see the beast anymore, but something definitely haunted him.

He jammed the book into his bag and took over cleaning up the other papers, too. “I’m done mixing,” he said. “Would you mind decanting the formula into some smaller containers for me? I’m tired suddenly and want to get out of here.”

I wanted to leave, too. With every minute that passed since Tristen had tossed me off his lap, I felt more ashamed. I’d spun completely out of control. I’d been so pathetically desperate that he had stopped me. Had that ever happened to any other girl in the entire universe? And what had I been thinking? Would I really have had sex? On the floor?

No. Never. I would have stopped. Of course I would have stopped.

“Yeah, let’s get going,” I agreed, finding four smaller beakers with stoppers and pouring the formula into them. I wanted to get home and sleep. Tristen had been right. The whole night must have overwhelmed me. Made me crazy. “I don’t think I feel very good,” I said, wiping my arm across my forehead, which felt warm.

“I’ll hurry and take you home,” he said, looking at me with new concern. “I thought you seemed feverish.”

“Do you mind if I just go now?” I asked. “I really feel kind of queasy.”

He hesitated, wanting to be chivalrous but knowing that we couldn’t leave the room looking like it did. The place was a mess. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”

“I’ll be fine,” I promised him.

Tristen seemed torn. “If you’re sure you’ll be safe . . .”

“I’m sure,” I said, moving toward the door. I didn’t kiss him good night. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to or if he’d want me to, so I took a path that would keep us separated by the rows of lab tables. But I paused at the door. “I’m . . . I’m happy for you, Tristen,” I said. It seemed like a lame thing to say, but nothing else came to mind. “I’m really happy.”

Tristen watched me, seeming disappointed at how the night was ending. He sounded almost sad as he said, “Thank you, Jill. Thank you for everything.”

“Good night,” I said, slipping into the dark hallway.

It wasn’t until much later that I wondered why Tristen had seemed so gloomy when I’d left him. As I rushed home in the dark, I was too busy searching my own soul. Trying to figure out why I’d filled four vials . . . and left only three on the lab table.

Yes, I really did feel sick that night.

Running up to my bedroom, I stood by my bed, untucked my shirt from my jeans, and let the fourth vial—the one I’d stolen—fall to the mattress.

If I hadn’t been so focused on trying to understand my own behavior, my own motives, maybe I would have figured out why Tristen had gotten so somber.

Maybe I would have guessed at what he was about to do.

And maybe I would have thought more about what I’d seen inside the novel that Tristen had snatched from my hands.

The bloodstain just under his name.

Chapter 48

Tristen

I WOKE EARLY from a sleep that was less troubled but still plagued by dreams. New nightmares in which I—not a faceless girl—suffered and died. And when dawn finally arrived, the sunlight filtering into my room didn’t reassure me at all. It only made the shadows—the foreshadows—of the previous night seem to grow deeper.

How many times would I need to face death—need to kill or be killed, perhaps—in the course one lifetime? In the course of one week? Not to complain, but didn’t I deserve a day or two without murder on the mind? Didn’t I merit a normal date with Jill?

And what had come over her the night before? The sweet, quiet girl I’d thought I might kiss for months before getting so much as a hand under one of those lacy shirts had all but attacked me. Had it just been excitement over my return from what must have looked—and what had definitely felt—like death? Or was Jill just inexperienced, not sure how to behave in a situation that might have been new to her?

That definitely seemed possible.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling, troubled by more than just Jill’s behavior as my eyes began to follow a familiar, long and thick crack in the plaster. A fissure I sometimes pictured as one line in a grand staff—the grid upon which musicians compose. My imagination could easily build the rest, and when I couldn’t sleep, I often amused myself by mentally arranging notes there, creating dark melodies in my dim room. But that morning all I could see was a crack that desperately needed repair. No melody came, and that made the fracture seem ominous somehow.

Had I ended more than just deviant desires when I’d banished the beast in me?

Down the hall my father stirred, his mattress creaking, and I rolled over to sit upright, thinking that I had no time for pointless worry.

I was the ward of a monster. I had more bloody work to do.

Standing, I pulled on a sweatshirt and went quietly down the hall to the kitchen, where I measured out three scoops of coffee, dumped them into a filter, poured some water into the reservoir, and turned on the machine. Soon the kitchen was filled with the strong aroma of brewing coffee—which effectively masked the fainter smell of the good-sized dose of formula that I poured into my father’s usual mug, glancing again and again over my shoulder, worried that the beast might pad silently into the kitchen and find me trying to slay him.

Oh, that would not go well for me.

“You’re up early, Tristen.”

I had just stashed the empty vial in a high cupboard—was still reaching up to close the door—when I heard him behind me, and I tensed. “Yes, I have an exam today,” I said. “I’m going in early to study.”

Look at him, Tristen. Act normally.

I turned slowly, relieved to find that he was still groggy, yawning

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