. her eyes were heavy too; sluggish and wet with apparent despair. she placed a clump of deflated trash bags on the edge of his desk, then removed two pens from the drawer.

_she's really going to do this,_ gabe thought.

"can you check again?" she asked. "i've had knots in my stomach all night."

he nodded and stepped into the hallway. he leaned his forehead against the wall by the stairs and listened to the pre-party bickering that would resolve itself at the first ding of the doorbell.

he returned to his room and said, "they're still here."

"you said the party was at nine."

_the party IS at nine,_ he thought. _the guests arrive in fifteen minutes._ "i have an idea," he said. "it'll help you relax."

* * *

_this driveway's a shitty hideout,_ trevor thought. three homes were attached to the gravel, all rigged with motion-sensitive spotlights and decorative lamps. one house had a dog.

trevor could barely see the target's window from his position in the street. he waited in the car, nerves prickling and lungs craving a cig.

emma's ipod whined with the kindergarten lyrics of some young boy who'd have to snip his nuts if he wanted to keep his singing career. trevor unplugged the pop-shit from the stereo and listened to the hum of the motor and the distant laughter of a drunken bonfire. it was summer after all. and not quite dark.

though he never got a decent look at NUMBER SEVEN, trevor justified his growing hatred with the topiary rosebushes standing like lollipops at the kid's front door. THE BOY'S lifestyle was no different from those of the boarding-school brats trevor buddied with in his sole semester of college. like them, THE BOY never worked a day in his life.

_they're all the same,_ he thought and cracked his knuckles through leather gloves. _let 'em die_.

ten minutes to nine. according to julesie's texts, the parents would be gone soon.

* * *

gabe suggested they smoke the hookah to kill time and watched the pain melt from sarah's eyes.

his bathroom smelled like lavender and seaweed thanks to the air freshener plugged into the outlet and his sandy-soaked clothes draped over the shower rod. he opened two tins of shisha tobacco and let the potent combo of peach and menthol dominate the other smells.

from the bedroom, sarah's phone buzzed with another text.

"mint is okay?" he asked.

"i'm down for anything."

gabe pinched the crumbles into the bowl, then wrapped a square of foil over the rim. "light the coals?" he said.

"i have a better idea." sarah leaned into the door frame and dangled a teabag from her fingers. "mix this with the shisha."

the "teabag" was actually a dime bag of marijuana. "i don't think that's a good idea."

"you have a massive wall of morphing color patterns."

"yeah, but—"

sarah rolled her eyes and elbowed him away from the bowl. she removed the aluminum, sprinkled in the grass, and mixed it with her finger. "you're not really supposed to smoke weed from a hookah," she said, "so make sure you clean it good in the morn—" she stopped herself mid-word and carried the bowl to the pipe on the bedroom floor.

the couple sat indian style between the couch and the projected visualizer. sarah wedged the bowl onto the top of the hookah, then plucked a lighter from the coal tray. "you can't use foil," she said. "you need to light the grass directly or you won't get high."

gabe nodded.

( _what excites you? what frightens you? what turns you on?)_

the concoction sizzled beneath sarah's flame. she held the hose to her lips and pulled the smoke from the pipe, through the bowl, out the hose, and into her chest. she held it until her eyes drifted, then exhaled a whirling tapestry of exhaust.

she offered the nozzle to gabe.

( _run away from home, get stoned, lose your sentimental outlook on life...)_

* * *

car headlights cut the darkness and trevor winced but didn't budge. the beams rounded the driveway, flashed across his face, and came to a halt in front of the target's home. three adults stepped out.

trevor grabbed his phone and pounded a text to jules. _"who the hell is that????"_

* * *

jules' phone buzzed with trev's hundredth text and snapped her from her tranquility. she handed the hose back to gabe and read the message.

before she could text back to ask what he was talking about, the doorbell rang. "who's that?" asked her growing paranoia.

gabe coughed. "i dunno."

"stand up and check?"

he dropped the hose and meandered to the window. "looks like somebody's here."

jules wondered if trevor saw the pale face and pink eyes of the boy peering out the window. "no kidding," she said. "WHO?"

gabe chuckled. then laughed. he turned from the window and stumbled back to the hookah.

"something funny?"

"when mom told me they had a party tonight, i didn't realize it was here!"

if she wasn't high, the thought of trevor's fury might have frightened jules. instead, she took another hit of the peach-mint weed and texted him back. _"not tonight."_

ten seconds after she pressed "send," jules heard the sound of squealing tires and—maybe her mind was messing with her—fists pounding a steering wheel. "i can't believe this," she said.

"we'll do it sunday," gabe replied. "i promise."

"we were supposed to do it tonight."

"do you want my parents to walk in and call the cops? 'cause that's what they'll do if they see a strange girl handing me pills. they'll throw us in one of those padded rooms."

"this is fucked up. i came here for one reason. now i feel like i'm dating you."

the doorbell rang twelve more times throughout the evening. with each ring, laughter blossomed in pretentious peals up the stairwell and squeezed through the crack at the base of the bedroom door. with each bout of laughter, gabe notched up the volume on the music until the hidden subwoofer rattled the bracelets on jules' arm. the projector's beam was a visible cone of light in the hookah's smoke and the psychedelic chaos of the visualizer kept her entranced until the song faded and the shisha charred black.

gabe hit mute but the colors still bounced to the beat of the silent song. "why do you want to do this?" he asked.

(if she ignored the question, maybe it would go away.)

"i want to know your darkness," he continued. "i can see it, but i want to KNOW it."

when trevor first presented the rough outline of their scheme, jules wrote a depressing backstory to convince her new "friends" that her sadness was real. but she never needed it. for the same reason her targets weren't interested in sex, they didn't give a damn about her problems... only that they had company in death.

but here was gabriel, NUMBER SEVEN, asking for validation.

jules stalled. "it's a depressing story."

"i wanna hear it."

recalling the details of the dormant lie was like putting a puzzle together under water. "mom died when i was ten," she said without prying her eyes from the colorful screen. "i live with my dad now. we argue. sometimes he drinks. sometimes i make him mad. i can be a bad daughter."

"no brothers or sisters?"

( _jesse_ , she thought.) "no," she said. "my boyfriend cheated on me with a prissy whore who still wears butterfly barrettes and a promise ring. her name's samantha but he called her sam."

"that's hardly a reason to stop living."

"i failed every class last semester and i'm supposed to be in summer school. i have learning disabilities and... i just can't do it anymore. a hundred friends... but they're all fake."

"what about the person you keep texting?"

"he's real."

"oh."

"i already missed too many classes. if i go home now, dad'll kill me. might as well save him the trouble."

"you sound clinically depressed."

"maybe."

"you should see a doctor."

"no insurance." she looked away tragically, then summoned the mother of all suicidal clichés, "i know that if i die, nobody will come to my funeral."

(jules was aware of the irony; her real life was significantly darker than her textbook backstory.)

gabe laid on the floor. "i wake up every morning knowing i'm alone—"

"i don't care," she interrupted. "just tell me we can do it soon."

he sighed. "sunday. my parents haven't missed night church in years."

jules closed her eyes and leaned her head against the sofa cushion. _two more days._

two more days and she and trevor would reach their goal. seven days and they'd have a down payment on a two-bedroom house; a sliver of backyard would be plenty if the grass was green. someplace warm. trevor liked the south. she liked the west. maybe sonoma? that's where they grew grapes for wine.

but only the distance mattered. in sonoma, more than a hundred miles would separate her future from a past that gabe would never know.

* * *

midnight. sarah was asleep and the desire to TOUCH had never been stronger. rubbing fingertips along the pleated canvass arm of the couch, gabe craved the goose-bumps on her exposed waist.

he examined her make-up. he wanted to lick his finger and rub away a circle of foundation like a porthole to the real sarah. if he could find the girl beneath the mask, he'd tell her not to be sad.

he stood. sarah looked small below him; some baroque variation of ALICE THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS collapsed at the bottom of the rabbit hole beside the caterpillar's bong. john was there too, hanging ( _hanging!_ ) on the post above the princess. gabe shook his head and pulled his hair to keep that corpse from haunting this unfamiliar state of mind.

walking to his bed was like playing a first-person-shooter game. the walls and floor slid past his peripherals, but he couldn't feel his own strides. he gathered the covers from the bed and draped them over sarah. if he could take her pain as his own, he would.

gabe needed to cut this muddle of HIGH if he was going to save the girl's life.

he needed a plan.

* * *

"get up," gabe said. "we're going for a drive."

sarah rolled over and pushed her face under the couch. "i'm sleeping 'til tomorrow."

"you want my parents to know you're here?"

she groaned and covered her ear with her arm.

"it's saturday. that means dad'll be home at eleven, and he'll tinker with the boat for most of the day. mom'll be up by noon. unless she has a showing, she'll have a wine cooler for lunch and read in the parlor. i won't spend the last two days of my life trapped in my room."

sarah's moan was muffled by the sofa. "i'll get up if you don't look at me."

gabe walked to the empty birdcage. he forgot about edgar before he fell asleep last night, but the crow probably loved an evening of freedom.

sarah pushed herself up. "i told you not to look," she said, then waddled to the bathroom.

"wear something nice!" he shouted.

"how nice? i only have two outfits and i already wore them both."

"that's all you brought?" gabe poured seed into edgar's bowl.

"i didn't think i'd need any more. and you never took me shopping after the beach."

"we were wet."

"YOU were wet."

gabe scanned the room for his pet and found him pecking a sprig of rosemary from the hydroponic garden. he shook the box of seed and edgar fluttered to the cage.

the marijuana may have distorted his thought processes as he developed the day's scheme. now the morning sobriety was trying to convince him it was a bad idea.

if sarah knew where they were going, she wouldn't get in the van. if sarah knew WHY they were going, she would question his commitment to their pact. if she discovered any indication that gabe wasn't entirely suicidal, she'd find a partner with REAL problems and nobody would be able to save her.

* * *

it took jules forty minutes to realize they weren't going to lunch. after an hour of slouching in her kidnapper's minivan, the boy turned right toward chicago.

_trevor's gonna be pissed._ jules texted him with every new development, but gabe began eying her every time she checked her phone.

three hours after embarking on the mystery trip, jules felt the sickening ping of deja vu and her mind scrambled to identify the corridor of brick townhouses. "where are we?"

"we're late."

"gabe? where. are. we."

he turned a hard left into the parking lot of the west elsdon mortuary and said, "emma's funeral."

* * *

gabe led sarah by the hand through a sterile hallway with thin maroon carpet and spindles of silk roses. " _viewing room number two"_ was identified by a plaque with emma's name in white plastic letters. the place smelled like preschool; like sawdust and chemical cleaners used to mop up nosebleeds.

sarah jerked his hand but gabe pulled her to the back row of folding chairs and they slunk into empty seats beside two teenage girls. the congregation was smaller than he expected, with less than twenty-five people in attendance.

sarah flicked her eyes around the room like a soldier in the enemy's camp. "why the hell are we here?" she tried to whisper, but the anger in her words carried an audible purr.

"i'm fascinated by death," he replied. "i wanted to see the body." sarah was so certain that her suicide wouldn't have consequences, but maybe a teenager's funeral would open her eyes. "does it bother you?" he asked softly.

"i don't care about some dead tween."

"emma said she didn't have friends." gabe nodded to the girls sitting beside them.

"i can't BE here," sarah said and covered her head with her arms.

gabe considered resting a hand on her leg, but decided against it. instead, he sat straight and focused his attention on the suited man approaching the podium.

* * *

jules knew the man before he even opened his mouth. it was mark, emma's stepdad.

she leaned forward. this chomo's eulogy would be interesting enough to make her forget she was in the lion's den.

"i was the first to find her," mark began. "we arrived home late from an office party. sandy laid on the sofa and i... i went upstairs to say goodnight to our little girl."

the congregation held a collective breath while the dickhole wiped away tears. he turned to the casket and muttered, "these things shouldn't happen..."

as mark stepped from the platform into his wife's arms, jules wondered how emma's suicide note didn't tear them apart.

* * *

gabe and sarah were next in line to view the casket. they studied a giant photo of the deceased, framed and propped on a tripod beside the casket. emma's irises were outlined with pixels like expressionistic artifacts from the cheap digital blow-up. emma took the photo herself; arms stretched to the foreground, holding the camera at her most flattering angle. she was sitting in a blood-red carriage. behind her, ferris-wheel bars splintered the sky like a broken mirror. she was alone. (john was alone too.)

gabe watched sarah's expression as she approached the open casket. unless her mask was thicker than he realized, she was unmoved. "sad, isn't it?" he asked. his elbow brushed hers.

"she's better off." sarah rapped her midnight nails just once against the cherry wood.

emma was a wax sculpture. her lips were thin. her eyebrows were painted. her plaster hands were posed unnaturally across her stomach.

"i need to pee," sarah said, then rushed away before gabe could respond.

emma's friends snickered behind him. as gabe turned to follow his date, one girl whispered to the other, _"at least emma will lose weight now."_

* * *

jules draped her wig on the roll of toilet paper. the scar on her knee pressed the tile as her stomach forced her mouth open against her will. she coughed, choked and heaved into the yawning bowl, but all the commotion yielded little more than a wad of spit and a sore throat.

the dress in the casket was the dress from that night. not the pink fluff with uncut tags that cradled the dying girl, but the cream bag that fluttered with life in the amber street lamps.

jules planted her hands on the rim of the toilet, pushed herself to her feet, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

if she would have heard another person enter the bathroom, she would have checked her makeup and fastened her wig. instead, jules opened the stall to find emma's mom propping her head over the third sink. her dark hair brushed the faucet's motion sensor and turned on the water.

jules stepped lightly, but couldn't keep her boots from clomping against the tile.

the woman cocked her head like a startled doe.

"sorry," jules muttered.

"i thought i was alone," the woman said, then dabbed toilet paper against the sacks beneath her eyes.

trevor's voice rammed the forefront of jules' brain and demanded that she reattach the fucking wig and exit the bathroom immediately. every fight-or-flight instinct pulled her toward that door. ignoring the broken woman should have been CAKE after years of brushing off tragedy like dandruff... but jules ran her hands beneath the middle faucet and said, "i'm sorry for your loss."

the woman forgot about her sagging skin and turned to face jules so fully that the girl took a half-step back. "did you know emma?" the mother asked.

jules straightened her clump of fake hair. "i guess we were friends."

"she never mentioned any friends... what's your name?"

jules wanted to run. "sarah," she replied.

"sarah..." the woman smiled. "emma's bear was named sarah."

"oh..."

in the awkward moment that followed this utterance, the woman's wet eyes searched jules for answers. she blinked rapidly, then stepped back and faced herself in the mirror. "thank you for coming today. emma would have... she..."

"i know," jules said. "she was a sweet girl."

"was it her weight?"

"i'm sorry?"

"i pushed her on diet after diet. i never meant to be cruel, but do you think that's why she..." the woman's knees twisted. she grappled the sink, fell to the tile, then leaned her head against the wall beneath the hand dryer. "she was barely overweight..." her body trembled like a newspaper in a subway grate. "i never meant to be cruel. i loved her just the way she was."

jules couldn't leave now. she stooped to the woman's level but quickly remembered it was hard to kneel in knee-highs. she swiped her mesh skirt under her butt and sat—legs straight—on the tile. "emma said nice things about you. she said you were a good mom."

the woman took jules' hand. "she stole my jewelry box."

"i'm sorry."

"but bless her heart, she donated everything to charity; even sarah-bear. my husband searched the woman's shelter and pawn shops for my jewelry. i told him i didn't give a damn."

jules could only repeat herself. "emma didn't hate you."

"she warned us! she told me she wanted to kill herself and i called her a drama queen!" the woman's face was streaks and puddles of fallen mascara. "the autopsy said she had MY painkillers in her system. she bought the drugs that..." (a rapid intake of air took the place of impossible words) "...but she got high on MY drugs first."

_the oxycodon was HERS,_ jules realized and felt stupid for her sympathy. "maybe you shouldn't have been abusing pain killers," she jabbed.

the woman squinted. "i didn't abuse them. i had knee surgery last year. the pills made me groggy so i only took a few."

"oh..." jules searched for a remedy to her mistake. "maybe they eased emma's pain."

"she wrote a poem on her hand before she..." (another breath) "...but i scrubbed it off before it could hurt mark's feelings. i didn't want him to know she was thinking about their differences on the night she..."

"of course."

the woman used the heel of her hand to wipe her cheeks. "i barely know anyone in this god-forsaken city. i'm glad we met."

jules could have let it be. if she kept her mouth shut, the remainder of emma's family might have lived happily ever after. instead, she spoke. "i'm sorry to pry... i know how hard this is... but did emma leave a note?"

"she did. she didn't mention any friends, but i'm sure you were in her thoughts—"

"did she write anything about her stepfather?"

"mark? no."

_the pervert got to it first! he probably ripped out every accusation._ "ma'am," jules began, "emma confided in me before she died... and there's something you need to know about your husband."

* * *

the funeral home provided the pallbearers standing beside the casket like spindles on sleeping beauty's four-post bed.

the remaining guests mingled in somber circles as they waited for emma's mother. one man thought he saw her smoking out back. another claimed she snuck into the bathroom.

gabe sat in back, balancing the hind legs of his chair and lamenting his failed plan. the funeral was just vapid enough to confirm sarah's theory that suicide was a benign gesture—

the bathroom door exploded. the clamor ruptured the silence and captured the attention of every eye just in time to see a woman emerge in rapid strides—her limbs like albino spider legs with knobby joints poking from the slits of her black shroud—out the door and across the web of chairs and discarded programs. her face was marked with rambo smears of mascara as she trampled to emma's stepdad and slapped his face with the palm of her hand. "how dare you!" she screamed and shoved his chest.

the man stumbled backward, arms flailing for a solid handle but they only grappled air. his head landed in the center of emma's portrait, shattering the glass and sending shards across his neck and legs.

it took the strength of four pallbearers to keep the woman from killing him with the toe of her high heels, but nobody could stop her from screaming.

"you touched my daughter, you sick fuck! you molested a fifteen-year-old girl and now she's dead! it was you!"

gabe was enthralled by the drama, but he noticed sarah approaching from the corner of his eye.

her usual stride wobbled with uncharacteristic excitement. _"we need to bolt,"_ she said, then weaved her arm around his and pinched her lips to fasten a smile (gabe thought he saw a hint of DIMPLE beneath the mask).

"what'd you do?" he asked as they rushed toward the exit.

"my good deed for the day. i'll tell you in the car."

* * *

"sexboy always joked about emma's stepdad, but i didn't know it was true!" gabe drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

"i saw broken glass," sarah said. "did she hurt him?"

"his forehead was bleeding!"

"serves him right!"

gabe could barely catch his breath. "she just kept kicking him over and over and the pallbearers practically had to wrangle her away."

"un-fricken-believable. i was so afraid to leave the bathroom after she stormed out. think she woulda killed him if she had a gun?"

"she woulda killed him if she had a toothpick and a piece of string."

sarah crinkled her nose and laughed. "what a crazy day."

"was it weird to tell her?" gabe asked.

"what do you mean?"

"because of your father..."

"ah. 'discovering my darkness' again?"

he shrugged.

"i lied."

"about your dad?"

"he left years ago. my mom still lives in so-cal with my brother."

"you have a brother?"

"dusty. he's a good kid."

"so your mom didn't die when you were—"

"nope... sorry."

gabe held back a dozen new questions. the truth was emerging apprehensively and he was afraid of startling it.

sarah kicked off her shoes, leaned back in the seat, and propped her feet on the dash. her nylon toes wiggled. "crazy, crazy day..."

* * *

"then he said my work wasn't disturbing enough," gabe said. "told me to lose my sentimental outlook on life and they'll reconsider me next year."

"totally sucks," sarah replied. "were those your drawings hanging above your desk? the animals and stuff?"

"yep."

"well that guy must've been blind and retarded."

"thank you!" (the creature still festered inside gabe, cheering with every sip of acknowledgment, approval, or sympathy).

"i do see his point, though," she said. "you're kind of... sensitive."

(the sympathy creature grunted. gabe did too.) "what? how?"

"you play out scenarios in your head, don't you? about girls. about the things you'd do if one ever showed interest."

"every guy does that."

"LOSERS do that. most guys put on a show until a girl agrees to sleep with them. they go to parties. they try new things. and eventually, that stuff brings the life experience that you lack."

"put on a show? like flexing their muscles and slapping girls on the ass?"

"sometimes."

"and girls like that?"

she shrugged. "sometimes confidence works."

"what about good intentions? why is it so bad if a guy genuinely wants to make a girl happy? maybe you're right; maybe i think about these things too much. i fantasize about treating a woman right. if she wants the moon, i'll find a way to get it. why is that bad?"

"it's sweet! it really is. but it's also kinda faggy."

"faggy... i've heard that before." gabe eased his foot to the break and sighed at the saturday night traffic of downtown grand harbor. the sigh was exaggerated though; despite the insult, he was enjoying the drive.

sarah's seatbelt retracted with a metallic whack. she stretched her lacy arms and turned to gabe with feminine authority. "i'm going to do something for you, but before i do, you need to swear you won't take it the wrong way."

"uh..."

"i'm doing this for my own sake because you make me feel bad with all your pissing and moaning about girls."

"what are you gonna do?"

"i'm going to kiss you without any shred of love or hint of romance. do not trick yourself into believing that i care about you in any way outside the terms of our agreement tomorrow night. i've kissed many guys and i know exactly what's going through your raisin brain. promise me you understand that."

"damn," gabe glanced out his window to hide his smirk.

"say you swear," she said.

"i swear."

"and if i see or feel anything move in your pants, i'm walking home. got it?"

gabe nodded. a sympathy kiss wasn't very romantic, but if touching lips could rekindle LIFE in this marionette called sarah—

a hundred feet away, a stoplight turned red and triggered a trail of break lights like the spark on a fuse. the car in front of gabe stopped too and painted sarah's face in sanguine light. "watch the road," she said and turned his cheek with a crimson arm.

her lipstick felt like chalk, but her tongue ran the crease of his lips and tasted wet with a wild hint of human sour.

his senses forgot their duties. if his eyes were open, for this moment, he was blind.

sarah pulled back and readjusted herself; head against the window and feet on the dash. "there," she said. "now you're not so faggy."

* * *

the boy didn't notice the twitching orange tip of the lit cigarette watching from the shadows of the driveway... but jules did. hell, she saw the falling ash the moment her lips touched gabe's.

they parked in the garage and she made an excuse. "i need to think. ALONE."

the boy scrawled his cell number on her palm and told her to text when she was ready to sneak past the 'rents.

trevor watched the stars in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. when jules approached, he heeled the butt.

"the boy kidnapped me," she said. "i'm—"

"we need to go back to the basics."

"we don't. i messed up—"

"our entire operation was compromised because my partner-in-crime is too fucking stupid to understand that, when you kill a girl on wednesday, you don't attend her funeral on saturday."

"i didn't kill her."

"i tricked myself into believing you were strong. but instead of rolling in this brat-hole's cash with your boyfriend, HE has YOU by the balls."

"screw you."

trevor grit his teeth and punched the air, then he hugged her. "you're my life, julesie. you know i could never do this without you. our relationship is the only thing that matters to me in this retarded fucking world."

trev's arms were tender when his muscles relaxed. jules inhaled through her nose and smelled his chest.

he released her and stooped to the bag at his feet. "i bought these." he removed a pair of hands-free walkie-talkies, the kind kids wear on their heads to play war.

"how..." she stammered. "you want me to wear that?"

trevor broke one of the headsets in two, then handed jules the half with the earpiece and plastic microphone. "put it in your backpack with the mic sticking out."

she spread her arms and looked at her pocketless clothes. "where do i put it now?"

it was too dark to see trevor roll his eyes, but she knew him well enough. he snatched the broken headpiece, reached under her skirt, and wound it into her garter strap. "it's for your protection."

jules turned back to the house.

"hey!" trev called and she spun around. "tomorrow night, julesie. if you can't make it happen, i will."

* * *

sunday afternoon; hot as balls. trevor focused the binoculars on jules and gabe. he ran his finger up the walkie-talkie's volume knob, but the rushing waves created an electric hiss that muffled their words.

jules' wig was filled with sand. once upon a time she would have slugged him on the arm for accidentally spilling soda on her pristine hairpiece. now, even from his hideout in the beach parking lot, trev could see the rat's nest forming above her left shoulder. he would untangle it tonight.

jules wore flip-flops instead of her usual boots. there were no bracelets on her arms, but her left wrist caught a glint of sunlight and proved she was still wearing the watch.

hoards of blurry beach bums crossed the binocular's eye line, but trevor never lost sight of the couple as they splashed in the shade of the lighthouse.

* * *

_"—cute? i would— it was the— pink!"_

moments ago, jules and the boy squeezed water from their shirts to the sidewalk, then disappeared into the darling front door of a tourist-trap clothing store called "son of a beach apparel." the microphone must have slipped into her backpack because every word was accompanied by an infuriating rustle of static.

_"hell no. he— and then they killed— turned sixteen?"_

trevor kicked off his right shoe. he pulled off the sock and itched the web between his toes.

_"—loved it. LOVED it."_

for an hour he waited outside that store; every passing minute—every garbled word and intimate spritz of laughter—pushed the itch further up his torso until he pressed torn fingernails into his skull.

_"—dine with me? —steak and— vegetarian!"_

* * *

jules wiggled her shoulders against the thin blue straps of her new cotton dress. her arms felt naked without sleeves or accessories and she compulsively checked her makeup in every reflective surface in the dune grass grill. at least the dress had a pocket; _trevor-rule number six: always keep your cellphone on your person_.

the window booth provided a decent view of the lake, pier and tapering violet horizon. across the table, gabe filled a napkin with intricate doodles. the backpack sat between their feet.

she scanned the menu for a salad, but found herself distracted again by merry-go-round musings of the suicidal boy, the new cotton dress, and the impending night. gabe appeared less boney in the salmon button-up than he did in the wet tee. he pointed out the veggie burger, but her mind was busy dodging the habitual desire to scrutinize his sex appeal like she was eleven again when she would rank the appearance, dress, potential cock size, and "marry-ability" of every stud in entertainment news. this boy could never pleasure her in that way; _trevor barely could_ and he was twice as manly. it wasn't the mens' fault; jules turned pro at nine after a surprising experiment with the sprinkler in the neighbor's kiddie pool. the epiphany sparked further tinkering. turkey basters, q-tips, electric toothbrushes, and appropriately-shaped vegetables began dominating her nights while the other kids played hide-and-go-seek in the junkyard. now, trevor got her hotter than any carrot ever could, but "hitting the right place" was rarely his aim, and when he was done, _he was done._

gabe ordered the bleu-cheese burger and a cherry coke. jules requested the caesar with light dressing, no chicken, and extra croutons.

he showed her a detailed napkin-sketch of her wrist, hand and watch, then crumpled the drawing, sipped his drink, and said, "the dress looks nice."

* * *

_"it's a little awkward,"_ jules replied. _"but thanks for splurging on me."_ the voices were finally free of static, but trevor found the conversation to be tedious.

_"who needs money now anyway?"_ asked the boy.

trev bit a chunk of peanut cluster and wiped his chocolaty fingers on the roof of the SUV. the fancy candy tasted like horse shit in his mouth but he swallowed anyway. snickers bars were better.

* * *

gabe slid the napkin holder to the center of the table and placed the saltshaker on top. sarah looked remarkable in the dress he chose, but he kept his mind out of the gutter and dwelled instead on the impossible mess in which he was drowning.

they were seated on the opposite side of the restaurant from the booth where he was sitting when rose snapped her photos. another couple inhabited the space and leaned together as if their noses were magnets, whispering silly nothings about a simple world without yellow nooses and cherry coffins.

gabe forced a toothpick into the saltshaker's center hole, then jammed the prongs of two forks together to balance them on the toothpick. gently, he released his fingers from the contraption... but the forks slipped and clattered on the table.

"here..." sarah grabbed the forks, positioned them carefully on the toothpick, then released her hold. they balanced perfectly. "i'm an expert tower builder," she said.

gabe glared at the teetering forks. "sorry darlin', but i've been boredom-stacking since i could lift a sippy cup."

"we didn't have internet access until i was fourteen. guess how i passed the time?" sarah ran her tongue along her lower lip. her eyes sparkled with something intangible and new. "tallest tower without falling eats free?"

gabe smirked, then snatched his glass and began sucking down the coke.

"it's on," she said and stole his napkin holder for the base of her tower.

he tried to shout "cheater!" but his mouth was full of pop. he finished the last of the drink, dumped the ice onto a bread plate, and snatched sarah's glass.

"hey!"

he placed a saucer on top, then stacked his empty cup upside down on the saucer.

"totally not fair!"

gabe stuck out his tongue without breaking focus.

sarah continued her balancing act with the salt and pepper shaker. "tell me, _'dante fire,'_ was it rejection into art school that pushed you over the edge?"

"nice try, butterfly. but you ain't distractin' me with stupid questions."

"i really wanna know!"

he wrinkled his brow and peeped at her around the towers. "well," he started, "high school was hell. my voice didn't drop until junior year. i hated sports so i locked myself in the art room every day. they hated me for that, so i hated them. now i wake up every morning with the knowledge that i'm completely alone. art school was my salvation... but that, my friend, was nothin' but a pipe dream." gabe used four interwoven knives as the next layer of his tower.

"that's it? i thought the critique was months ago. there was no breaking point?"

"there was john."

"you want to kill yourself because john did?" sarah removed the napkins from their holder and added them to her pile.

"you can't witness the death of another human and not feel pain. john had a life. he had parents and a job—"

"and a severe case of depression."

"he wanted to be a radio talk-show host. he ran a japanese podcast about economics from his condo. i didn't understand a word of it, but he'd talk my ear off some nights." the knife platform began to slip but gabe caught just it in time. "i'm no different. i wanted to be an artist; i wanted to be a happy, famous artist with a wife and kids and a house on the ocean with a giant studio and lots of easels and paint splatters on the floor." he placed the pepper shaker on the knives and blinked. "but yeah, john was a good friend." he scanned the table for more pieces, but there was nothing left.

sarah's tower stood about a foot-and-a-half tall, but gabe's beat it by an inch. he grinned.

suddenly, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket and placed it at the edge of the table. she winked at gabe, then intentionally bumped the phone to the floor.

out of nowhere, a waiter appeared to retrieve it.

"aw, thanks!" said jules.

"no problem," said the waiter.

"could i bother you for a large handful of creamers?"

"of course. regular or decaf?"

"no coffee. just the creamers." her second wink was for the waiter.

gabe scowled playfully, then reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and phone, and began adding them to the tower.

"ass!" she said.

"i think you mean genius."

"i meant what i said."

"did your family go to church?" he asked.

"big question for such a shitty tower builder."

"well?"

"not really. i assume everyone is religious around here?"

"i believe in god and heaven. but church is boring."

"what about hell? isn't it a sin to kill yourself?" sarah jabbed his hand as he balanced his wallet like a tepee. "what happens to me tonight? do i go to hell?"

he shooed away her hand. "this is a bad topic to build towers over."

"agreed."

the waiter returned with ten creamers. sarah thanked him and stacked the plastic containers on top of the napkins until her tower narrowly inched out gabe's—

* * *

_something crashed. jules shrieked._

trevor's heart dropped. he leapt from the car to the pavement and bounded halfway across the street before the sound of laughter halted his stride.

_"damnit!"_ jules said. _"i was so close!"_

the boy cackled too. _"looks like you're picking up the tab!"_

a truck honked and trevor flipped it off. he turned from the center of the road and plodded back to his car.

* * *

"excuse me sir," gabe said. "my friend needs the check!"

sarah leaned over the parmesan remains of her salad and covered gabe's mouth. "shh! i don't have any money!" she slowly released his lips, but her face was still an inch away from his.

"i'm sure they have a job opening in the kitchen," he said. "just hope you're better at washing dishes than you are at stacking them."

"gabe! i'm serious!"

"calm down, darlin'." he opened his wallet. "i wouldn't make a lady pay on a date. i'm a romantic, remember?" he paused and looked up. "this IS a date, right?"

sarah grabbed his hand and whispered. "wait... let's just go."

"go?"

"i'll walk out first. you count to thirty, then casually exit out the back. when you get out the door, bolt for the van."

gabe lowered his voice. "hell no! i've got the money—"

"but i lost. you've never dined-and-dashed before?"

"nope. and i'm not gonna start now."

"pussy. i'll meet you outside." sarah snatched his wallet, dropped it in her backpack, and walked across the restaurant.

gabe nibbled on his thumbnail and watched his date stop at the front counter. she spoke to the host as her dress flared seductively around her knees. she flipped her hair behind her shoulder and covered a giggle with the back of her hand.

the host smiled, nodded, and walked to the back room.

sarah eyed gabe over the heads of the other patrons and flashed him a shit-eating grin.

the host returned a moment later cradling a bottle of wine. he presented it to sarah and she took it, slipped it in her bag, and clasped his hand in exaggerated gratitude.

suddenly, she pointed to gabe and waved. the host followed her gesture, smiled and nodded.

"son of a bitch," gabe muttered and reluctantly waved back.

he waited for sarah to leave. when the host turned his back, he patted his pockets and rustled out a wad of cash; _four bucks and some change._ he slipped the money beneath the fallen creamers, scanned for waiters, held his breath... and dashed out the back door.

* * *

jules sauntered in the magic-hour glow of a missing sun. the sidewalk was her runway and the tourists eyed her new dress as it shifted with her sensual promenade and sculpted curves.

gabe busted through the back door, looked both ways, and caught her laughing; grabbing her stomach and bracing herself on a lifted knee.

"you weren't captured?" she asked between fits.

"thanks for adding the wine to my guilt."

"anytime, thief!"

gabe grabbed her wrist and stepped quickly. "you didn't even need an ID! if you told that guy your real age, he'd still give you whatever you wanted."

"i'm a girl. he's a guy. what can i say?"

"yeah, but you're..."

jules stopped. "i'm what?"

"nothin'..."

"what the hell? you think i'm ugly?"

"no! you're just... emo."

"i like to think of it as 'classy goth.'"

"it's nice. we're just not used to nose rings and corsets. that's all i meant. you're gorgeous; with or without the getup."

"ha!" she exclaimed. "you don't know what i look like without the getup. i could be a lizard for all you know."

"i doubt it."

jules smiled at the compliment. (although she didn't see trevor when she left the dune grass grill, she could feel his glare like snake bites on the back of her neck.)

* * *

jules accepted the bottle, blocked the spout with her tongue, and faked a swig. "there are a few things i'd like to do tonight if it's okay with you."

gabe took the bottle and two more gulps. "sure."

"emma and i had a plan before she took things into her own hands. we were gonna throw away anything sentimental. it was her idea, but i'd like to honor it."

"let's do it." at dinner, gabe's eyes had been translucent with clarity and focus. now his brow sagged like a bulldog and his eyes watched the floor as if he was counting dust particles.

jules knew the look well. _reality was sinking in_. "i'd also like to write a note," she said.

gabe sucked the tip of the wine bottle and popped it from his lips. "yeah."

"you okay?" she asked.

he nodded, then raised the bottle again.

outside, the trunk of an SUV slammed shut.

* * *

no more parents. no more fuck-ups. no more funerals or dinners or cry-baby ramblings; _tonight was the night_ and if jules couldn't finish the job, trevor would.

he lumbered from the trunk to the hood, dragging the empty bags as if they contained severed limbs from a chainsaw massacre.

PATIENCE was a dismembered virtue, stripped of its relevance at the exact moment THE BOY called trevor's girl 'gorgeous.' no more waiting in the car. no more music from a dead girl's ipod. _no more mr. nice guy._

he paced instead, through branches and weeds and thorns that lined the driveway and tugged his jeans. a sagging twig looped between his hair and the walkie-talkie headband and nearly yanked it off. trevor snapped off the stick and readjusted the device against his ear.

his eyes never blinked; never left the window where flashing lights would signal the release of kinetic anger.

on the headset: _"you know what, sarah? i'm glad you came."_

_"shh. i'm glad i'm here."_

trevor balled his fist and punched the jagged trunk of the nearest tree. flesh tore from his knuckles. bark stuck to the blood. then he hit it again.

and again.

and again.

* * *

six vintage coke bottles, one collection of rocks, one digital slr camera with six lenses, ten filters, seven multifaceted die with numbers instead of dots, two mint-condition star trek action figures.

BAG NUMBER ONE was double-bagged. gabe yanked the ribbon and tied a bow.

edgar sensed the evening's dread. he hopped and fluttered from bar to perch and cussed unintelligible phrases at jules.

one cd player/alarm clock, one video game system with thirteen games and one controller, twenty-five dvds, eight bluray disks, and one bluray player. _triple-bagged and tied._

gabe tore his drawings from the display board and jules nearly leapt from the couch to stop him. but she held her composure and watched the boy crumple and discard his art into BAG NUMBER THREE.

ten sketchbooks, two journals, one iphone, one wallet. from the bathroom, jules heard the snapping magnet of a medicine cabinet and the nostalgic rattle of pills. gabe released seven orange bottles into the shiny depths of the bag, and when he returned to searching, jules fished them out and scanned the labels: adderall. prozac. ritalin. zoloft.

gabe removed a plastic food container from his bedside table, then banded wads of cash. "engagement ring fund," he said and emptied the bills into the bag. "romantic, eh?"

pulled. tied. dropped.

one case of pencils, twenty-four assorted tubes of oil paint, one satchel of brushes, one box of pastels, five _national geographic_ magazines, ten graphic novels ("sandman," he said. "good stuff"), three pads of watercolor paper, one memento box containing his grandfather's cufflinks, one tie tack in the shape of a cross, six boxes of flavored tobacco.

"that's it," he said. "what about you?"

jules saw the tip of the walkie-talkie protruding from her backpack. she nodded, then trashed her bag beside his art supplies and tied off the final sack.

gabe's hand quivered. she touched it, warmed it, and he settled down.

"what about your watch?" he asked.

jules looked at the heart-shaped face ( _ten-thirty_ ), then unbuckled the band and squeezed it in the top of the bag.

"time to write the notes?" he asked.

she couldn't speak. she nodded.

gabe gave her a notebook and pen, then sat on the opposite end of the couch with a final inch of wine.

"let's make these notes about ourselves," jules said. "please don't mention me, okay? also, make sure you explain that you're getting rid of your worldly possessions. emma would like it."

gabe wrote with exaggerated letters and said aloud, "to whom it may concern, my NEW GIRLFRIEND SARAH told me NOT to write—"

jules attacked him in the crook of the sofa, but he jerked away the notebook just in time. she wrestled his extended arm for the paper but the boy was too nimble. "give it," she said and scratched his forearm with her nails.

her nose brushed against his then flared at the smell of fermented grapes.

he pursed his lips to span the inch between them and kissed her. "no."

"give. it. now."

gabe grinned, then handed over the book.

jules fell back to the cushion, ripped the incriminating page from the notebook, and pushed it through the taught asshole of BAG NUMBER FOUR. "i'm sorry. i just want everything to be perfect."

"i'm a little teeter-tottered," he said.

she tossed the journal back in his lap and shook her head. "just write the damn note."

* * *

gabe finished his letter first and left to take a whizz.

when he zipped and walked back into the bedroom, sarah was crying. there weren't tears or sobs or trenches in the foundation of her cheek; her mask was stone, damming the ducts and preventing any accidental leakage of emotion. her eyes were wet and she blinked heavy lashes to dissolve the grief.

"are you okay?" he asked.

she tore her letter from the notebook, creased it, and placed it on the sofa beside his. "i'm ready."

he scratched the back of his head. "are you sure?"

"i'm sure."

he nodded. "i have a surprise first."

"i don't want a surprise, gabe."

he ignored the defeat in her words, then plucked a pair of boxers from the floor and draped them over the suicide notes. he grabbed her hand before she could question him and yanked her toward the door. "grab two bags," he said. "if we're gonna die, we're gonna die in style."

* * *

_"—the fuc— oing?"_

_"—old you— surprise! —nother— of wine?"_

the plastic rustle suffocated the words. trevor pulled a glove over the ripples of dead skin and flecks of bark in his right hand. he scanned the perimeter, then braved the naked stretch of gravel, dashing and dodging spheres of light from the patch of woods to the dark side of the home.

_"—you've nev— oat before!"_

the broken voices became real voices from the porch above his head. he crept alongside the cinderblock foundation, hid behind a vertical support beam, and spied the midnight bayou.

the boy had julesie by the hand with four bulging sacks and a bottle of wine, forcing her across the backyard and onto a floating dock.

jules turned her head and searched the shadows. _she was searching for HIM._

the couple tossed the bags into the boat and hopped inside.

from the headset, trevor heard a single word between the commotion: _lighthouse_. he beat his foot against a cinderblock then bolted to his car.

* * *

the propeller shredded the bayou into bits and pieces and flung them into light from the tangerine moon. jules leaned over the edge, stretched out her arm, and dipped her fingers into the spattering beads.

the boat soared. she held her wig with one hand, braced herself on gabe's shoulder with the other, and stood on tiptoes to catch the rushing air.

the boy touched the small of her back and coaxed her to the controls. she shook her head and shied away, but her hands were already on the wheel and gabe was in the passenger seat.

he worked a borrowed corkscrew into the neck of the stolen wine, took a swig, gulped hard, and closed his eyes.

jules watched him rest. she turned her gaze to the open lake, grinned, and opened the throttle.

* * *

the chain of yellow catwalk bulbs linked both lighthouses to the shore. gabe aligned the boat with the edge of the pier, then cut the engine, docked, and threw the bags from the boat to the cement.

"that was incredible," sarah said. she removed a fleece blanket (embellished with a blue and yellow "M") and tossed it beside the bags. "in case it gets cold," she said.

the air remained a tepid sixty-eight degrees, but sarah unrolled the blanket anyway and built a nest at the base of the square lighthouse. the barn blocked their eye-line to the beach, parking lot, and city, leaving them with a lonely view of the inky sea.

sarah assessed the contents of every bag by groping the black membranes. she selected one, then worked her nails into the knot until his art supplies peeked out the top. she reached inside and pulled out a pad and pencil.

without a word, (her intentions were implied by gleam in her eye and the seduction in her step) she placed the supplies before gabe. she stood, unzipped the dress, and released it to a cotton puddle on their make-shift bed. she sipped the bottle of wine and perched—legs crossed—on gabe's usual ledge.

he stifled his awe, fingered the pencil, and began with the curves of her waist in slow, intentional strokes. he blinked hard at the charcoal lines as if blinking would summon enough sobriety to DO THIS RIGHT. he studied the formation of her arms; the left resting on her lifted knee, the right bracing her pose from the concrete slab upon which she sat. he studied her shoulders; the circle burn above her left breast and the taut caress of her extended neck.

he sketched her hair, then used the eraser to create highlights from the overhead lamps. he sketched the bottle hanging like a loose tooth from her fingertips. he sketched the intricate pattern of her bra, then shaded the top of her stomach where the arch of her lowest rib created a shadow across her bellybutton.

nose, eyes, lips... all rendered in pristine detail; he drew these features as they might appear in the moments between her morning showers and the next slather of makeup.

sarah was meticulous and beautiful in the first drawing and gabe flipped the pad to show her.

she shook her head and drank more wine. "another," she said and unclasped her bra. she laid down, her elbow and hip pressing the pebbled surface of her lighthouse throne.

the second drawing developed faster than the first, though gabe spent extra time on her newly-exposed chest.

another drawing; another pose. he sketched furiously with every sense focused on the expressions BEHIND the details. the piece became sarah's breath; a conduit for her secret essence that could only be excavated through details invisible to the untrained eye: the precise angle of her brow, the trepidation in her unsettled arm, the distance in her pupils as she dreamed with open eyes.

the fourth and fifth sketches became violent representations of a suicidal girl. he traded his pencil for a marker to create lines so bold they seeped to the next page.

gabe smelled the sour sweat emitting from the collar of his shirt. he bit his lower lip, scrawled his initials at the bottom of the sixth drawing, then threw the marker in the lake.

* * *

jules sat behind gabe, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder, breasts against his back. the boy shuffled through the drawings and she admired his experimentation. even the harshest critic would be able to see his talent, but if she praised him now, he might halt the evening's plan. she restrained her compliments and muttered, "nice work."

gabe turned his head into the sanctum of her hair and the world fell away. he closed his eyes, kissed her, and wrung her heart like a sponge. she opened his mouth, touched his chest, squeezed his shirt, then finagled it off to reveal skin taut like suede from too many afternoons in the sun.

she released the boy and draped herself across the blanket. the plastic bags created a barricade from the shore, but one of them (she wasn't sure which) still held trevor's microphone. she raised a finger to her lip and said, "shh..."

gabe obeyed with a series of silent kisses. starting at her lips, he sucked softly, then covered her cheeks, forehead, and nose. trailing the tip of his tongue over the sensitive patch of her neck, stiffening her follicles until an army of invisible hair stood erect on her arms. he kissed her cigarette burn, but she suppressed the memories and fingered his hair. when his tongue brushed the tense nerve endings of her breast, she braced herself for pain.

but he didn't bite. he didn't pinch. he only kissed. and her limbs relaxed.

stars crowned the boy's face. his torso lifted and pressed against hers. he touched her cheek, thumbed her lower lip; his eyes were grey, present, and alive... but he offered no smile.

knees to her chest; gabe understood. he wrapped his fingers through the string around her waist and slid her thong to her ankles (sparing no thought for the odd box attached to her garter).

he touched with soft fingers. one hand stayed at her nape (she expected a hair-tangled squeeze, but he was gentle) while the other found a place he had never known. she parted her knees to encourage him. he caressed the inside of her thigh in return, then traced meandering circles around her crease.

jules grabbed hold of his belt and pulled herself up. she tugged the buckle, loosened the strap... but gabe pulled his hand from her crotch and stopped her inquisitive fingers with a tender touch. she pouted, leaned back on her elbows, and studied his eyes.

gabe found the panties at her ankles and drew them back up her thighs. jules lifted her pelvis so he could slide them into place.

with her eyes, she asked, _"why did you stop?"_

he answered with another kiss on the forehead.

bugs congregated in a swirling mass at the lighthouse bulb. jules watched them dance from the pillow of gabe's arm. her bra was back on. she crossed her leg over his. "we didn't need to stop," she whispered.

"yes we did." gabe shifted his shoulders and jules turned to her side. "what would it take to turn this around?" he asked. "to go home and shred the notes?"

"that would be amazing."

"i stopped because i want to take things slow."

"that's sweet." jules closed her eyes and reveled in the sentiment and lingering blur of wine.

"i stopped because i love you."

as gabe's words pushed slowly through a layer of mental molasses, jules' spine hardened and her brain scrambled to organize the implications and ramifications of I. LOVE. YOU.

she sat up. she hugged the dress around her semi-naked body. she leaned over and peered around the edge of the lighthouse.

waiting on the shore—piercing the night like god's halogen eyes—were a pair of SUV headlights.

she jerked her head back into the shadows and scrambled to pull on the dress.

"what's wrong?" gabe asked.

"'i love you?' what the hell does that mean?"

"i dunno... i'm a little drunk."

"you're plastered."

"i've been lonely. it's been a hard couple of month. i think about death constantly, but with you here, i don't think i can go through with this."

"gabe—"

"i don't want you to hurt yourself. i don't want us to—"

"GABE—"

"i know i'm not in my right mind but hear me out. you could move to grand harbor. i could—"

"shit." jules adjusted her wig and paced the slab between the blanket and the water's edge. "SHIT."

"it's not too late to—"

"i need to think."

"sarah—"

"shut up. stay here. don't follow me. do you understand?"

he nodded.

jules marched with bare feet down the length of the pier leaving the boy alone at the tip. the headlights were unwavering in the distance and jules patted the wrinkles from her dress.

livid tire tracks careened from the edge of the parking lot to the shore. a silhouette—menacing in its lumbering demeanor—crossed back and forth between the headlights making them blink out of turn.

jules stepped from the pier to the sand. despite her walloping heart, she breathed slowly, stepped casually, and mustered her grace as trevor closed the gap with bastard strides.

"he won't do it," she said.

trevor landed a foot from jules, abs undulating in sync with his heaving chest. when he spoke, kernels of saliva landed on her face. "he WILL do it."

"i tried—"

"he'll do it because _you'll convince him to do it_ because THAT'S YOUR FUCKING JOB, JULES." he ripped off his headset and threw it in the sand.

"trev. baby. _i can't_."

he didn't hit her, but circled like a tiger around injured prey. he breathed through his nostrils, but nothing would contain the rage. "you think he's special?"

"no."

"you think he'll be good to you? better than i am?"

she didn't respond.

"you're wrong. you know why you're wrong? because you're trash, julesie. you told him about daddy leaving, right? about the drugs? did you tell him that's ONE-TENTH as fucked up as you are? do you really think a rich boy can love the real you? he can't. he won't. but he's going to kill himself tonight and you're going to help him and when he's dead, we'll steal his money, pull off the perfect, VICTIMLESS crime, and build a fucking life together. do you understand that julesie?"

she closed her eyes and balled her fists.

trevor walked to the car, removed something from the glovebox, and took ten heavy strides with shotgun-doug's revolver cradled in the palm of his hand. "i asked you a question, julesie."

"i'm sorry." her tongue was numb. "yes."

"yes what?"

"i understand."

trevor crossed his arms over her shoulders. the butt of the gun rested against her back. "if he doesn't do it now, i'll kill him. and if i kill him, then we get in that car, we run away, and we do it all over again; new car, new names, new chat rooms; over and over until we make up for your mess. got it?"

"got it."

"we have the note. i heard you write it. now we need that boy to kill himself and it's all ours. do that for me, baby?" he released her neck from that morbid hug.

she turned, took three steps, and—

"hey," he called.

she stopped.

"i love you BECAUSE you're trash, julesie. he won't."

she nodded.

"now GO."

trevor's final word shook jules like a gunshot. she planted her heels in the sand and dashed back to the pier.

* * *

life preservers garnished every tenth arch like neon wreaths. the catwalk lights created ominous shadows like the bars of a black ferris wheel.

_devastation, humiliation, terror_ ; her mind raced to separate the deadly emotions from plans to FIX THIS. if she stopped to think—if she ducked behind the first lighthouse to pull herself together—trevor would see.

one-hundred strides to gabe.

she waited until the headlights lost their sting, then slipped a hand under her dress, unpinned the pill case from her garter-strap pocket, removed two silver capsules— _the deadly capsules—_ and flung them into the lake. she counted the remaining yellows—the pills that would put them to sleep—then snapped them away, pocketed the container, and removed her phone.

fifty strides left. she dialed _9-1-1._

one ring.

two.

her shadow grew and shrunk in rhythm with the passing lamps.

three rings. _come on!_ she thought and the operator answered.

"nine-one-one. what's your emergency?"

jules deepened her voice. "i was alerted that a boy fainted on the grand harbor pier. please send someone to check on him right away."

_ten paces left_. the operator asked another question, but jules collapsed her phone, shoved it in her dress pocket, and rounded the corner of the second lighthouse.

gabe's eyes were pink and puffed. when he saw her, he looked away.

she sat on the blanket and crossed her legs. she faced the boy. she held his hand. "you need to listen to me," she said. "i can't take this life anymore." she spoke slowly. "i'm going to do this with or without you, but i'm begging you to do it with me." she removed the tiny case and showed him the yellow pills.

his eyes welled. he shook his head. "tell me."

"tell you what, baby?"

"tell me WHY."

"it doesn't matter. this is the only way we can be together—"

"bullshit. tell me the truth. why are we doing this?"

she grabbed the bottle—two gulps left—and shoved it into gabe's naked chest. "this is the only way to end the madness."

"answer. my fucking. question." depths of frustration boiled in the corner of his lips. his mouth was closed, but the jagged formation of his jaw suggested his teeth were grinding.

jules set the bottle between them. "you want darkness?" she asked. "you want to hear stories about PAIN so you can draw pretty pictures? you want to know why i can't live with myself? i don't beat around the bush so don't ask for answers you can't handle."

"tell me," he demanded.

jules searched the boy's eyes for any glint of hope... then she pressed her nails into the brunt of her palm and spoke quickly. "i had sex for drugs when i was fourteen. over. and over. and over. pain killers are like heroin where i come from, and oxy is expensive. my mom used. i used. jesse..."

"jesse?"

"it makes you numb. it makes you happy. once you start on the higher doses, you don't stop. i had a neighbor named jason; he started selling when we turned fourteen. but with jason... i didn't have to pay."

"...so you ran away?"

"i was never comfortable. i didn't look like them. i didn't act like them. i liked to read and i liked to learn. girls hated me and boys weren't friends; they were sticky gropings beneath the bleachers or 'just once, i promise, i can make you feel good.'"

"why did you leave?"

"shit happened and i ran."

"what shit?"

"doesn't matter, i—"

"sarah—"

"i joined AA. i saved myself and i abandoned my brother. i left him... i left MY BROTHER in the care of a _fiend_."

"you're crying," he said.

jules wiped away a salty streak of makeup and continued. "i met my boyfriend in the program. i got clean after four meetings and never turned back."

"i thought your boyfriend was a dick. or was that—"

"a lie."

"you're still dating?"

"it's complicated."

"does he know about our pact? does he know what you're doing?"

"are you listening to me? _it. doesn't. matter._ "

"then stay! we don't have to do this!"

"i don't love you."

"you do! i can see it!"

the boy wasn't listening. if jules wanted to save him, she had to crush him. "you want the truth?"

"yes!"

"you want the TRUTH, gabe?"

"yes!"

"the truth is you ARE faggy. you're all knees and elbows and greasy hair. you whine about girls and beg for sympathy. you smell like BO, and when i tried to have sex with you, you pussied out like a frickin' eunuch. do you ever wonder why you read so many fantasy books? it's a lame attempt at finding new experiences. the stories take you to extraordinary places and introduce you to fantastic new friends. but when you put the book down, all you have are some crappy drawings and your parents' money."

"please... please don't..." his marshmallow eyes; his gasping breaths and keeling sobs... "please don't," he said again.

(the desire to slit her own wrists wormed its way through jules' veins and, for an instant, she wished she kept the silver pills.) "you can't talk me out of this," she said. "if you don't help me, i'll die alone. is that what you want?" she snatched the bottle again and forced it into his trembling hands. "TAKE IT."

he shoved it away.

"you think you can take me out to dinner, buy me a dress, ask me some stupid questions, and expect me to be fixed? i'm sick to my core, gabe, and i want you to swallow these pills with me. right now."

"i—"

"you couldn't save john. and you can't save me."

the boy was a shifting smudge of color through her watering eyes. he was standing now—she blinked to clear the blur—and he shoved their drawings into a bag. he walked to the edge of the pier, spun two full circles with the orbiting sack, and relinquished his crap to the sea. SPLASH.

_son of a bitch!_ she screamed in her head. _don't do that!_ she bit her bottom lip and kept cool. "gabe, you don't need to do this."

he didn't respond, but grabbed a second bag, stumbled, dropped it, then kicked it to the ledge and into the water.

SPLASH.

there was nothing she could do but watch. the third bag was the lightest and it soared. it splashed. it disappeared into the murk, then bobbed back to the moonlight.

she dropped her head and closed her eyes. she heard the rustle of the fourth bag, gabe's panting breaths, a grunt, a heave, and—

* * *

_SPLASH!_

static exploded over trevor's headset. he tore the device off his head, pushed the revolver into the waist of his jeans, and bolted to the pier.

_julesie had her chance._

* * *

six yellow pills.

"you don't believe in heaven," gabe said.

"i do," jules replied and offered her palm.

the boy stared at the pills, then pinched three between his fingers.

"it's the only way," she said.

his body slouched as if his soul escaped prematurely, leaving his skeletal remains to finish the dirty work.

he placed the yellow capsules on his tongue.

jules did the same (but slid them behind her gums). she gulped hard.

gabe held the bottle.

_swallow the fucking pills, baby,_ she thought.

he put it to his lips.

_you need to swallow them NOW._

he tilted his head... and swallowed them.

from the corner of her eye, jules saw trevor's demonic form dashing and flickering beneath the catwalk lights. she watched him approach but didn't break eye contact with gabe.

his lashes fluttered. he tipped. jules caught his shoulders and softened his fall. he landed on his side (she made sure of it).

she touched his hair and leaned in close. her lips brushed the lobe of his ear as she whispered, "sometimes life isn't worth the pain. i'm going for a swim. _goodbye, my love._ "

jules stood and swaggered to the edge of the pier. her toes curled around the concrete. she spread her arms and turned to face gabe.

_he needed to see this._

* * *

_o true apothecary..._ _thy drugs are quick!_

gabe watched sarah raise her arms like the wings of a black swan. in tedious slow-motion, her eyelids closed, knees stiffened, and her body drifted backwards into the abyss.

in gabe's mind he screamed so loud that a vocal chord snapped and his arm shot out to grab her wrist...

in reality, he was numb.

in reality, she was drowning in the sea.

it only took a moment to accept sarah's fate; then a moment longer to accept his own.

his terminal musings drifted somewhere between dreams and memory; of the day he found EDGAR; the missing feathers; the blood, dark like chocolate syrup. the crow was just a baby then, blown from a nest and toyed by the neighbor's dog, broken and shivering in the hands of GABE who would build him a home and forever ensure his care.

darker than feathers it came, covering the boy at the tip of the pier and rocking him gently to sleep.

* * *

jules spit out the pills and dove beneath the water for the sinking bags. massive boulders lined the submerged wall of the pier; slippery and fuzzy with weeds... but they weren't bags so jules resurfaced. she dove again, deeper, and discovered with probing fingers a sack between the rocks. she emerged from the water, tossed the bag to the concrete, and accepted trevor's outstretched hand.

"what happened?" he screamed.

her wig lopped sideways so she pulled it off and held it in the pit of her arm. she tore a hole in the bag... and found her backpack. _lucky first try._

trevor walked circles around the perimeter, squeezed his cheeks with his nails, and furiously itched the back of his neck. "why the HELL did he throw them away?"

"forget it, trev. we gotta go."

"damnit!" he punched the air with both fists—"SON OF A BITCH!"—and stomped over to the sleeping boy.

"he's dead!" jules yelled. "we need to go!"

trevor stooped and studied gabe. "woulda killed you myself if i could..."

"trev, LET'S GO."

sirens approached. lights blistered the sky with twisting patches of red and blue.

trevor's head perked like a wolf. "yeah," he said. "let's go."

* * *

somehow, trev kept the car under control as he beat his fists into the wheel. "we're doing this... right now or it'll be too late."

"it's already too late." jules wrung water from her wig.

"you can wait in the car."

"you wanna get caught after all that work?"

"that boy's got more shit. his parents are loaded. i'm going in."

"what about your rules? what about putting your girlfriend's safety first? turn the car around and get out of this town!"

"you messed up, jules. i need to fix it."

"baby, please."

"baby? BABY? you called HIM 'baby.'"

"leave with me," she begged. _"please."_

trevor thumbed his forehead. "we can't."

"why not?"

"the note, jules." he paused and let the notion sink in. "we're going back for your note. we don't have a choice."

she rested her feet on the dash and pressed her forehead to her knees. "the note..."

"when his parents or the police search his room, they'll find two notes. TWO. and what do you think they'll assume when there's a dead boy, a missing bag, and a second suicide note signed by a random girl?"

"i didn't sign it..."

"it doesn't matter."

"i know."

* * *

the car eased to a stop beside gabe's home.

a car was in the driveway. lights were alive on the bottom floor. his parents were home.

trevor spoke first. "tell me the note was gibberish..."

"he was sitting right beside me. i had to make it look real."

"give me some good news, julesie. did you pocket some cash? anything?"

"no..."

he nodded. "okay." he nodded again. "okay."

the car lurched forward. jules wrapped her arms around her dress and laid her head against the window.

* * *

a pencil case sat atop a sopping stack of _national geographics_ on a dingy motel nightstand. the room smelled of rotten potpourri thanks to the sticky wet flecks of flavored tobacco.

trevor sat on the edge of the bed where he had spent the last three nights. his girlfriend laid behind him, facing away and ignoring his inquisition.

he fished out a box of pastels; the slimy bright colors dripped down his hand and he smeared a rainbow on the back of the desk chair.

he scavenged the bottom of the bag and felt a piece of jewelry among the paint. it was the watch. he held it to the light, closed one eye, and saw beads of moisture trapped inside the purple face.

_"i joined AA,"_ jules had told gabe while trevor listened. _"i saved myself and abandoned my brother."_

trevor cringed as he recalled the conversation.

in the golden days, they would stay up talking 'til eight in the morning; a pit-stop in the arizona desert, naked, alone, TOGETHER; gazing at stars from a sleeping bag on the roof of his car. it was colder than they expected, but tangled limbs kept them warm. it was that excellent night when jules divulged the saddest of her childhood stories until the sun rose over the mountains. trevor listened with an open mind. he held her when she cried.

but now, _that boy knew too._ even in death, gabriel jones shared their secrets.

trevor placed the watch on the nightstand, hit the lights, and crawled beneath the covers. "you told him the truth," he said.

jules didn't move, but responded quietly. "he needed to believe me or he wouldn't have done it."

trevor touched her shoulder. "i understand."

she moved away and let his hand drop to the bed.

he didn't yell, but spoke as tenderly as possible. "hey julesie, do you remember driving through arizona last year? we pulled off the road and slept on—"

"please don't."

trevor sighed, turned away, and pulled the sheet over his nose to block the stinking tobacco. "i know you don't want to talk," he said. "but i have one more question."

"what."

trevor stared at the silhouette of the heart-shaped watch. "who's jesse?"
****

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**part two**

"i filled out the organ donor information on the back of my license."

"that's good, blake. very kind of you."

"every thursday i see charlie at the hospice. charlie needs a liver. maybe when they find me, they can give him mine?"

"that's a good thing to write in your note."

"that'll be my very next sentence! you're full of good ideas, rosie. i'm glad you're here."

"try to focus, hon. and remember, don't mention me. keep this note about yourself."

"the world can be cruel, rosie."

"focus, blake."

"katie didn't ask for me, rosie. all she ever wanted was NORMAL. dad wanted normal too. instead they got me."

"i'm sorry."

"that's what i like about you, rosie. you understand me. katie understood too. she was a good lady; said she was enabling me so she kicked me out. i'm telling her in my note that it's not her fault; that kicking me out was just what i needed. told her it's not her fault that i'm hurting myself."

"i think it's sweet."

"katie deserves better. she deserves a-a-a real prince charming. somebody that can take c-care of her and buy her earrings."

"it's about that time, hon."

"time?"

"to do this."

"so soon? maybe we c-could talk for just a little longer."

"we've been talking for two days, blake." jules lifted her skirt and unclipped the pill case.

"what are those, rosie?"

"pills. like we talked about online."

"no pills, rosie. i will not swallow any COCK-SUCKING pills."

jules was higher than a kite and teetered the line between "finish the damn job" and "catatonic." luckily, blake's bathroom already smelled like crusted puss and mold, so she managed to sneak away six times in six hours to light up in the rare haven away from her boyfriend's unblinking eye. "if you won't take the pills, how did you plan on doing this?" she asked.

blake nodded to the massive window on the far left wall. "i took out the screen. managers say we're not supposed to do that, but i-i-i did it for us, rosie."

a sudden onset of paranoia wrapped cold fingers around her neck. _calm down, jules. it's just bad weed._ "i'd really like to use the pills, blake. maybe you—"

"NO. FUCKING. PILLS." blake wrangled himself from the floor, then slowly carried himself across the forsaken condominium as if he was nursing a keg instead of a single bottle of whisky. his free arm jerked rapid circles as he twirled the window's lever and welcomed the stale air, perpetual grit, and mechanical drone of DETROIT into the sixteenth-floor wasteland loft.

jules was too blazed to care. "why can't you swallow pills, blake?"

"pills pills pills pills PILLS. always pills, rosie. every day there's more pills and more pills and more pills and they don't work THEY DO NOT WORK." his hand clenched her shoulder.

she flinched.

"i'm sorry i screamed, rosie. you're a good gal for putting up with me. that k-katie was a good gal too. whenever i got angry..."

as blake rambled about his katie and her unmatched capacity for tolerance and the gold locket he purchased for her thirty-seventh birthday and the blah blah blah blah, jules thought of trevor sitting just outside the condo door, caressing his stubble with the barrel of the revolver (a growing habit since "the lighthouse incident"), bouncing his leg, and listening.

jules confronted trev last week: __ "blake will be number ten, baby. when will this stop?"

he scratched his chin with the gun. __ "when i'm satisfied."

now, NUMBER TEN was hugging her with his putrid shirt pushing her nose ring into her cheek. the pills softened in her moist palm.

"if i d-d-die in here, they'll find me. i c-c-can't have them find me, rosie. i've always been such a bother. such a BOTHER. when we die on the street, somebody'll just sweep us away. that way, d-d-dad won't have to f-find us." blake nuzzled her neck.

she pushed against the man's chest but his biceps hardened.

"dad was the only person who c-c-c-could help me, rosie. he knew when i was thinking RIGHT, and when i was thinking WRONG."

"i don't know what that means, honey." as jules spoke, her lips brushed an unidentifiable stain on blake's shirt.

"i mean i'm fucked in the head, little rosie."

"you need to explain it to me, blake. let me go and tell me about it?"

"i-i-i... i'm bipolar, rosie. dad could help me. he knew when i was ME, and when i WASN'T. i dunno if i'm ME right now, rosie."

jules squirmed but blake's arms tightened like brother pythons fighting a rat. she pleaded, "i didn't know you were sick. if you let me go, we can—"

"i'm sorry, katie," blake said, blubbering like a child with a scraped knee. "i never meant to hurt you."

"it's okay, hon," jules said as she fought the escalating claustrophobia. "sit back down. maybe we can use your whisky to dissolve the—"

"NO. GOD. DAMN. PILLS." the hug turned into an ironclad grapple around her shoulders. "NO PILLS. NO DOCTORS. NO PILLS. NO DOCTORS. i want this to END, rosie." despite his intoxication, blake managed to stand.

jules kicked his stomach and beat her fists into his spine but he carried her easily over his shoulder to the open window.

"it'll all be over soon, little rosie."

"trevor!" she screamed.

blake braced himself on the frame, stepped from the floor to the chair to the windowsill—

the metallic WHACK of the front door made blake twist his head to find trevor barging in with gun drawn, rupturing the equilibrium of girl, drunken psycho, and chair.

as blake reeled, jules found herself staring at the sidewalk sixteen floors below in the slipping grip of the beast. she choked on a scream as blake's ankle gave way to the rotating foothold and dropped his spine on the window's ledge, bringing the girl's heart to her chest and the sidewalk three feet closer.

blake's head smacked glass. his arms released jules in a rapid downward flight—butt first—to the condo floor. the sudden impact and loss of breath opened her fingers and scattered the pills.

trevor hurdled her torso and pointed the gun at the man slouched against the wall.

"ahhh!" blake cried. "what the fuck, rosie!"

trevor shouted, "give him the pills, jules!"

she squeezed her eyes shut. her backbone was sore but not broken.

"who is this guy, rosie! get him away! get him away!"

trevor snapped off the gun's safety. "shut your yap, asshole! julesie, get the pills!"

she rolled over, scoured the floor with trembling hands, and gathered all eight capsules from the dust bunnies.

trevor grabbed them from her palm and jabbed his fist into blake's sweat-drenched face. "take them," he said. "TAKE THEM."

"rosie?" blake said. "rosie?" he said again. "what's happening?"

"he's sick, trevor! let him go!"

"take the fucking pills!" trev pressed the gun to blake's head.

"don't bruise his temple!" she said.

"take the pills!" trev said again and cocked the revolver. "take the pills or i blow your face all over the fucking room! do you want daddy to clean your splattered brain, blakey?"

"go away!" the man pleaded. "rosie, please! get him off of me!"

trevor huffed with darkening cheeks. he kept the gun trained on blake's head, tossed the pills into the night, and ratcheted the window shut. he gripped the gun with both hands and looked to jules. "get me a pillow."

she shook her head. "we can't do this, baby—"

"GET ME A PILLOW."

on blake's bed was a single cushion, oily and thin but she snatched it and turned back to trev. she hugged the pillow to her breast and pleaded with her eyes. "he can't help it," she said and shook her head. _"we can't do this."_

"give it to me." he extended his arm.

in a moment of silence, blake's hollow eyes found hers. they closed and opened intermittently and his body shook with every rapid breath. "what is this, rosie?" it was a gentle question... but jules couldn't respond.

she looked back to trev. "we got the bags. please leave him alone..."

"he knows who we are. we don't have a choice. now give me the pillow." before jules could retort, trevor lunged and tore it from her arms, held it between the barrel and blake's face, and pulled the trigger.

_BAM._

the shattering blast sang in her ears. the pillow hardly muffled the sound.

trevor leapt and squealed and nearly clicked his heels like a leprechaun with a pot o' gold.

a scarlet amoeba blossomed around the hole in the pillow. jules gagged but held back.

"show me the bags," trevor demanded and holstered his gun.

jules pointed.

he crossed the room and rummaged through the loot. "socks? a locket? where's the computer?"

jules managed enough oxygen to mutter, "he used the library computers to chat with us..."

"there's gotta be more. get over here and help me look." he flipped over the mattress, opened and slammed every desk drawer, and fondled the dead man's pockets.

he noticed the room's only closet, opened the doors, and stared at the toaster-crumb remains of blake's world.

while trevor's back was turned, jules slipped her fingers through the handle of her backpack, inched sideways toward the door, and made her escape.

the echoes of her trampling boots joined the ringing in her ears as she charged and stumbled down the endless corridor of flickering fluorescent bulbs. the voice of her ex bounded from wall to wall, rattling the corridor and stiffening the hairs on the back of her neck.

she didn't turn back. if he was chasing her, she must have been faster.

as jules clamored down the spiral steps, she hoped and prayed that blake's room would swallow trevor whole; that the dead man's hand would spring to life and latch onto trev's ankle until the neighbors smelled the rot and called the cops.

* * *

the foundation of trevor's plan (for it was a PLAN from the beginning) was woven effortlessly into a conversation over veggie pizza and beer. "did you see ashley at AA?" he asked. "bitch looked SICK."

"her speech was sad," jules replied. "think she was serious?"

"she won't make it through step five... i could see it in her eyes. how does a girl like that carry a gucci backpack?"

"it was a present from her parents for six months clean."

"cozy up to her. maybe she'll put you in her will."

"that's sick."

trevor folded his pizza in half. "seriously jules, maybe you should have a chat with her after next week's meeting. let her buy you coffee, pry a little, figure out if she really wants to end her life. if she laughs it off, no harm done and you get a free cup of coffee."

once the foundation was in place, jules began construction on the pretty gold arches of JUSTIFICATION. "she gonna do it," she told trev after her convo with ashley. "no doubt in my mind."

"i believe it."

"most suicide victims die alone. if i do this, i could be a source of comfort in her darkest hour."

"i like that," trevor said. "i think ashley would too. how's she going to do it?"

"she wants to use vodka and a cocktail of meds—"

"too much room for error. if somebody finds her, they'll pump her stomach and label it a cry for help."

"and overdosing is horrendous if it doesn't kill you. if they save her... she'll need to start all over again."

"i know a veterinarian in seattle—"

"how the hell do you know a veterinarian in seattle?"

"college years, baby. this guy can get me pills that'll stop a person's heart before they can say 'life sucks.'"

"if i could show her a good time beforehand—maybe find out what she likes, spend the day with her—i think i'd like to do it."

from the arches of GOOD INTENTIONS, trevor hung the logistical cables and painted them with the same shade of gold. "make sure she doesn't mention you in the note, got it?"

"yep."

"this is vital, jules. you got it?"

"i got it."

"she needs to explain where her stuff went or the cops will suspect a robbery and, therefor, a murder. think of a large organization. someplace they won't be able to search."

"right."

"get her to max out her debit card during the day. that's where we'll make the bulk of our profit."

"if i can figure out her pin number, we could use her card to withdraw more later."

"how exactly does a dead girl use an ATM? use your brain, julesie; the money needs to be transferred BEFORE she dies or they'll think she was robbed."

"i feel strange taking her stuff."

"she'll be dead. when it's all over, do you think she'll give a damn about her porcelain doll collection? we're providing a service. we help ashley with her needs, then we take some things in return. we're building a relationship and a business, baby; eleven people had to die to build the golden gate bridge."

last was the road itself; smooth pavement upon which ten suicide pacts would travel. but those ten jobs were enough to send a crack through her boyfriend's plan; those ten jobs would cause their pretty little bridge to collapse.

a jostle in the tracks woke jules from her digression. she watched mounds of cornstalk dip and rise outside the train's window, but a pretty landscape couldn't distract her from the memories of the nine-and-a-half deaths in which she took part. she opened her backpack and removed her wallet; twenty-eight bucks after the amtrak ticket and diet coke.

a winter of exorbitant gas prices had drained their funds. trevor, of course, still had several thousand dollars.

he could keep it.

jules scanned the contents of her misshapen bag. _as a human being,_ she wondered, _what am i worth?_

the wallet wasn't hers; it was craig's. she stole the money from blake. __ the designer backpack was ashley's (as were the boots), and the plethora of brushes, polish, liner, gloss, concealers, and diamond earrings were lifted from vanity drawers and a garden of broken moms. the weed in her pocket was darlene's. so was the hoop in her nose.

the wig, however, was HERS.

though it was broken and probably stolen, the watch was hers too.

a wig. and a watch.

jules zipped away the remains of her life, then relaxed her shoulders and let the train's wobble rock her to sleep.

an hour later she awoke to a mechanical voice above her head. there were only four words, but they provided the first glimmer of hope in ten horrible months: _"next stop, grand harbor."_

* * *

jules knew the risks. big cities were accustomed to the scabs and divots and bold headlines screaming "violence," "rape," "suicide," and "crime," but in tiny grand harbor, the scar that jules left would linger for months... maybe even years.

if she was caught—if the police had a photorealistic sketch of the trailer-trash siren who defiled their community—she would accept her punishment and gladly pay for her crimes.

jules adjusted her poise beside the bread shop's _"help wanted"_ sign and hoped she looked better than she felt. her calves and thighs were like half-chewed turkey legs covered in dark-blue tights with runs and tears hiding beneath the boots. six earrings in her right ear, five in her left; makeup white and thicker than usual to hide the gaunt in her cheeks and weary on her brow. she ducked the painted advertisements on the bread-shop window and triple-checked her reflection.

miniature chimes announced her entrance. the shop smelled like honey.

"can i help you?" asked a heavyset woman with a burgundy apron and frozen smile.

"i noticed the help-wanted sign in the window," jules said. "i'd like to speak with the manager about a job?"

the woman wiped her palms on her apron, but didn't extend a hand. "i'm rachel. i'm the manager."

jules stepped forward and folded her hands on the glass counter between them. "i saw the sign outside..."

rachel scanned the empty store for backup, then realized she would have to face the girl alone. her wavering voice confirmed her trepidation. "well, ma'am, i'm afraid we're already considering several other applicants. if you'd like to leave your name and number, maybe i—"

"i don't have a phone," jules said and sensed that her intensity was frightening the woman. she smiled and tried for a more sympathetic look.

"perhaps you could try again in a week or two—"

"i really don't have a week or two. i need a job today."

"miss, i—"

"please."

"i'm afraid that—"

jules ended the woman's sentence by dropping her backpack on the counter. "everything i own is in this bag. i slept on a bench in a train station last night. this morning i hitchhiked to walmart and took a bath in their sink. i spoke with the manager, but they're not hiring. so i turned around and walked two miles to find the downtown strip. when i saw the sign in your window; _it made my day_. please rachel, if you have a job opening, i would really like to discuss it with you." the chime jangled behind her, but jules kept her eyes trained on the woman.

"i'm... i'm sorry, sweetheart," rachel said. she moved toward the approaching customer and bypassed the uncomfortable conversation. "we're looking for someone with a slightly different... style. but i do hope you find your way in life. and you're welcome back anytime for a free sample of bread."

* * *

the whitewash veneer of the gas station bathroom walls peeled in clouds of graffiti to create the nightmare atmosphere of the girl's transformation. sink, mirror, toilet and condom dispenser were not spared the artful tags and scrawled innuendo.

standing five-foot-seven in a black bra and nothing else, jules stared at her body (sans makeup) through the marker-scribbled quip, _"nietzsche is dead,"_ then pulled off the tattered hairpiece and shoved it to the bottom of a brand-new blue jean backpack.

head in the sink, she burrowed ten angry fingers into her scalp and massaged the caramel strands of shoulder-length hair.

new scissors were a buck-fifty; so cheap that she nearly shoplifted them. but not today. _not ever again._ she ripped the package and began with the bangs. as clumps and shavings fell to the sink, jules remembered how she learned to cut hair on her sister's dishwater-blond—creased at the scalp from endless pony-tails—"how short?" jules asked, and jesse replied with a nine-inch span of her little hands.

nail polish: light-purple and only three bucks. from the toilet she applied paint to her toes, then carefully slid them beneath the straps of six-dollar flip-flops to protect her feet from the grime.

back in the mirror, jules unclipped the plastic loop from her nose and dropped it in the can. the silver barbell in her eyebrow had been a facial fixture since jason-the-dealer poked the hole with a sewing needle four years ago, but today she removed the shrapnel and fed it to the drain with a dozen little clinks. a pair of two-dollar beaded earrings dangled from her lobes. she kept the cartilage piercings empty.

jules slipped into a new pink tee, cotton underwear with blue polkadots, and a jean skirt with buttons on the side. fifteen bucks for the cutesy outfit.

the new shade of blush was called "ballet slipper." jules powdered it across her nose and cheekbones, but the color seemed to accentuate her stupid freckles with every pass. lipgloss replaced lipstick; clear and sparkly instead of black. a clean line around both eyes. mascara curled her lashes.

she had two dollars left.

jules sealed her old makeup, gothic outfits, cellphone (with ninety-three unread texts), gucci backpack, and leather wallet into a "son of a beach" plastic sack and, on her way out of the bathroom, shoved it all in the trash.

on the sink's rusty ledge, jules left two gifts for the bathroom's next patron: a pair of diamond earrings, and a bag of six pre-rolled joints.

* * *

with the sun on her back and a bounce in her step, the chimes signaled jules' entrance for the second time today.

rachel glanced up from the register and her shiny cheeks rose into a toothy smile. "what can i get for ya today, miss? our potato bread just came out of the oven! or if ya like, help yourself to a sample of cinnamon-raison."

jules lifted an eye. "i just wanted to discuss the—"

"you're here about the job." rachel pulled out a clipboard and pranced around the counter. "you know, i just put that sign out this morning. i guess with this state's unemployment rate i shouldn't be surprised that a pretty young girl would wander in so soon. my name's rachel, by the way." she extended her hand.

jules was confused—curious even—but shook the woman's powdery hand and replied with newfound spunk. "it's so nice to meet you, rachel. my name is jules."

"heavens, you're a skinny thing! how 'bout a free slice of cinnamon bread while we start the interview?"

"thanks," jules said. "i'm starving!"

* * *

quarter to nine. the sand was cool beneath her wiggling toes.

the sun abandoned jules to offer its light to a new part of the world. but a golden haze remained in its wake, illuminating the clouds and varnishing the distant pier.

a crisp apron sat beside her on the bench. she touched the fabric, then reached between its folds for a wedge of bread, her dinner. she ate slowly, pinching off a piece at a time while watching the blinking red bulb atop the lighthouse.

_demons live beneath that catwalk,_ whispered her subconscious.

_screw the demons!_ she thought. when the time was right, she'd face them head-on.

_baby steps, julesie. start with a place to sleep._

training would begin in the morning.

* * *

it took five work days for jules to feel secure enough in her job to tell rachel about the confusion. she played it off as a joke, but the woman didn't find it funny.

"dear lord, what have i done..."

jules forced a nervous chuckle and stacked another chair on one of the three tables. "don't worry about it. you couldn't have known it was me."

rachel dropped her broom and grasped jules by the shoulders. "i was so cruel... dear jesus, i JUDGED you."

jules' eyes grew wide.

"and you've been such a good worker! how could i—" the woman froze. her mouth gaped subtly and her eyes lost focus. jules watched the puzzle pieces click. "you were sleeping in a train station... you wear that same shirt and skirt every day..." rachel's eyes snapped back to jules. "where do you go after work?"

jules playfully grabbed the woman's wrists and shook her. "rachel, i'm fine! i'm going to start saving my paychecks until i can afford—"

"you're homeless."

jules never thought about it that way; she'd been "homeless" for the last two years. "i promise you—"

"stop right there. i'm going to fix this. i'm going to fix this tonight!"

over the next three hours, rachel proceeded as if she'd spent her whole life waiting for a stray girl to wander into her shop (a notion confirmed by the dozen cats whose photos she kept in her purse).

two doors stood side-by-side in the back hallway. the first opened to a staircase that led to rachel's one-bedroom condominium. the second contained a storage closet (she called it her "shed") with a slab floor, plywood walls, the stairway's moist underbelly, a single naked bulb with a pull chain made of yarn, and a folded green cot.

"it's not much—"

"it's perfect," jules said, and she meant it.

for dinner, rachel surprised her with hamburgers.

jules considered biting the bullet and eating the beef for the sake of politeness... but there were some values that couldn't change. she explained to the carnivore that she was a leaf eater, and rachel felt so bad that she left the shop and returned ten minutes later with a veggie burger and onion rings.

"you're amazing," jules said. "i've been living off bread samples for a week."

"eat it up. tomorrow we're going to peruse the luscious racks of the salvation army!" her hands twirled at the word "luscious." "we're gonna find you some cute clothes. i'll talk to harvey in the morning, too. we're gonna cut you a one-month advance."

jules accepted rachel's generosity and thanked her until tears swept the woman's pulpy cheeks ("i'm an easy crier," she said). as the sweet, bubbly, NORMAL teenage girl tucked a borrowed sheet into the bars of her new cot and hung her only outfit on a rogue nail, she felt a familiar urge in the stony depths of her gut.

_run away, julesie,_ it said. _get the hell out of this town and don't ever look back._

* * *

at the base of the pier, jules felt confident in her agility. but as she rounded the first lighthouse with a net, pole, tackle box, blue jean backpack, bread, thermos, and chair, her arms were losing their grip. she stopped to reassemble the supplies, then forged on toward the tip of the pier with the pole and chair clanking the cement behind her.

the rusty gear was purchased at a yard sale that morning. it gave her the perfect excuse.

she settled in the shade of the square lighthouse and watched her fellow fishermen puncture the multiple hearts of the squirming bait. though her vegetarianism showed no particular affinity toward worms, jules opted to string her hook with a lump of nine-grain bread. with any luck, the fish would ignore her high-fiber trap and live another day without pierced lips.

the tackle box had a mirror built in the lid. she pursed her glossy pink lips and straightened a gap in her new bangs.

by observing an elderly gentleman's press-and-release motion, jules was able to cast—with a satisfying plunk—her line, hook, bobber, and bread into the muted sea.

five minutes later, the red-and-white sphere jerked below the water's surface and jules twirled the reel like a pro, half excited, half mortified at what could be hanging at the end of her string.

there wasn't a fish... but some little bugger stole her bread.

lone footsteps shuffled the pavement behind her. a bag thumped the ground. someone—MALE by the sound of the breathing—perched themselves on the lighthouse ledge.

jules opened the tackle box and angled the mirror toward the stranger's legs and a familiar orange backpack.

cautiously, she twisted her head... but it was only a man in his early fifties, clearly surprised by her accidental provocation.

"sorry," she said and returned to her busywork. "i thought you were somebody else."

"any luck?" the man's voice was deep with sandpaper gruff.

she shook her head and jabbed another crumb on the hook. "not yet."

* * *

on her third lighthouse voyage, jules caught a fish.

the man with the orange backpack was in his usual spot when she felt the tug.

she gasped and frantically wobbled the crank.

the man dropped his own rod and rushed to her side. "looks like a big one!"

jules pressed the base of the bending stick into her stomach until a fin and scaly flesh broke the surface. "am i hurting him?" she asked.

"hold tight!" the man extended his arm to steady the rod. "almost got 'em."

the creature was seven inches long and thrashed wildly between the girl and man.

"guess the little fella likes bread," he said.

"can you get him off?" jules was afraid of the hook, not the fish.

the man gripped the line, clutched the creature behind the gills, then deftly removed the metal from its mouth. "dinner?" he asked.

"no..." she replied, then held out her hands and took the fish.

"hold him tight or he'll bounce."

she squeezed it gently and peered at her reflection in its dark eye.

she stooped to her knees, then her elbows, then laid flat on her stomach and dipped her hands in the water. she released her grip and let the fish go.

she wiped her hands on her khakis and thanked the man.

"no problem," he said.

"do you come straight from work?" she nodded to the folded suit and tie that crowned his bag.

"tuesdays and thursdays. you work at grand harbor bread co?"

jules glanced at the apron sticking from her bag. "mmhmm."

the man settled back to his ledge and spooled his line.

jules returned to her chair. she untied the bloody hook and replaced it with a harmless sinker. she snapped her wrist and cast the line back to the lake.

"sometimes i forget the bate too," said the man with the orange backpack.

* * *

jules finished her shift, but offered to close up shop so rachel could nurse a cold.

"you're a doll," the woman said and blotted her nostrils with a napkin.

"not a problem," jules replied. "g'night boss."

jules enjoyed her time alone. she finished sweeping, threw away the leftover samples, scrubbed the stainless steel appliances, and watered the potted geraniums out front.

penmanship was never her strong suit, but with slow strokes and intentional focus she was able to make the "our daily bread" chalkboard presentable. in yellow and orange letters she wrote, _"FRIDAY SPECIAL: CINNAMON WALNUT,"_ then stepped back, cocked her head, and took pride in her small accomplishment.

lights out, clothes off, sitting in her cot with pillows propped against wooden beams, jules penned her first letter to dusty since the jacksonville hotel bathroom. she unclasped her wallet, removed a twenty-dollar bill, and pressed it between the note like a rose petal in a dictionary. she wondered what her thirteen-year-old brother might do with the cash... _she was buying weed at thirteen._

she removed a calendar of local attractions from beneath her cot. the grand harbor pier domineered the month of july. she flipped ahead, circled september 1, and wrote, _"$900 apt down payment."_

* * *

the sunless afternoon and stone-grey sky couldn't keep tourists from clogging the pier's concrete arteries.

that morning, jules discovered a whitehead above her lip and popped it. now—in her usual spot in the lighthouse shade—she examined the red splotch in her tackle-box compact. _two years of slathered makeup_ _and NOW i get a pimple._

she snapped the hookless line, eased into her chair, and scanned the motley faces of the hoard; mostly white, a few black, laughing or grinning or sneering playfully. some had freckles. some had moles. several were pink and peeling with white raccoon eyes from forgotten glasses. many looked like jules; pigtails, bangs, button noses, and torn acne. but in the vast and varied sea of faces, no one looked like HIM.

jules ignored the pole between her knees. she closed her eyes, slackened her neck, and listened to the gulls and the calming bustle of a midsummer day.

she awoke minutes later to a peculiar gleam in the water. her eyes flared the reflected light, so she rubbed them and winced at a crumpled piece of paper dancing in the waves.

she snagged the curio with her net and unfolded it. wet marker melted down her hand, but the drawing was still clear. it was a crude sketch of a car overlooking a river.

the marker, the style, the anger; the art was unmistakably HIS.

her heart was already playing a morbid game of red-rover with her ribs as she looked to her left and saw—through twenty feet of families and fishing rods—the boy— _her_ boy—alone and sketching and sitting cross-legged in jeans, a torn tee, and dyed-black hair at the edge of their pier.

jules wanted to move but her limbs refused to take orders from an indecisive brain that churned and thumped like the colored visualizer on the boy's bedroom wall. (maybe her legs knew better than her brain that she didn't have a plan.)

if the boy discovered that "sarah" was alive, the pieces would fall into place. _he would know what she did._ but when the puzzle was complete, would he love her? or would he kill her?

before her senses could untangle themselves, another crumpled page bobbed in the water. again, jules used the net to pluck it from the waves, then she unfurled the soggy clump.

the new sketch depicted a girl sitting straight up in an open casket. her eyes were open. her hand clutched the lid. it was emma.

"interested in my drawings?"

jules couldn't respond or turn. she watched the lake and felt gabe's presence like a wet blanket across her shoulders.

his hand reached down and snatched the picture.

she finally turned and bore herself into those blue-grey eyes. in the split second they connected, _she apologized, reassured him, held him, loved him, took his hand and ran away with him..._ but they were only thoughts, and gabe looked away.

he didn't recognize her.

jules stood. "i like the picture of the car better," she said. "very different subject matter."

gabe crumpled the drawing, shoved it in his pocket, and walked away.

jules scooped up her equipment—everything but the chair **—** and balanced the tottering gear while jogging to catch up. "how do you go from a car overlooking a river to a creepy girl in a casket?"

"it's a coffin."

jules doubled her pace to keep up. "there's a difference?"

"a casket is a glorified jewelry box, but the word 'coffin' has morbid connotations with vampires and graveyards, so funeral directors use the happier word instead."

"never heard that before."

gabe walked faster.

jules adjusted her backpack's strap and awkwardly switched the net to the hand with the tackle box. "you didn't answer my question."

"the guy in the car is burning two charcoal grills. he drove to the river because it was peaceful, then died of carbon monoxide poisoning."

"why do you draw that stuff?"

"boredom."

"they're disturbing, but they're good."

gabe didn't reply.

the one-sided chat was unbearable. jules spun around and blocked gabe's path.

"what?"

she ignored the showy display of agitation and searched his face for any sign life or recognition or some facial tick that was indelibly GABE; a fleck of innocence in his eye or a half-assed grin to suggest this dark metamorphosis was only an act; that the earring (and tongue ring?) and all-too-familiar air of hopelessness was only a phase or a stage or a joke and not— _NOT_ —the result of a despicable girl, her maniacal boyfriend, and one savage night on this very pier.

"move, bitch." his shoulder smacked hers as he pushed by.

"i... i just moved here," she said, desperate. "i moved from the other side of michigan and i don't know my way around town. do you know any good places for lunch?"

"tons."

"any place you wanna take me?"

* * *

"got any critters i should know about?"

jules assumed "critters" was slang for STDs and replied softly, "no."

when gabe's pants were unzipped and hugging his knees, he took a final drag of his blunt, held it, and offered it to jules.

she shook her head so he blotted the embers in a nightstand ashtray. (in a torrid flash of deja vu, jules recognized the pastel handprint on the back of the white desk chair.)

gabe released curls of smoke from his nostrils and forced penetration between her thighs.

she winced. she wanted him off. eventually, she lost the energy to care.

her cigarette burn scraped the boy's pec with every thrust while the scar on her knee rubbed his pale waist.

_he'll see the scars and he'll stop,_ she thought.

_he'll know it's me and he'll stop._

but he didn't see the scars because he finished in two minutes and rolled off with his head turned and his mind _everywhere but here_. he sat on the edge of the bed and buckled his jeans.

"you didn't even ask my name," she said and drew the thin covers over her body.

"what is it," he asked.

"jules... can i ask yours?"

"shoot."

she bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "what's your name?"

gabe pulled on his t-shirt and said, "john." he gathered his wallet and phone from the nightstand and opened to the motel room door. "welcome to grand harbor."

* * *

later that evening in the soothing terracotta walls of HOME, jules sat like a wax sculpture on the countertop. her legs were crossed and her right arm clutched her left shoulder to create a protective "V" down and up her torso.

rachel hummed an off-key ditty and hunkered by the bread rack with her clipboard and pen.

"my friend is suicidal," jules said.

"suicide is a selfish act," rachel replied. "takes a narrow-minded fool to ignore life's joys. did she make any threats?"

"it's a boy. and i recognize the signs."

"is he gay?"

"no. but he has reasons."

rachel set her clipboard on the tile and stood. "tell him to get help."

"that never works."

she circled the counter and faced jules directly. "then you need to talk to his parents, sweetie."

"his parents don't care." jules fought a tear but inadvertently brought a thick, natural blush to her cheeks. "i hurt him once. i thought i could make things better, but now i'm so frickin' confused."

"oh, you precious girl..." the woman placed a hand on jules' knee (rachel was a generous and warmhearted woman, but she often treated jules with discretion as if the girl's budding wings would deteriorate at the slightest touch of human hands. right now, _jules needed a hug._ she could barely admit it to herself, but it was true; she needed a hug and she didn't know how to tell her one and only friend). "if this boy won't get help, then you need to be the very best friend you know how to be."

jules straightened her back and smacked away rachel's hand. "good thinkin', rach," she said. "but i'm afraid 'being a friend' won't be enough."

* * *

the guilt struck jules ten minutes later as she pulled the paisley covers to her chin. _snapping at rachel was stupid,_ she thought... but she could apologize in the morning. tonight, she needed a plan.

jules decided to wait every day at the pier in her accidental disguise. she would force herself into gabe's daily routine, seduce her way into the privacy of his bedroom, find that moment of recognition that she ached for... then she would tell the boy as much truth as he could handle.

maybe he would be so happy to see her alive that he wouldn't call the police. maybe he'd remember the joy they shared on the pier; the strange excitement of emma's funeral; the kiss in the car. maybe he would pull himself from his depression. maybe he would let her back in.

_whatever gabe does with the truth is out of my hands,_ she thought. _but at least they'll be clean._

* * *

the second time jules saw gabe, he caught her staring from across the catwalk. their connection was brief and his expression absolute: GO AWAY _._ when she ignored the threat, he folded his pencil in his sketchbook and left.

the third time, jules found him beneath the lamb-tail clouds of a developing storm, plodding a journal entry from the roof of his van.

she approached from behind and took the opportunity to study his transformation. his arms were strong—not as large as trevor's, but large nonetheless—and his left bicep sported a puffy pink callus and ink from a fresh tattoo. only gabe could have designed it; an image torn from a sketchbook, the silhouette of a girl with arms and fingers outstretched like a nailed depiction of christ. though the face was in shadow, jules knew it was her.

below the image, block letters recalled her whispered sacrilege: _"sometimes life is't worth the pain. I'M GOING FOR A SWIM."_

apparently, gabe had been watching from an eye in the back of his black hair. "i need to find a new place to work," he said.

"i'm sorry i keep bothering you, john."

no reply.

(the voice in her head screamed so loudly that she wondered if the boy heard it too: _turn around and LOOK AT ME!_ ) jules shuffled closer and spoke softly. "it looks like it might storm."

"yeah," he said.

"i don't have a car yet..."

"great," he said.

"do you think you could give me a lift?"

he slammed the pencil into the crease of his journal. "look, sweetheart. you're cute, but i'm not interested in—"

"neither am i. do you wanna hang out, or not?"

* * *

the exterior of gabe's house had been embalmed and preserved exactly as jules remembered it. the only noticeable change was the shortening of the trees; branches had been severed and heaped on the ground, bequeathing the limbs a thousand yellow stumps in place of leaves. the job was recent; rope still hung from the highest branches and a red wood chipper stood beside the garage. jules assumed the workers had abandoned their post with early indications of rain. the short trees made the house seem taller.

the interior also seemed clinically sealed. mahogany surfaces were still spotless. the nautical accents were still tasteless.

jules vaguely recalled the sunroom from the evening gabe pulled her through the sliding door and down the back steps on their way to the boat. the room was pretty in the overcast daylight with large screens, soft yellow trim, and cream wicker furniture. outside, rain pattered the bayou and swayed the cattail brush. drops thumped against the roof, culminated at the ledge, and created a drizzling shroud for the couple.

"maybe we could go to your room for a while?" she suggested.

"i'm fine here," gabe said. his body spanned both arms of the wicker love seat. detached, he sipped a beer and doodled (again) in his journal.

jules sat on the opposite wall in a matching chair. her beer's aluminum tab was already open, but the drink remained untouched on the table beside her. out of habit, she erected a modest boredom-tower next to the can; cork coasters, a courtroom novel, a paperweight in the shape of an anchor, a chewed pen... and a lace doily on top.

the tower leaned left, then toppled. jules looked up from the mess.

gabe was watching her.

"what?" she asked.

he sucked on his pen and studied her. "i shouldn't have left you at the hotel the other day. i wasn't expecting to see you again."

"it's fine," she said, hiding her elation from the pseudo-apology.

"midwest girls are always looking for commitment. when you said you were from out of town, i figured you were good for just one."

"that's a pretty horrible thing to assume."

gabe went back to his drawing. "yeah, well... it's a bad time for me to start making friends."

"why?"

"once upon a time i woulda fallen for a girl like you."

"like me?"

"generic. bubblegum." gabe made a popping noise with his lips.

"why is it a bad time to start making friends?"

a door opened and closed in the other room. with practiced finesse, gabe rolled his sleeve over his tattoo and slipped his beer beneath the love seat.

before jules could hide her own can, a figure appeared at the sliding door.

_the orange backpack;_ it was the first thing to catch jules' eye, then she saw the fishing gear in his right hand. the man— _mr. jones_ —was just about to speak when he noticed jules noticing him. he cocked his head and raised a brow.

all she could do was smile at the man who rescued her fish.

"what?" gabe snapped, breaking the silent reunion.

mr. jones blinked rapidly, then tapped the rain from his umbrella and stepped inside. "how's it goin' in here?"

"still alive," gabe said.

"the rain kicked me out early. i didn't see you at the pier today."

"it's tuesday, right?"

"yep. i get off early every—"

"—tuesday and thursday," gabe finished his father's sentence. "and THAT'S why i stayed home."

the man retained his diplomatic poise, but jules watched his eyes deflate. "maybe thursday then?" he said. "you know where i'll be." when gabe didn't respond, mr. jones turned his attention to jules. "i'm mr. jones," he said, "this knucklehead's dad."

she stood and shook his hand. "jules," she said. "a friend."

"jules... i like that name. can i talk to you for a minute, jules?"

she looked to gabe for help but the boy was buried in a sketch. "of course," she replied.

mr. jones quietly snatched the beer from the end table and led her to the adjacent room. he slid the door closed and spoke in a hushed but polite tone. "gabriel isn't allowed any alcohol right now. do you mind if i put your drink by the door so you can take it on your way out?"

"you can throw it out," she said. "i'm so sorry, mr. jones."

"no need to apologize..." he hesitated. his lips subtlety (perhaps unintentionally) mouthed a silent prayer before he continued. "jules... how does... how does he seem?"

"seem?"

"is he happy?"

"i've only known him a few days."

"of course..." the man's voice trailed off as he lost himself in some wistful thought. his gaze fell to the carpet. "of course," he said again, then took a long sip from her beer. "thanks for understanding. maybe i'll see you thursday?"

jules didn't respond; the knot in her throat wouldn't allow it.

mr. jones opened the slider and they stepped back in the sunroom. "this girl's a catch!" he said with renewed enthusiasm.

"out," gabe replied.

"i was thinking i'd watch the storm from here. mind if i join you?" he sat on the couch between the love seat and chair.

gabe stood up and walked out.

jules caught the door before he could slam it, then turned her head for one last look at the man on the sofa. only the back of his head was visible as he watched the bayou through the screens. _he's heartbroken_ , she thought, then watched him savor his beer.

* * *

jules stepped through gabe's bedroom like red riding hood through the woods. light from the hidden sun did little to illuminate the room; the walls—once radiant orange—seemed muted and closer together. severed branches scraped the windows like forks on a chalkboard and jules strained to recall the summer leaves that once rustled her to sleep.

edgar stood motionless in the bottom corner of his cage. his neck was molting with thin patches of white and pimpled skin.

the room reflected the grim personality of the boy she once knew as "gabe." anything thrown off the tip of the pier had been replaced by a toy of equal or greater value.

the odd support beam once held a solitary picture of john. now—nearly twelve months later—the column was covered from top to bottom with malevolent illustrations. emma, sarah, john, guns, rope, needles, pills, cliffs, bridges, rivers, veins, knives; _exquisite_ they were. _disturbing_. such TALENT mingled with such horror-show subject matter that jules—with her flourishing heart and rekindled spirit—had to cover her mouth to subdue the vomit.

finally, she was the PRINCESS in demonic surroundings.

gabe plopped on his bed, squeezed the lid off a prescription bottle, then tossed a handful of SOMETHINGS into his mouth. in a flicker of overlapping thoughts, jules visualized jesse's hand in place of gabe's, cramming a medi-cocktail between her lips. (jules knew they were both emulating HER.)

when gabe was gabe again, she sat beside him on the bed. "why did you lie about your name?"

"why would i tell an easy lay my real name?"

"why aren't you allowed to drink?"

he flopped backward on the bare mattress. "it's called suicide watch. my parents check me every hour, on the hour. i can't drink or smoke. i had a hookah but they took it away. they don't allow any form of medication within a mile of this house. until last week, i wasn't allowed to go online or drive my van without supervision."

"geez..."

"if they had it their way, i wouldn't have my art. my shrink told 'em that it might help if i doodle my innermost feelings, so they caved and gave me back my pen."

"your parents are hardcore."

"they typed 'suicide' in wikipedia to try to understand me. it's a lot of shit to get around..." gabe rattled the bottle of pills. "but i manage."

"what do they expect you to do?"

"therapy three days a week. yoga. prayer. they want me to make friends—GOOD friends—and they want me to get involved in after-school activities. to top it off, i signed a contract swearing i won't try it again. it's a fucking joke."

"you tried before..."

"huh? you're still here? the last three chicks bolted after the 'restricted from drinking' part. dad was right, you're a real catch."

jules touched his kneecap. "gabriel—"

"my girlfriend killed herself a year ago. i tried to do it too and failed. my shrink called it a 'suicidal gesture.'"

"it sounds like it's all behind you now. you can clean yourself up. get better _._ "

he sat up and smacked her hand off his knee. "you don't get it, do you? i watched my girlfriend overdose on benzos and swim across lake michigan. there's no 'GETTING BETTER.' this is as good as it gets."

"i'm so sorry, gabe."

"forget it. i'll see her again on our anniversary."

* * *

the downtown streets were wet and empty. neon splotches from the abandoned storefronts echoed in the pavement's sheen.

jules held her stomach and sobbed as she staggered through the glow from a flashing red stoplight and the gutter-piss from an overhead awning. she pictured gabe in the month after sarah's death, rotting inside that room without school or work or play with albino skin and a humpback from _drawing-drawing-drawing_ ; creating new worlds where the princess was sarah and the princess was dead. edgar—molting and naked—memorizes the squawking lyrics to his namesake's splendid cliché: _i was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea_ , and gabe revels in his pet's poem; a frantic romantic with an aluminum heart, trapped in that prison with the ghosts of john, emma, and sarah; trapped for a year in his own sepulcher by the sea.

sarah— _jules_ —had missed her only window to offer gabe the truth. the boy was mad. if he discovered that his year of mental deterioration wasn't the consequence of losing his love to suicide, but collateral damage from a mucked-up robbery... he would snap. and there would be no forgiveness.

she stepped inside the cutout of another storefront entryway and dried her tears. she couldn't let rachel see her; not until she stifled these musings and calmed her rapid gasps for air.

_it's not real, jules,_ she told herself. _he's not dead and he's not going to die._

_you can save him._

_one day at a time, jules._

_one day at a time._

* * *

"what."

" _crap._ sorry to bother you, bro."

"who are you and what do want?"

"uh, do you need to put some clothes on?"

"no."

"well, sir, my wife and i were sleepin' in the next room, and i guess she heard you screaming. i said, 'chill, baby. leave the guy alone.' but you know women... am i right? dang bro... are you okay?"

"i'm fine, BRO. tell your wife to get some sleep and to keep her nose out of my business."

"of course. i'm sorry. i know you want your peace... but i'm a social worker, so if there's anything i can do—"

"there is."

"of course, man. what is it? the way you were screamin' i thought you might be—"

"you can squeeze your thumbs into your wife's throat the next time she comes. if i'm gonna hear you fuck all night, i might as well get off too." trevor released the motel-room door and let it slam in the man's face.

he dug his nails into his bald scalp.

he paced the room.

he itched his thigh.

he sat on the bed and grabbed the telephone.

he dialed.

it was an hour earlier in california. dusty would still be awake.

"hello?" said the kid.

"don't hang up on me, you little prick."

"i'm not supposed to talk to you—"

"if you give the phone to that woman, i'll reach my belt through the line and strangle you both."

"we haven't heard anything, trev. i don't know where she is."

"she hasn't called?"

"hasn't called in two years. but i told you, if she does, i've got your back."

"i know she sends you money. she'd write you notes and slip you a fifty."

"only sent twenty last time. she's gettin' cheap."

"last time? dustball, you white-trash cousin-banging rube—"

"i just got it a few days ago."

"does she say where she is?"

"no."

"what the fuck does she say?"

"she has a job. told me not to let mom see the cash, that it's mine. says there'll be more. told me to study hard and—"

"what about the postmark?"

"what's a postmark?"

"on the envelope, sherlock. what city does it say?"

"envelope? it's midnight, trev..."

"get out of bed. turn on the light. find the envelope."

dusty groaned.

trevor listened to the sound of rustling sheets and shuffling papers.

"mom'll be pissed if she finds out you called. said if you ever call here again—"

"she'll what? shoot me?" trevor stood up and the spiral cord wrapped around his chest. "you tell that pill-poppin' hoe that julesie was the only bright spot she'll ever know in her trailer-park life. you tell that woman that i love my girl to the moon and back, and i'm gonna find her. and dustball..."

"what."

"you MAKE her understand this: when i find jules, i'll make sure she never has any reason to set a single toe in your shit-smeared-balls of a town again."

"found the envelope..."

trevor leaned over the nightstand and pressed his head against the wall. "the postmark?"

"it says, uh... grand harbor. michigan."

the fur on trevor's cheeks bristled. he hung up the phone, drew his head back, screamed once—loud—and slammed his skull against the wall.

_why would she go back?_

he slammed it again.

_the boy was DEAD._

he slammed it again.

_why would jules go back?_

again.

between his thumping cranium and the postmark's implications, seemingly trivial inconsistencies from the night on the pier bubbled to the surface of his mind.

something wasn't right.

* * *

"you know," gabe said, "i've never once invited you here."

"your dad let me in."

the boy retrieved his beer from behind the computer screen. "did you ever consider that i don't care about you and i'd like to be left alone?"

"did you ever consider that i know you want to be alone and i really don't care?"

"pretty bitchy."

if gabe didn't recognize "sarah" before, he wouldn't now. more blush, more gloss, more BUBBLEGUM with an emergency supply of makeup in her bag. instead of a skirt, she donned a pair of hand-me-down capris to hide the scar on her knee. she even highlighted her hair with lemon juice from the bread shop's pantry to ensure that "sarah" was truly lost at sea. "i've been thinking about the threat you made."

"no threat. just fate."

"i don't think you should do it."

"you poor sheltered girl... you'll understand someday."

jules dropped her bag beside the couch and edgar lurched at the sudden thump.

"be cool, honeybunny," said gabe to the bird.

"tell me you won't do it," she implored. "please, gabe."

"i've been preparing for eleven months, three weeks, and two days. why would i change my plan?"

jules lunged two steps forward and snagged gabe's phone from the edge of his desk. _always keep your cellphone on your person._

"ha!" he said. "who you gonna call? my dad?"

jules dialed the number scrawled on her palm. "if i can't convince you, maybe they will."

gabe grinned and twisted in his chair. "they?"

"the suicide hotline."

gabe stood from his desk and circled jules with the off-kilter slouch of a rabid hyena.

"i just wanna hear what they have to say," she said.

the line rang once before gabe snatched the phone and skipped away.

she followed him across the room, arms slapping for the phone but the boy was quicker and he hopped to the bed.

"hang up, gabe," she demanded from below.

"hello?" he said to the operator. "i've... i've got a gun and i want to die."

"not funny, asshole," jules said.

gabe raised a finger, mouthed " _hold on,"_ and grinned. "no, i'm not alone. my wife and kid are here. they're strapped to the heater. i think i'm gonna take 'em down with me. i've been drinking. vodka. maybe a little whiskey."

"gabe, HANG UP THE PHONE."

he sniffled and pretended to cry. "no! i won't put it down! it's my right to carry a firearm!" gabe's knees buckled and stretched as he bounced on the mattress. "if you don't do your job, i'm gonna kill us all. now convince me! convince me to put down this gun!"

jules hoisted herself to gabe's level, but he shoved her easily to the bed. she tried to sit up, but he bounced more furiously and she couldn't keep her balance.

"one more day? what do you mean 'one more day'? if i live one more day, the cops will take me away! they'll put me in the fucking chair! i can't do that! not the cops! there's no turning back! i've got the gun pointed at my six-year-old son!"

jules screamed, "this isn't real!"

"did you hear that? he's screaming!" gabe pinned jules to the bed with his foot, then set the phone on the nightstand (where another boy once served her breakfast). from the top shelf of his bookcase he removed a dictionary, an encyclopedia, and a study bible.

"stop it!" her words came out as a raspy whine. the weight of his foot on her chest made shouting impossible. "this isn't real!"

"i can't do it!" gabe cried, lifting the dictionary to the ceiling above the table and phone. "goodbye little timmy!" he dropped the book to the wood. BAM!

edgar reeled and honked from the bottom of his cage.

"oh, dear god! what have i done?" gabe grabbed the bible, lifted it, and dropped it. BAM!

jules pushed against his leg but didn't have enough leverage to stop the rant.

gabe dropped to the bed, wrapped his arm around the back of her neck, and held her mouth shut. "goodbye, cruel world!" he raised the encyclopedia above his head and hammered it against the tabletop. BAM! he pinched her lips, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and turned on the speaker.

the female operator was sobbing.

gabe punched off the phone, released jules, and cackled. "she bought the whole damn thing! she kept telling me to live one more day!" he held his stomach and rolled on the mattress. "brilliant!"

jules wiped her mouth with her arm. she muttered, "this isn't who you are..."

gabe's smile vanished. "how would you know?"

she touched his face. she wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck. she drew him in and she kissed him.

when she pulled away, gabe said, "you're a nice girl... but you should go."

jules shook her head. "no."

* * *

**00sexboy00:** _dante fiiiiiiire. i was hopin youd show. youve got quite the following in our old stompin ground_

**dante_fire18:** _sexboyyy. i'm king of this room. the peons adore me._

**00sexboy00:** _all hail the king!!!!!!!!!_

**dante_fire18:** _ha_

**00sexboy00:** _i talked to them for quite a while before u showed. they tell me u fucked up ur first attempt, now ur gunna try again_

**dante_fire18:** _something like that._

**00sexboy00:** _is that bitch with u?_

**dante_fire18:** _jules? how'd you know about her? you been creepin' my blog?_

**00sexboy00:** _maybe_

**dante_fire18:** _she's tight. asleep on my bed right now. keeps nagging me though. can't get this chick to LEAVE ME BE._

**00sexboy00:** _when u gunna do it?_

**dante_fire18:** _three days. if i wasn't so sentimental i would have done it already._

**00sexboy00:** _how? somethin dramatic i hope_

**dante_fire18:** _i was thinking about asian-john's webcam. i've got 20 kids who'd show up to watch... but that's not what this is about._

**00sexboy00:** _what METHOD dumbass?_

**dante_fire18:** _pills prolly. whatever i can get my hands on._

**00sexboy00:** _pussssssyyyyyyyy too much chance to fuck it up_

**dante_fire18:** _i guess we'll see._

**00sexboy00:** _have u considered a gun?_

**dante_fire18:** _ha! i'd love a gun. but i don't even know where to start with that._

**00sexboy00:** _i can get u one. easy._

* * *

trevor didn't know if it was the clouds, the crescent moon, or some invisible chemical reaction that was responsible for tinting his world green. perhaps the dull emerald glow of the catwalk lights was the source of the sickening hue... _but the stars were green too._ he inspected the revolver. viewed at the right angle, it became a jade ornament in his hands.

the gun was his solution to julesie's betrayal. the gun was his solution to a boy who was STILL BREATHING.

until the chat with dante, trevor barely knew what city he was in. but the little chitchat __ with "king dante" gave him renewed purpose. it snapped him out of his month-long sympathy binge and motivated him to do what masterminds do best.

the gun was the key. he nearly planted it in blake's hand to make the botched crime look like a suicide (the dearly departed certainly had the motive), but guns weren't clean like pills. guns were sloppy. _guns made mistakes._

trevor understood the basics of forensics, but the shit that went down in blake's condo was messy, and indications of MURDER would have been inevitable whether he'd left the gun or not. detectives would have traced the weapon's registration to shotgun-doug, which would've turned THAT case from a solved suicide into an open homicide, flinging more turds than trevor would be able to catch.

gabe, however, would shoot HIMSELF. there would still be a gun, but no mess. the revolver would still be linked to shotgun-doug, but with gabe's honest suicide, the mystery would remain unsolved forever.

without her precious boy, jules would be lost in a town that wanted her dead. she would realize her mistake. she would experience the same pain she forced upon her soulmate. and when she hit rock bottom, trevor would be there to save her. again _._ she would pray for forgiveness; she would grovel at his feet for absolution. she would dig her nails down the nape of his neck and together they would sleep beneath the desert stars.

when the truck's shitty green clock read two-thirty, gabe's minivan curved, right on time, into the pier's parking lot. the boy parked fifty feet away and swaggered the gap between them with hands in his pockets. "you sexboy?" he asked.

"you dante?"

the boy pulled out his wallet and shuffled through a clump of hundreds. "how much?"

"three," trevor said.

"how about seven." gabe handed over the entire wad. "who needs money when you're dead?"

trevor pocketed the cash and gave gabe the gun. "you're not gonna fuck it up again?"

"not a chance."

"you know how to use it?"

"i'll figure it out."

"no you won't." trevor took back the revolver and snapped open the chamber with his gloved hand. "six shots. don't cock it 'til you're ready or you'll shoot your eye out." he pressed the barrel in the soft spot between his jawbone and adam's apple. "this is right." he put the gun to his temple. "this is wrong."

"got it."

"you can put it in your mouth, but make sure you're aiming up and not out the back of your throat."

"i did my research."

trevor gave back the gun. "jules... you didn't tell her i'm here?"

"why the hell would i tell her anything?"

"don't let her get in your head. tomorrow night is YOUR night."

gabe lifted the gun, closed one eye, and aimed at the flashing bulb atop the nearest lighthouse. "this has nothing to do with her."

"good. where will you do it?"

"bedroom. parents'll be out."

"you're sure?"

"i bought them tickets to the grand rapids opera for christmas. they'll be gone all night."

"proud of you. don't screw it up."

the men shared a moment of silence in the olive-tainted night.

gabe stepped away and broke the quiet with grinding footsteps. halfway to his van, he turned and walked backward. "hey sexboy."

"yeah?"

"you've been in that chat room for a long time. when is it your turn?"

trevor flashed his trademark smile. "remember dante," he said, "it's your show tomorrow night. go out with a bang."

* * *

breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs (sprinkled with green peppers and cubes of ham), toast, bacon, and orange juice.

two plates. gabe ate quickly.

the girl was asleep in his bed. they had sex for the second time before his meeting with sexboy, but now she had to go. (there existed a layer of MIND crammed between gabe's internal monologue and his subconscious desires. it was a place where TRUTH mulled, trying every so often to break the barrier into consciousness. it was inside this limbo that gabe knew the reason he let jules worm her way into his final days. it wasn't because he wanted to live; even at the deepest levels of heart and mind, he truly wanted to die. he kept her around _to feed the creature_. the last twelve months was spent disemboweling sentiment and mauling sympathy, but the creature was still alive; panting, shrinking, suckling every condolence or affirmation—however insignificant—offered by his newest friend.)

he walked across the room with the tray on his palm, then opened the door and set it on the hallway carpet. mom would get it later.

back at his bed, he prodded jules with his finger. "get up," he said. "you need to leave."

"if you want me to leave," she replied, "you'll have to kill me too."

* * *

_sarah would get the candy. gabe would get the bread._

the girl couldn't stop being obnoxious for thirty seconds. "michigan has the worst economy in the country," she yammered. "but the bread company is hiring?" she pointed to the help-wanted sign in the window.

"that's not why we're here," he said.

they stepped inside. the chimes jangled violently and signaled the whale behind the counter. "what a cute couple!" the woman said, her tomatoey jowls wobbling with every word. "our apple-cinnamon bread just came out of the oven. would ya'll like a sample?"

before gabe could order, jules piped up. "the sign says you're hiring?"

"yes, ma'am, we certainly are!"

he ignored them. "give me a loaf of blueberry."

"it's a great place to work," said the whale, ignoring his simple fucking request. "friendly atmosphere, flexible hours... and it always smells like home!"

jules rolled her eyes. "serving bread isn't exactly his thing. gabe's an artist. a GOOD artist. you should see his work."

"an artist?" said the whale as she turned to gabe. "do you paint?"

"i'd really just like a loaf of blueberry," he said.

"what a miracle! i've been trying to design a new brochure for months, but i don't have the time or talent to do it right. this place needs a new logo; something we can stamp on the bags. also, our window paintings are a little dreary, don't you think? i'm usually the one who gets to stencil the bread and butter and nativity at christmastime, but i would ADORE input from a real artist. i'd pay more, too."

"nice!" jules said, nudging him in the side. "you could totally do that. think it's something you'd be interested in?"

"i'm interested in blueberry bread."

the whale looked at jules, then back at gabe. "i'm sorry, hon," she said softly. "we're out of blueberry."

gabe pounded his fist on the counter. "you always have it on—"

"i can put it on the menu for tomorrow. just for you. if you come back..."

gabe spun around, blew past jules, and barreled through the door with another rattle of the fucking chimes.

* * *

the dune's hair-flapping breeze and approaching clouds disgraced sarah's memory nearly as much as the lack of blueberry bread.

the girl leaned against the platform's rail and gazed across the overcast town.

"you think you're better than me," gabe said.

"what?"

"you're all TOGETHER. you're always cheerful and sweet; making friends with my dad, trying to boost my self-esteem, calling meaningless sex 'making love'... you come into my life—you know NOTHING about me—and you try to force me to change. you think it'll make you feel good to say you tried. then you can move on to the next depressed stranger and beg them to live the same perfect life that you have."

"i hurt people," she said, brushing a blond streak from her eye. "in the worst possible ways."

"how?"

"i can't tell you."

"fascinating story, jules. oh, and one other note about tonight; if anybody finds out about this... my parents, the cops, my shrink... i'm taking you down with me. understand?"

* * *

(when his eyes were closed and his reality became the sound of crashing waves and laughing children, gabe could _see_ her again, laughing too, splashing a thousand crystalline beads of water to pay him back for the flecks of mud that dotted her arm.)

* * *

gabe ordered the bleu-cheese burger and a cherry coke. "and she'll have the caesar salad with light dressing, no chicken, and extra croutons."

outside the window, a rusty pickup plowed through the puddles and gabe wondered if sexboy decided to stick around for the day.

he made sure the conversation was kept to a minimum by shushing jules whenever she opened her yap. in the rare moments his mind broke from its digressions like a family of russian nesting dolls, he found himself eyeing the girl like he eyed every girl before that night. her freckles were pretty, bridging the top of her nose and rounding the rise and fall of adorable cheekbones. her eyes were brown. (sarah's eyes were brown too.) an over-dressed pimple nestled the corner of her mouth; another imperfection that separated GIRLS LIKE THIS from the girl he loved.

a woman at the bar caught gabe's attention as he sipped his coke. some pressing detail in her appearance hounded him as she overtook the counter with ample melons and a tangerine dress cropped six inches above her knees. in the background, he heard jules whining, asking if he was okay. but gabe couldn't remove his eyes from the LOBE OF EAR mounted on the head of this forty-something MILF.

_it's her stud,_ he thought and pushed himself from his chair. he ignored jules' concern and moseyed to an open stool beside the woman. "i'll pay fifty bucks for your earring," he said.

she (an obvious cougar trapped in a town that didn't know the term) widened one eye at gabe's audacity, then unhooked the jewel from her ear, balled it in the safety of her fist, and laid her hand in gabe's palm. "keep your money," she purred. "it's a gift." she unclasped her fingers to complete the transaction and gabe pursed his lips—so subtlety that a lesser woman may have missed it—in appreciation.

"what the hell was that?" jules asked when he returned to his seat.

he reached across the table and touched her face. to his surprise, _she already had a piercing in her left nostril._ he pinched the silver clasp from the back of the earring and dropped it to the floor.

jules didn't flinch when he pressed the stud through the hole, but she scrunched her eyes and crinkled her nose as if she was preparing to be raped.

"open your eyes," he said and withdrew his hand.

the bud of a single tear emerged from the crease of the girl's left eye.

"jules," he said again, _"open your eyes."_

she obeyed.

gabe's attention flicked between her irises and the jewel in her nose.

"what is it?" sarah whispered.

"nothing," he said.

her arm spanned the table and touched his wrist. "tell me..."

gabe stirred the cherry flavoring at the bottom of his drink. "have you ever reached for soda but grabbed water instead?"

"i guess so," she said. "why?"

"there's nothing wrong with water, but when you're expecting soda, it's disgusting."

gabe's insult was punctuated by the night's first bolt of lightning. the patrons "oo"ed at the flash and flinched at the cackle of thunder while others ducked inside to escape the downpour.

* * *

orange lines split the darkness. red dots spiraled the vortex like blood drawn to a shower drain. the shapes trembled to the vulgar music as they corkscrewed and vanished into a collapsing galaxy of color. below the projected visualizer, seven garbage bags spewed malignant gas through identical red bows. jules felt weightless—unwinding—as if the colors were dragging her soul from the couch to an alternate reality.

the music wasn't music, but SCREAMO; sickening chords and half-melodies that underscored the hateful rant of some spastic singer. the song spurred the visualizer's sinister personality and throbbed through the broken soul of jules. (back in the day, _she liked this band_.)

the bedroom was lit only by the projector's psychedelic beam and the sporadic flash of purple lightning.

gabe sat at the opposite end of the couch, head on the armrest and journal on his knees, writing his suicide note in the company of three half-empty liquor bottles. he chewed another blunt as he penned his final goodbye; the stump of cigar seemed all-too natural between his knuckles.

two hours ago his parents left for an irresponsible night at the opera, leaving their child to execute his master plan in peace. gabe had made jules wait in the van while he said his goodbyes, but she spied from tinted windows as he hugged his parents beneath the drizzle. to their credit, they DID seem hesitant to leave, but the tickets were a gift from their son and they couldn't turn down the kind gesture.

after they left, gabe had cried. jules didn't see it, but the evidence was pink and inflamed across his face when he finally retrieved her from the car.

now she sat on the couch with her ankles squeezing her backpack. rachel's cellphone was easily accessible in the side pocket with 911 waiting on speed dial. as gabe sank deeper into his letter, jules toyed with the earring in her blue-jean pocket and twitched when thunder overtook the music.

gabe signed his note, creased it, and placed on the middle bag. he returned to the couch and sat beside jules. she coughed at the taste of bad cologne. he opened a manilla folder and removed a handful of crusty sketches resurrected from their watery grave. "sarah let me draw her," he said. "she was... divine that night." he flipped through the pages with ritualistic ease, occasionally rubbing his thumb across the girl's naked form.

"you never stop thinking about her," jules said.

"no."

"do you ever think about me?"

"this isn't about you."

"i'm real, gabe. i'm alive."

he stood up, then propped a single drawing against every black bag. "you're random," he began. "you're pointless. i don't know where you came from or how you got here, but you're a parasite, jules. honestly, that's the perfect word for it; i keep you around like a dog carries a flea. you might itch a little, but ultimately, who the fuck cares." he emphasized the last four words by plopping beside her on the sofa.

"i love you," she said.

"if you cry, i'm kicking you out."

* * *

_julesie is gonna watch him die!_

the details of the gabe-jules dynamic were beyond trevor's imagination, but—for whatever reason—julesie had accompanied the boy into his bedroom on the night of his second suicide attempt.

trevor's plan would be a mind-blowing success if his girlfriend witnessed the boy's bloody demise. the horrifying experience would rekindle memories from her past, and in the end, she would return to HIM for protection.

the little prick was right; his parents were gone _._ the bottom floor was dark and the dancing lights in the second-story window indicated the kids were almost ready for showtime.

there was one final mystery; one last question that prodded trevor's mind since the moment he learned of the couple's reunion: _when gabe discovered that jules was still alive, how did he forgive her for deceiving, robbing, and "murdering" him?_ how did THAT BOY gaze into THOSE EYES without strangling her to death?

another bolt and trevor counted the seconds; _one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand—_

_CRACK!_

he pulled on his gloves. he gripped his bags. the storm was nearing _and he was ready to go._

* * *

"we wrote suicide notes that night," gabe said. "i hid them under a blanket because i didn't think we'd actually go through with it. if sarah didn't jump in the lake, she would have lived. the pills she brought? WEAK. but how could she know any better? decent people don't know what pills to take to kill yourself. when they finally released me, i found our notes still stuck between the cushions. i dunno what i expected from her letter... part of me thought the whole thing was a joke. part of me thought it was a dream." gabe twisted the tip of his blunt into the sofa's arm. "during those long hospital days—telling the cops about sarah and _swearing i wasn't crazy_ —i nearly convinced myself they were right; that sarah never existed at all. if i didn't have this note for proof..." gabe didn't finish his sentence, but pulled from the manilla folder a familiar piece of notebook paper.

jules slid from the couch to the floor.

"sarah was good with words," he continued. "she had more talent than she ever let on. but her handwriting? GARBAGE." he chuckled as if divulging a harmless anecdote at the girl's funeral. "these were her last written words... wanna hear them?"

the violent kaleidoscope filled jules' peripherals but she couldn't look away. "no," she said. "please no."

gabe unfolded the letter and read it aloud. _"i am a murderer. i am a murderer. i am a murderer."_

jules loosened the tension in her shoulder blades. she didn't move. she watched the wall.

_"it began with jesse; an angel at ten, a cherub when other kids were monsters. i was a devil at fourteen. i was a fiend... screwing the neighbor-boy to find peace and jesse knew it all. during every high she found my eyes and asked me when i was coming back. she begged me to stop. she wanted a sister. _

_"it happened on MY watch while mom was away. my body was there but i was gone. jesse knew where we kept them. it wasn't a secret; she was family; she was ten. she used a stool to reach the bag while i slept on the couch. we never determined how many she took, but it was enough. she was laying by my side when she fell asleep. i never felt her breathing fade. i never felt it stop._

_"maybe she took them to understand why I took them. maybe she wanted to pay me back._

_"now, the first thought when i wake up is the last thought before i sleep: i. am. a murderer._

_"every day i wrestle with the notion of ending my life; how EASY it would be to free myself of this guilt. one rope. one tailpipe. one ocean. one gun._

_"most suicidal people are different; they're tempted to kill themselves. with me, i know i need to die; i should be killed for the things i've done. but i keep feeling this nudge, this TEMPTATION TO LIVE. and everyday i pray to god that i never lose that temptation."_

jules listened to the crinkling paper as gabe re-sealed her confession. "that's sad," she said but the words were lost in the hammering rain.

she considered gabe's suicide method—probably pills—and wondered if there would be enough for her. blue-jean legs, ballet-slipper cheeks, a normal job and a promise of change; _it was another con, another mask, another notch away from a trailer-trash girl named JAMIE who slept through her own sister's death._

gabe placed her note beside his on the middle bag. he turned back, discovered the stowaway cellphone in the mesh pocket of her backpack, pulled it out, and snapped it in half.

jules _(sarah? robin? delilah?)_ hardly noticed.

behind her, a latch popped and a window opened. the change in pressure sent goose-pimples down her legs as she listened to water pelt the empty desk and wooden floor.

"it's almost time," gabe told edgar. he unlatched the cage, gripped the bird with steady hands, and lifted him out.

jules didn't remember standing, but found herself leaning against the support beam in the middle of the room, watching bird and boy in a veil of oscillating light, mouthing their silent goodbyes.

through a thicket of severed branches, gabe extended his arms. "go!" he said and released his bird to the storm.

someone screamed.

the logical portion of jules' brain determined it was the boy who released the curdling bellow, but amid the thunder and fluttering drawings, she was convinced it was a little girl's scream emanating from the depths of hell, damning her big sister for letting it happen again.

a single drawing on the papered beam caught her eye; tacks in each corner secured the page to the post while the others flapped and ripped in the wind. the picture was a silhouette of a boy and girl watching the sunset from the tip of the pier. the girl's head had found its place on boy's shoulder.

like a wizard in his tower, gabe heaved the window closed as a burst of lightning defined his savage figure.

and jules made her decision.

"i'll be right back," she said. "don't start without me."

the boy emerged from the shadows, picked up a remote, and raised the volume until the screaming music was inescapable.

jules spun away. she snatched her backpack from the ground, lurched to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

off came the tee with shaking hands; the barrette, the cutesy earrings, the flip-flops, the blush and gloss and shadow.

she wet her hair and rolled it to a bun. a boy's black shirt—snapped of wrinkles—inside-out and pulled across her chest. makeup disguised the freckles. the zit vanished. white concealer masked her dimples and liner hexed her eyes. from the skirt she found the tell-tale earring and pressed the point through the hole in her nose.

the wig should have been next, but the thorny tiara was lost at sea.

as jules straightened her hair to frame her cheeks, a silver glint brought her attention to the bottom of her bag. it was sarah's broken watch with the heart-shaped face. around her wrist; clasped in back. she breathed. she avoided the girl in the mirror. she unlocked the bathroom door. she turned the knob.

* * *

a revolver hung from the hand of the boy sitting in his chair, swiveling, patiently awaiting the perfect moment.

sarah stepped from the bathroom and into the projector's beam. orange circles turned blue in splatters across her face. her knees buckled when she saw the gun, but she caught the wall and summoned her strength.

gabe's eyes locked on hers.

she stepped forward. the music swelled, climaxed, crashed, and stopped, and the visualizer dissolved to a solid grey square, drenching the room—and sarah—in screaming silence.

gabe's petrified skin softened for the first time since the night he died. here was his soulmate, alive and well, sauntering toward him with the cultivation of a queen.

they kissed. he pressed his face against hers, his fingers traced the ridge of her spine as her hands spiraled his neck. he smelled her too, ignoring the burn in his eyes and the tears on his lip.

he took her in.

they pulled apart long enough for the boy to press his thumbs into the putty of her cheeks.

he grinned.

but her hands were on his shoulders... her wrist was beside his face. he glanced down and saw the watch—the heart-shaped watch with moisture still trapped from that night at the pier.

jules realized her mistake, but not before gabe began unraveling the reality of the ghost in his arms and the watch she once gave to the sea.

he grabbed the arm of the girl—the girl who tried to kill him— _the girl who put emma in that box_ —and snapped the watch from her arm.

silence. he turned the device in his hand, held it to the grey light...

jules spoke with frantic eyes, " _don't. please don't. let me explain!"_

he dropped the watch.

jules watched it fall. when she looked up, the gun was at her chest.

the boy blinked a rosy pair of deranged eyes. he pressed them shut— _"GABE!"_ she cried—and he squeezed the trigger.

BAM! the shot pierced her shoulder and blood splashed the visualizer wall. she stumbled backwards, rammed the back of the sofa, and fell.

gabe saw his mess—HIS MADNESS—then turned the gun on himself and fired a second shot into his chest.

* * *

BAM! trevor nearly mistook the gunshots for thunder, but the window blazed white and he knew the boy was dead.

jules would be standing beside the body, facing away as she had so many times before.

he grinned. he leapt. he ignored the rain and the thunder _so close he could smell the static_ and strode with the gait of an angry minotaur through the island of woods and weeds and into the home; he snapped the bag and plundered their shit without a thought about value. up the steps; there were several doors but he found the seam with muted light, kneed it open, fondled the wall, and hit the switch.

pure ELATION at the sight of blood.

the boy was there, broken, crumpled on the ground with a sticky black hole in his chest and the revolver by his hand.

suddenly, his eyes flickered. _he was ALIVE_. his head twisted and his throat groaned. gabe stretched out his arm, _but not toward trevor._ he stretched it, but didn't have the strength to reach the girl, _julesie_ , plastered in the corner of couch and floor.

trevor fell to his partner and touched the membrane of her throat. _barely a pulse._

in a moment of absolute helplessness, the mystery of jules' relationship with the boy became crystal-fucking-clear. julesie—his light, __ HIS FIRE—came back to gabriel jones for a PACT.

trevor paced an oval around the room and discovered the seven bags and two notes. _"every day i wrestle with the notion of ending my life; how EASY it would be to free myself of this guilt. one rope. one tailpipe. one ocean. one gun..."_

trevor finally understood. his face twisted. he cried. _jules wanted to die..._

_and he provided the gun._

gabe moaned again, but there was no blood yet on his lips.

trevor dashed for the revolver, stood over the boy with one foot on each side of his head, cocked the hammer, and held the barrel to the kid's face.

ten seconds passed with a single gloved finger itching that trigger. his other hand wiped a tear from his scruff.

_he couldn't._ a thousand reasons BUT HE COULDN'T.

trevor jolted the gun away from the boy and bit the barrel with his own teeth. his lips curled the metal and his thumb trembled against the guard.

from the corner of his eye—through the window in a split-second dazzle of white light—trevor saw on the tree what appeared to be a raven. another flash and the bird attacked the glass with its clicking beak and thumping wings. the clamor intensified with every bolt as the terrified bird fought to get in.

trevor—still tasting the warm metal of the gun—watched as the bird quit its attack. it perched itself on a twig, then scrutinized him with lifeless, ebony eyes.

without looking away from the creature, trevor removed the gun from his mouth, lifted his shirt, jammed the revolver in his belt... and removed his phone.

"help—" he stammered to the operator like a child lost in a supermarket. "trace this call and send someone right now. i shot two people—a guy and a girl—and i'm running away. you need to send an ambulance. you need to know that you won't catch me. i shot them, you understand? i pulled the fucking trigger but i'm running away and i'm never coming back."

the woman asked a question but he didn't understand.

"JUST HURRY." he closed the phone, then slammed his fist into gabe's desk to jump-start his criminal mind.

_the gun was his again._

the phone call and missing weapon would rule out suicide. even if the boy lived and claimed he tried to kill himself, there would be no question that it was attempted murder. without the gun, they wouldn't be able to pin the other nine on jules. live or die, her slate was clean.

the notes were next; ripped in half and pocketed. he tore the first black bag and dumped it on the foosball table and across the bedroom floor. then again with the second, the third, and the fourth. he tossed the remaining four bags, including his own, beside the door.

trevor marched to gabe, knelt to his ear, and hissed, "you hear me in there, cocksucker? if you don't bleed out, you tell those fucking cops you got punk'd. you tell 'em a bald white boy tried to steal your shit, shot you in the chest, and shot your girl. understand?"

the boy blinked once.

trevor fell back to jules. he kissed her forehead and listened to the rasp in her breath. "forgive me," he whispered. the purple watch—a quaint memento of a manipulative boyfriend—still garnished her wrist. he unhooked it with two fingers and shoved it in his pocket. "forgive me!" and he kissed her again. _"to the stars and back, julesie."_

trevor planted one last kiss. then he stood, double-checked the room, grabbed his loot, and sprinted out the door.

* * *

when jules was jamie, she played house with her little sister. jesse was always the dad. jamie was the mom. dusty was their son.

the make-believe family built mansions out of blankets and clothes pins. they used jamie's encyclopedias to clamp the fabric ceilings to chairs.

jesse was a good husband. she never abandoned her family and never looked down on jamie for her vice.

jamie would pretend too, despite her old age. she would pretend she was clean. she would pretend that her life was worth living.

wailing sirens cut through the thunder and carried jamie back to the bedroom of the boy. her eyes met his and she tried to speak. her lips moved but the pressure on her chest made it impossible.

" _forgive me_ ," she mouthed.

gabe didn't blink.

_"forgive me,"_ she mouthed again.

the boy understood, but he looked away.
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**epilogue**

her name was jules again. although her life, personality, and style were still fluctuating in search of an honest equilibrium, CHANGE did not require a different name. she liked the one she picked.

the grand harbor shoreline still nurtured children's laughter and crying gulls, but visitors were sparse at the water's edge. in the lake, the bravest kids ventured to shivering knees, then darted back to their mothers after a few short seconds in the cold.

her jacket's right sleeve hung slack at her side. a sling cradled her atrophied limb. her shoulder itched under the gauze again, so she played with a hairband to keep from scratching.

jules looked to the base of the pier and waved to rachel.

the woman uncrossed her arms just long enough to wave back, then resumed pacing the lot.

jules found her niche beneath the square lighthouse. she sat on the ledge, dangled her feet, and waited.

* * *

the gulls were gone.

a crew of park rangers installed a plastic fence along the shore. aside from their echoing hammers on wooden stakes, the beach was stagnant.

rachel had finally relinquished her worry after two full weeks of standing in the cold. whenever jules returned home rachel would ask, "anything?" and jules would tell her no.

today the girl read a novel at the tip of the pier. the lemon-juice highlights were fading and a simple tweed cardigan had replaced both the pink tees and the black corsets.

her nails were blue. she liked blue nails.

the distant hammering began to lull her to sleep.

yesterday, she had asked a ranger about the fences.

he replied simply, "they catch the drifts."

* * *

the middle of december; a day before the winter solstice. her breath crystalized before her eyes and lingered for a moment in the falling snow.

jules removed her glove and jotted three notes in her journal. _"baker?" "small-business owner?" "makeup artist?"_

her lighthouse was encased in glass. the catwalk clutched a string of icicles that spanned the entire length of the pier. her beach was gone, replaced over time by a solid blanket of snow that extended across the lake, past the lighthouse, as far as her eye could see.

her hand began to flush, but she added two more notes to her list. _"social worker?" "writer?"_ when the cold was unbearable, she returned the journal to her pocket and pulled on her glove.

she looked north, across the channel and down the crest of lake michigan. she turned south and searched the park and alabaster dunes... but she was alone, the only human crazy enough to weather the cold.

jules looked toward the base of the pier and saw a dark speck amidst the white. she stepped back to the ledge, sat down, traced a circle in the snow with her boot... then looked again.

the speck was a person.

closer and closer; she recognized him and stood.

* * *

gabe met jules beneath their lighthouse. without a word, he brought his hand to her cheek and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
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**acknowledgments**

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i was born with ambition. however, any creative aptitude i may have was cultivated by friends, acquaintances, and family members; first and foremost, my parents. three novels, four screenplays, a dozen short films, and four years of college; _all of my work_ is a direct result of their encouragement, patience, and money. to mom and dad, _thank you_.

whenever i structure my stories, there's an invisible "ideal reader" watching my every move. his name is richard vialet. he lives a million miles away but his influence on my work is tremendous. when _lighthouse nights_ was a potential movie, we spent weeks trapped in chipotle discussing the minutia of the script. dick via-lay; great friend __ and badass cinematographer.

special thanks to brennan heldt and gabriel scheare for their devotion to the potential film version of _lighthouse nights_ ; to grandma donna for reading my books despite the dirty words; to shellie fleming for revealing my own sentimental tendencies; and to all my beta readers for their continued, honest feedback.

thank you to everyone who purchased this novel. for those of us struggling in creative fields, your support and online reviews are our lifeblood.
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**did you like this book?**

please take a minute to rate and review it.

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* * *

want to dig deeper into _lighthouse_ , learn about my writing process, hear songs that inspired the story, and find book club questions?

delve into _lighthouse nights_
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**other books by jake vander ark**

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amazon | goodreads | ibooks | barnes & noble | smashwords

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**the brandywine prophet**

when the voice of god commands william to construct a million-dollar theater on the hill behind his home, the budding prophet obeys and unleashes his dormant madness on his family and town.

**the day i wore purple **

jonathon and gavin nightly are in love with hannah lasker, a gifted artist on the verge of a meltdown. their lives spiral toward heartbreak with the release of a controversial vaccine that grants eternal life.

**fallout dreams**

ava and mia lane move into an isolated house in the middle of the woods. as ava moves from accepting her fear to relishing it... as mia exploits a tragedy to impress her new friends... the man hiding in the cellar watches their every move.

**put the cat in the oven before you describe the kitchen**

from lighthearted pointers to hard-core truths about the craft, _put the cat in the oven_ is a must-have desk reference for anyone who refuses to put down the pen.
