Freyja's funeral service was one of the bleakest I'd ever seen. Not that any in particular had been very lively, but all the color and air seemed to be sucked from the room, even in the bright flowers by my tía's casket, even the little children who'd been dragged along by their parents and really didn't know what was going on. I felt this sudden and odd pressure to be the most mature, most sorrowful person out of everybody; maybe because I knew Jack, and felt the need to oversell everything I was feeling, to get it across that I didn't want this to happen. Maybe because I'd been the first to find her body, though I knew nobody was going to point me out and shout it at the top of their voice. Everyone who so much as knew my name was aware that I'd stayed on my knees that whole night, not moving an inch, whispering over and over again, "He killed her. He killed her. He killed her."

When it was time for speeches, I felt even more empty inside, even more like I was carrying this terrible burden of knowing her killer. My mother, father, uncles, aunts, grandparents, even Javier kept going on and on about how she was with God in heaven now, and I had to resist the urge to stand up, slam my hands on the back rest of the bench in front of me, and say to everyone's faces in the middle of a church that there was no heaven and the only place my tía had gone was into the mouth of a possessed, undead cannibal. But I sat quietly with my head down, memorizing the pattern on the psalm books stowed beneath the benches. My fingers kept fiddling with a zipper on my dress, and I caught a few distant relatives giving me the side-eye from across the giant hall like they were trying to figure me out. I learned very quickly to keep my eyes ahead while I was seated.

Javi was the first to come rushing from his room when I'd screamed. I didn't catch his face; my entire body was still turned to Freyja. But I did hear him vomit about a minute later. The time in between is trickier to remember. He might have tried to cradle her body, sank to his knees in the puddle of blood and lifted her up as fragments of her ribs fell to the floor. There really wasn't much he could've held on to. He still tried. He was definitely crying, and repeating the same few variations of "mom" over and over again. He must have felt so guilty. Anybody would, even if they had no reason to.

Next was my mother, and she let out a yelp of shock when she flipped the light switch in the hall and saw the two of us. That yelp turned into a bloodcurdling scream when she finally looked past Javi and me and saw Freyja's mangled body.

"MATEO!"

Everything after that was a blur—a hazy, nauseous, red-stained blur.

I was back sitting in the pews. Dad had barely started his speech, and he already had this look on his face that said, I don't care if I die anymore, whoever is responsible for this will pay. Bitter, immature thoughts started curling around my mind like dark tendrils as flashes of impulse hit me in the same place, leaving a mental bruise. I still wanted to scream. I wanted to do more than that, a whole lot more. Some of the actions I was suggesting to myself...I couldn't even wrap my head around what they were supposed to be. Violent? Rebellious? Eye-opening? I knew these were not the kinds of things one should think about, especially at a funeral. But I also knew that I couldn't be the only one in this hall who was thinking about it.

At the end of the service, as they were lowering her casket into the ground, my anger had started to direct itself at everyone politely paying respects at the side of her grave. I felt unbearable, second-hand guilt for putting on a brave face the entire day, acting like I was just sad, when really my chest was a ticking time bomb. But you don't yell at a funeral. You don't cuss out a person nobody else can know exists, at least not out loud.

If society wasn't plenty a bitch to me before...

I stood idly by the car, a raw, empty feeling spreading throughout my entire body. It took me a moment to realize that I was literally empty; I hadn't eaten at all today. Mateo—my dad, her brother, walked up beside me and cupped my shoulder.

"Want to get dinner somewhere, or head home?"

I rubbed an eye, strangely relieved that his voice was just as weak as mine. "Home."

He sighed and spun the keys around one finger. "And so it shall be," he said in that very dad-like tone. The one that tried to tell me everything was going to be okay. I wondered why he, of all people, would lie to me about that.

—

My supposed month of recovery was over. At least, in most professors' eyes. I didn't have the energy to tell them it was going to take a lot longer for me to start putting my heart into work again. After all, what sort of excuse did I have? That I was weak? That I was tearing myself apart with the knowledge that my aunt's murderer was still out there?

The thing to finally get me out of bed come Monday was a text from Morgan, around 7:00.

Buzz, buzz.

"Hey Soy. I heard about your aunt. I'm really sorry :("

Buzz, buzz.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

I tapped the edge of my phone and bit my lip. This was it. There wasn't a single truthful thing I could say about the past however-many-days that wouldn't give Jack away.

Why are you even holding back at this point? Maybe he deserves to get caught. Might teach him a lesson or two about betraying someone's trust.

But it wouldn't make me feel any better.

How long have you been keeping him a secret? Five months. Five goddamn months! And for what? Because you felt bad for him? Because he asked you nicely?

More like he forced me.

Breakfast was shitty. Lunch was okay. I didn't bother with dinner; the most I had in my house was oatmeal, expired deli meat and a couple of tea bags. I decided to lay back in bed the rest of the evening (after finishing my work like a responsible human being) and read to help further my exhaustion. I'd avoided touching Back of Your Mind ever since Jack lent it back, knowing it would only remind me of all the things he'd said at the park. The book I was reading now could be classified as a trashy novel more than anything; it was mind-numbing as it was mindlessly entertaining.

I had just scraped Chapter 2 when I heard a sharp tap on the wall next to me, as if it had been struck by a metal rod. If he came in through the window, he'd been quiet as hell about it. Jack rolled back and forth on his heels when he finally caught my gaze, lifting his mask and closing the blinds with unusual gentleness.

"Hi."

I said nothing.

"...it's been a while." His movements were stiff and awkward as he laid his mask down on my desk, turning back around to face me with fidgety hands. I blinked once and returned to my book.

"What's going on," I deadpanned. "Kill somebody else I'm related to already?"

He gave me a withering look. "Not funny, man. I said I was sorry."

"Well, forgive me if I'm not moving on fast enough for you. Because see that?" I pointed my pencil at his face and drew a circle in the air. "That face, that cute little mug is the same one I saw on that creature hunched over Freyja's body, the same one that literally ripped her to pieces just minutes before. I'm not exactly in the mood to be reminded of all that. Ever."

"I know, but do you have to keep rubbing it in? Do you really think I wanted this to happen?"

He was picking at a scab on his arm, one that I realized was from the cuts he'd given himself when his boss basically possessed him. I narrowed my eyes.

"Hey, don't even think about opening up one of those again."

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Stop picking at your arm. I worked hard on you, and I am not redoing any stitches." I looked down again to keep reading and he scoffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"God, you're like my mom. First the guilt tripping and now...well, more guilt tripping."

"Please, you're lucky I haven't punched you in the face by now."

"Bullshit."

"Don't try me."

Silence fell over the room for a good five minutes. I periodically glanced up to see him still staring at me, mouth twitching and sleeves rolled up. After what felt like forever, he raised his eyebrows and scratched his arm one more time, drawing blood.

"Oops."

I slammed my book shut and grabbed his mask off the table, chucking it into my closet and shutting the door before he could react.

"Listen up. I'm tired. I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in days, I've been holding myself together by a thread ever since Freyja died. I've had to deal with my family, the police, everyone who's anyone thinking all this is a huge mystery, while I'm standing in my bedroom talking to her murderer over a book. So if you've got something to say, say it now and say it quick, because I am this close to throwing you out for good."

"Give me my mask, Sawyer. Don't make me fight you."

"You won't. Whatever you came here to say, just spit it out."

"Give it back."

"Are you going to tell me you're sorry again? Do you think it'll make a difference this time?"

"Why are you being so difficult?!"

"I am alone, Jack! I've been putting on a show for everybody in my life, I can't tell my best friend what really happened because you're a part of the picture! Whatever you're trying to do, it won't work, so stop trying to help me, for Christ's sake!"

It seemed he didn't know exactly how to respond to that. The air was heavy with stunned silence; he didn't even try to get his mask back as I stood there, still and powerless.

I almost collapsed back onto the bed, gripping its edge until I felt that my fingers might break. I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd definitely finished yelling for the day, that I was sure of. But what was supposed to happen now? Jack didn't seem as willing to leave me alone as he had been last time.

"This is so stupid," I whispered to myself. I should've left all these feelings behind in high school. I'm going to explode.

Then he did something super weird. He sat down and hugged me.

With how tired I was all the time and how I hadn't talked to any of my real friends for days, I just let it happen. The horrible part was, it felt really nice. He was surprisingly warm, his sweater made everything so much softer, and he buried his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder as if he knew the last thing I wanted right now was to look him in the eye. But I think what I did next was arguably weirder. I kind of started crying.

Why is he doing this? I know he feels sorry and wants me back on his side, but god, there are better ways of saying that than...this.

I almost hugged him back, but was afraid of what the back of his hoodie might be covered in. Eventually, I noticed it was opened in the front, and hugged him under the sweater. He didn't seem to mind. It was warmer underneath, anyway. Everything just started to pour out of me little by little, until I felt like I was in some strange, twisted around version of West Side Story. I had just been pounding my fists against his chest, crying, "killer, killer!"

I expected him to say something in between my quiet sobs, like, "it's okay," or maybe even "I'm sorry" again. But he stayed silent, and I couldn't decide whether I liked it or not. On one hand, he finally shut up and just let me be upset. On the other, Jesus, could I have used a little comfort. Maybe that's why he was hugging me.

"...are you okay?" he murmured after a while. Somehow, hearing his voice like that almost made me start crying harder. Why did I have to know him? Why couldn't I have just hated him for all this? It would've made things so much easier. But he's being so nice to me, and I'm still acting like I hate him. Because I want to. And I'm acting like all his apologies mean nothing, because they shouldn't. Not to me. So why am I crying?!

"...it does matter," I said in a croak once I'd calmed down. Neither of us let go of one another.

"What?"

"You being sorry. It does matter. I acted like it meant nothing, I really did hate you. But I can't keep that up forever. I-I was relieved when you said you were sorry. Can you believe that?"

"Sawyer, I—"

"No. Save it. Whatever it is, you've probably said it already. I—I know you were just trying to protect me. I get that. I think it was really sweet of you, but..." I sniffed once, and he tried pulling back to look at me, but I just held him tighter out of fear. I wasn't going to let him see me like this now.

"I wouldn't have blamed you if your boss killed me himself. While I was away. You wouldn't have been able to stop it, anyway."

"You don't have to explain every—"

"I do. You gave me every reason in the book why you still wanted to talk to me, I shut you down every time, I didn't even care if you got in trouble for something stupid that I said. I thought it would make me feel better, I-I should hate you, but I don't. Not anymore. I just can't. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you," he said, with more certainty than usual. "Now come on..." he tried breaking the hug again, but I buried my face in his shoulder this time. He paused.

"Are you hiding from me?"

"Yes."

"You really don't have to do that. I mean, you really don't."

"I know. I still want to."

"Come on, it can't..." with one final attempt, he got me to unlatch myself from him and looked at my face, pity creeping into his features. "Oh. Sawyer—"

"And that's why." I hunched my shoulders and averted my eyes, a bitter feeling crawling back from the dark depths of my mind and into my throat. "What's the damage, doc," I muttered out of the side of my mouth. Jack shook his head.

"Like I said. Nothing. You were crying, and now you look like this. You're still human."

For some reason, hearing that felt more reassuring than if he'd said, "you're still a girl." Things like that didn't matter to him. He probably couldn't even tell I was insecure about it. In other circumstances, that realization might've felt like a slap to the face. Right now, it was almost the opposite. I took a shudder of a breath and nodded, my gaze never leaving the ground.

"I don't know why I'm feeling this way," I admitted after a long silence. "I...I don't really want you out of my life anymore. I'm over that. A-at least, I know I can't stop it. But I don't want to forgive you, either."

"You know those aren't the only two options, right?"

"I'm not stupid," I snapped, only to curl up even more out of shame. "...sorry. I just"—I paused to sniff again, rubbing both of my eyes until they probably went blood red—"I'm in this weird middle ground now, and I hate it. I need someone to talk to, but nobody else can know what I do. That you're the one who did it, that I've even said a word to whoever did it. So naturally, you're my only option, but talking to you while I was still in my feelings...it only made everything worse. So I started pushing you away even more, and then you thought you were doing something wrong, a-and now I don't know what to do, I...god, I don't know what to do, Jack."

I hugged my knees and buried my face, almost shivering. I should've known better than to only wear a t-shirt inside. Jack seemed at a loss for words. We both just sat there for a while, in the cold room, unmoving—at least, as far as I could see. Which was nothing.

"...do you need another hug?"

That's all you can think to say?

I sighed. "I don't know if need is the right word, but sure. I'm freezing."

I was put off by how unbothered he seemed by all this. I practically melted into him, anyway. How could I not? I knew it would be a while until I saw Morgan, or even my less close friends again. This, hugging a masked killer in my bedroom after I'd just cried into his shoulder, was as good as it would get for now. Is a "masked killer" supposed to be this sensitive?

I jerked my arms away when I felt a claw lightly trace my upper back, flinching at the sudden rush of cold air to my body. The hug had lasted a bit longer than I'd expected it to. Jack tilted his head, confused, and then glanced at his hand with realization. He squeezed his eyelids shut and turned back to face the wall.

"...right. Nails. Sorry."

"It's okay," I said, to my surprise as well. "Just startled me." My eyes felt unnaturally dry now. I looked up and out the window; blackness had swallowed up everything beyond what my porch light could reach. Not even the sky, pink with light pollution, was able to illuminate my tiny yard from here. Stars were enveloped in dark clouds, almost completely obscured from sight. I didn't know whether they would come out of the dark soon or had just fallen into the thick of it.

I realized that I had no idea whether I would make it out of this alive.

"You got classes tomorrow?"

Jack's voice pulled me out of my tiny spiral. He still wasn't looking at me; I knew this time it was more out of fear than anything. I scratched my arms to simulate warmth, too prideful to ask for another hug—although whatever pride I had left didn't amount to much.

"Yep."

"That's too bad."

I raised an eyebrow. "Too bad in a 'that sucks for you' way or a 'that sucks for me' way?"

He hunched his shoulders and shook his head. "I just thought I could...no, it's stupid. There's no point, if you need to sleep—"

"Hey, my sleeping schedule's plenty fucked-up on its own. What were you thinking?"

His left ear twitched nervously, though he didn't seem to notice. "You said talking to me before was only making things worse."

"I probably did, yeah."

He turned his head to the right, averting his gaze even further.

"Do you want to see if...maybe it'll make things better?"