Page 54 of Make You Mine

But it doesn’t help. If anything, I feelworse.

How is this possible? What’s going on?

My forehead is clammy, and my skin has taken on that unpleasant, waxy texture I remember from the early days of my diagnosis, back when I used to pretend nothing was wrong until my body forcibly reminded me it was. I fumble for my insulin pen, nestled in the side pocket where I always keep it, and when I pull it out, something about it makes me pause. Just for a second. The casing feels a little warmer than usual, like it hasn’t been stored properly, like it’s been sitting too close to heat, and the click of the dial sounds dull, less sharp than it should.

But I’m desperate, and I don’t have time to second guess myself.

I inject it quickly, lifting the hem of my shirt just enough to press the pen into my abdomen through the waistband of myjeans. My hands are fully trembling now, not just from low blood sugar, but from the sinking dread taking over.

Nothing about this feels right.

I press a hand to my forehead, trying to breathe through the haze clouding my thoughts, but the nausea rises higher, stronger now, twisting through my gut like a tidal wave. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz louder than they should. My limbs feel heavy, uncooperative. I’ve lost almost all control of my body, and somewhere distantly in the back of my fuzzy mind… I know I have.

I can barely hear myself think over the pounding in my ears.

Someone sits down beside me. I register the rustle of plastic shopping bags, the soft grunt of exertion, and then a gentle, tremulous voice of an older British woman.

“Dear, are you alright? You don’t look well at all.”

I try to answer—at least I’m pretty sure I try—but my lips feel sluggish, like they’re trying to move through syrup, and the words don’t come out. I jerk my head to look at her, to explain that I’m unwell and need help, but the motion is too much. The floor dips hard beneath me, like the world has become unglued.

My entire body goes slack. The bench tilts sideways.

And then the rush of light and noise and color all fades into nothing at once. I hit the floor and lose consciousness.

Chapter 15

Chelsea

Amerie barely made it to the train platform before her body gave out. I suppose that’s what happens when your insulin’s been tampered with.

It never mattered where she was when it happened. The collapse was inevitable, because I made sure it would be.

Declan would ring, just as I knew he would, asking about the USB stick he’d left behind. If Amerie had handed it to me and asked me to run it over, she’d have gone down at home while Willow fumbled with the phone and called 999. But if she insisted on doing it herself—if she clung to that ego of hers—then she would collapse somewhere far more humiliating. Somewhere public, surrounded by strangers.

When I arrive nearly an hour later at the A&E, I’m carefully composed and ready to give a performance worthy of a BAFTA. I stop by the nurse’s desk and explain I heard about Amerie Keating’s collapse and I’ve brought her children by.

The first nurse I’m speaking to nods sympathetically, buying the act I put on.

But it’s the second nurse, a blonde with dark eyebrows who looks up and frowns.

“Claire?” she says loudly. “Claire Hughes? From Ashwick? It’s been ages!”

I glance around as a few heads turn in our direction. Heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. I clear my throat and say in the most clipped tone I can manage, “It’s Chelsea, actually.”

The blonde’s brow knits in confusion, but she doesn’t press it.

The first nurse I’d been speaking to steps back in and takes charge again, gesturing toward the seating area. “You can wait over there. We’ll let you know once she’s ready for visitors.”

I nod, as if I’m barely keeping it together. “Thank you. That really means a lot. We’re all terribly worried about her.”

I speak as if I’m her family.

Iamas good as family. Because Amerie’s family is mine now.

A small tug on the hem of my blouse draws my attention downward. Willow is staring up at me with wide and misty eyes, her bottom lip trembling as though she’s trying to be brave but hasn’t yet learned how to mask it properly.

“Where’s Mommy?” she asks. “Is she going to be okay?”

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