Page 31 of Save Me

“It’s a date,” I say as my heart beats quickly in my chest.

“And Evi?” She pauses. “In the meantime, remember how helpful it can be to paint what you feel. I know you’re fine, but this was all still super messed up, so it’s okay if there are moments when you don’t feel fine about it all. Try to let yourfeelings out on the canvas, I know that’s been so helpful for you in the past.”

“I’ll try, Sam, thank you. And I’ll text you so we can plan a date for redoing your apartment,” I say, hoping the forced cheerfulness in my voice is believable.

CHAPTER 15

‡

Ican’t helpbut replay the moment Jax told me he killed everyone, and the news of Bryce’s death hits me over and over again. I can’t help but feel guilty for my grief, for the part of me that’s sad over someone dying, someone who wasn’t a good person.

He tried to help me. Maybe he was a good person in the end.

Taking Sam’s advice, I spend the next two days trying to paint, attempting to channel the ache in my chest I can’t make sense of. But the grief and sadness for someone I logically know doesn’t deserve it remains, and while I know his death shouldn’t bother me, I can’t help it.

The pain flows out of me in dark swirls on my canvas, bleak shades of gray and black encompass the canvas until no white can be seen. And for a moment it reflects exactly what I’m feeling—how the darkness has eaten up so much of me I’m not sure there’s any space for happiness left.

I set my brush down, painting no longer the distraction and therapy I need, and decide to grab a coffee before trying again, a stack of blank canvases waiting for me in their spot by the window in the bedroom.

Perhaps one day, painting will once again help me process everything, help me feel better, I think to myself.

I walk towards the kitchen but stop as I hear a TV playing from the main living area, a room that I’ve hardly seen used.

Bright blue and red lights flash on the TV and I stop in my tracks, watching the scene play out before me. The news reporter is a young man, his skin so pale it seems to glow as the flashing lights reflect off him. I freeze as I take in the familiar view, where the forest meets the lake, and the outline of tiny islands in the distance.

“No more information has been released about the death of multiple people here last week when emergency services responded to a fire on Crowe Lake. Crews battled the fire for hours, unable to discern whether anyone had been trapped in the building, the fire too fierce by the time firefighters arrived on scene to warrant rescue efforts. The remains of these individuals were later found as rescue workers assessed the site, and those remains are currently undergoing analysis. We are told that dental records are the only possible way to identify the victims at this time.”

I don’t realize I’ve walked towards the TV, unable to peel my eyes from the images in front of me, barely breathing as I watch and listen to the news reporter as he keeps speaking.

“Police have been investigating the cause of the blaze, and they have not yet ruled out foul play. Stay tuned for more news about the fire that has devastated the Crowe Lake community.”

I close my eyes, willing the tears to stop running down my face, willing the broken pieces of me to go back in the box I so haphazardly crammed them into. I’m overwhelmed as I watch the images flash across the screen. It was one thing hearing about what happened that night, but seeing the aftermath with my own eyes is jarring.

This is not real. This cannot be real.

“I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” Ryan says, and I jump at the sound of his voice, not having heard him walk into the room behind me. I wipe the tears away quickly, trying to fake some semblance of composure.

“I’m fine,” I say, my façade not at all convincing as I stare at him, at his eyes searching mine.

He gives me a sad smile. “I’d like to believe you, I really would, but no one can go through what you did and be fine. Not right away at least,” he muses, his gaze flicking between me and the TV. “What I can’t figure out though”—he pauses—“is why you look like you’re in mourning watching the news report. What happened to them is not your fault.”

I meet his golden eyes, the kindness behind them genuine, and I see how they’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling.

“I know… I’m not sad.” I pause as he gives me a look, one I can’t quite decipher, and I take a deep breath before continuing, “I’m not sad. I’m glad they’re dead, all of them,” I lie.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

He goes to leave the room, his footsteps pausing as he reaches the hallway.

“Interesting that you’re fine, but you’ve scratched yourself raw.” He looks at my hand before meeting my gaze again. “You might want to clean the blood up.”

I look at my finger, which sure enough is dripping blood, and yet I didn’t even realize what I was doing, so distracted by the TV, so consumed by my own emotions, the physical pain not even registering until Ryan pointed it out.

---