The last time an advisor told me that, this spring, I lost my scholarship. I nod slowly, but next to me, The Body doesn’t seem the least bit phased.

“She’ll kick ass,” he promises Professor Cameron, earning a tight, disapproving smile. Then, he turns to me. I can tell he’s trying like hell to work his features into a professional mask and not say anything about our earlier encounter as he holds out his hand.

"Nice to meet you,” I say. “And thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He takes my fingers in his. Once again, his touch causes my skin to warm. “Rhys Delane,” he says, pronouncing his first name like “Reese.” “And just to be clear, you are going to kick ass.”

Rhys Delane.

Delane.

I pray he doesn’t notice when I snatch my hand away a little too quickly. I hear my voice as I formally introduce myself. Hear Professor Cameron begin talking again and myself respond almost robotically. I hear all of this, and yet, I’m not sure I’m altogether present.

Because the moment I can finally put a name to The Body, my brain wraps around how I know him and my mind is no longer in the music building or even on this campus.

My thoughts are in a funeral home in Bristol two years ago, as Rhys Delane introduced himself and told my family how sorry he was for our loss. Right before my mother’s hand flew across his face in rage because of what his brother did to my sister.

Chapter Two

Two Years Ago

“I-I don’t think I can go,” I tell my mom, looking directly at her and wanting nothing more than for her to meet my gaze. She won’t—I already know that—because looking at me would mean facing the inevitable.

Lily’s gone for good.

Mom drums her nude, gel-manicured fingernails on the thatched placemat, the beat uneven and rushed. “The car will be here to pick us up in an hour.” Her hazel eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, focus on the kitchen window. From the looks of it, she’ll start crying again at any second.

Five more taps of her fingers. A sniffle. Then two additional beats against the table.

She turns her head slightly in my direction, and I get a clear view of her face. My mother’s always been beautiful. Even with her skin splotchy from crying and her short, mocha-colored hair unbrushed, she’s still stunning in that tragic, ethereal sense.

“The car comes in an hour,” she repeats before pushing away from the kitchen table and shuffling away, her bedroom slippers dragging on the hardwood floors. Even though it never left her mouth, I know the exact word rolling through her mind while I listen to her climb the stairs and slam her bedroom door.

Selfish.

Maybe she’s right. But maybe, if she’d just looked at me, she would have seen that selfishness is rooted in an even deeper emotion: fear.

I don’t want the last time I see my older sister to be ... this.

I don’t even want to face the memory of my last real encounter with Lily, but this—this is not a memory I think I can deal with.

In the end, though, my dad, who’s always taken my side on any and everything, stalks into the kitchen and motions for me to follow him. He gives me a gentle nudge toward the staircase with the instructions to get dressed and do it fast. Skin flushed, I find myself in my room. By the time I’m ready there are clothes and jewelry all over the place and my chest is heaving up and down. I glare at myself in the mirror, at my chocolate brown eyes that are clear because I’ve been too numb to cry.

Eyes just like Lily’s.

“You selfish bitch,” I mutter and make myself look away. “You’ve wrecked everything.”

On the way to the funeral home, none of us say a word to each other. The closer we get, the more I don’t mind the silence. Maybe quietness, solitude, is what I need to make it through today.

I sit on the front row with my parents, unable to cry or breathe or think clearly as, one-by-one, people who knew my sister—who adored her—tell us how sorry they are for our loss.

There’s her overachieving snob of a best friend, Kendra. Tyler, the boy who broke Lily’s heart a year ago; the same one who tried, unsuccessfully, for the last eight months to win her back. There are teachers and teammates and her closest friends and those who knew her in passing. There’s my own boyfriend, James. When he walks past, he stops for a moment to give my hand a reassuring squeeze, but I don’t say anything to him.

I don’t trust my words.

So I watch in stunned silence. There are so many people I don’t personally know that I barely notice the tall man who stops to talk to my parents. He’s speaking in a hushed voice, but the moment, “Rhys. Owen Delane is my brother,” tumbles from his lips, my horrified gaze snaps up. I don’t see very much of him through the sudden haze of tears, but I listen to every word, each one catching my breath.

“...so sorry for what happened. For what this has done to your—”

Before he can finish, my mother—who’s never physically disciplined me a day in my life, the same woman who hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since we received the news about Lily—is on her feet, her eyes meeting his as she swings her hand roughly across his face.

The slap sends a jolt through my body. Like everyone else, I’m frozen in my seat, shocked at the harsh exchange playing out before my eyes.

“What gives you the right to think you can come here?” Mom demands, shrugging off my dad who stands and tries to take her by the shoulders. “Will it help you sleep better at night? Do you think I give a shit if you or your brother is sorry?” With every word, her volume rises, until she’s practically screaming.

Every emotion that Delane is feeling passes over his tan face, and I can’t help but feel for him, the brother of the man who killed my sister. Driving my eyes down long enough for me to catch my breath, I dig my fingers into the pew beneath me. What happened to Lily wasn’t this man’s fault. Mom must know that. But the more I try to reason with myself, the more bitter I feel , the more tightly the knots threading through my ribcage pull.

It’s not his fault, I silently yell at myself.

When I look back up, Delane’s back is straight, and his expression is unreadable. His eyes sweep over me for a brief moment, just long enough for him to give me an earnest nod, and then he turns on his heel and walks away. I know every head inside the funeral home is turned on him, so I look at my mother instead.

Dad has pulled her back down on the bench beside him, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing uncontrollably. He looks ahead—quiet and tearless—his gaze zeroed in on the white casket that’s not even ten feet away. Behind us, I know there’s more crying and hushed whispers because my mom just decked a guy, but there’s a blaring in my ears that tunes it all out.

And then I’m on my feet, looking down at my parents with wide eyes that burn at the corners. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, finally breaking my silence.

I don’t fully realize that I’ve left the building until the brisk fall air hits my face. It, combined with the tears that have begun to fall, stings my cheeks. As soon as my foot touches the bottom step, a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I half-expect it to be my father, but when I spin around, I’m staring in to Kendra’s dark brown eyes.

In spite of everything she must be going through herself, her jet-black eyebrows are pulled together in concern for me. I’ve been nothing but a bitch to this girl since she and my sister became friends, but now she’s looking at me like I’ll break at any moment.

Kendra presses her lips together for a moment and then releases a breath. “Evie ... where are you going?”

The sad reality is, I don’t know.

“Oh God,” I whisper. “I’ve fucked everything up.” Before I can murmur another word, her arms are around me, drawing a gasp and a guttural sob from the back of my throat. I drop my head against her shoulder. “I don’t even have the—”