Con strode past the check-in desk, ignoring Clara's surprised call. He shoved the door open, letting it fall closed with a bang behind him. The late autumn chill cut right through him, wind whipping at his hair and tugging at his skin with icy fingers. He didn't care. He just needed to get out of there.

His long strides ate up the space between the hotel and the surrounding forest. A hiking trail had been marked off, and Con angled toward it, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The thin material of his shirt did nothing to ward off the cold, and he was shivering by the time he hit the tree-line.

The trees didn't offer much solace. Everything was dead. Bare limbs knocked against each other and leaves crunched under his boots. There were no insect sounds surrounding him or the soft scurry of small animals. It was all too quiet. It had been a bad idea to come here.

There was absolutely nothing to stop the loop of memories playing in his head.

You drugged her and lured her into the pool. Mariah told me about you. She told me how you looked at her that night. Not killing her would have changed it.

Nina Marino's words and accusations tumbled through him, cutting at his insides. 

Who knows what else you might have done!

The very idea made him sick. Images of the dead girl splashed themselves across his mind. Her soaked hair, her blue lips, the delight on her face when Mrs. Marino had started accusing Con of her murder.

"It wasn't real," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. "She wasn't real. You know that. She said those things because she lost her daughter."

Still, he couldn't make his insanity believe that Mrs. Marino hadn't been egged on by the shade of her dead daughter.

You drugged her. Who knows what else you might have done.

Bile surged up his throat and Con darted off the path, catching a tree as the spare contents of his stomach spewed across the forest floor. His guts heaved against his spine, the force dropping him to his hands and knees.

When his stomach finally realized there was nothing else to bring up, Con slumped backwards, gasping. He lay on a bed of crackly leaves, their hard edges scratching at the skin of his forearms and the back of his neck. He stared up, the branches overhead a black lace across the pale sky. 

When he could finally breathe normally again, Con coaxed his muscles into standing. His legs shook and he leaned against a tree for support. A broken branch pressed into the flesh just below his shoulder blade and he leaned more of his weight onto it. Pain was generally a good distraction—his mind couldn't help but focus on it.

Con closed his eyes, breathing deeply until it was no longer shaky. He swept his tongue around his mouth and spat, trying to clear away the taste of bile. When he felt a bit more in control, he opened his eyes and pushed off the tree. The spot the branch had stabbed into throbbed dully.

"She was drugged," he whispered to himself, the words burning his raw throat. "Does that make it murder for them?"

If it did...did that make him the prime suspect as Nina Marino had implied? Wouldn't the police have come back to speak to him already? 

Con used his sleeve to wipe away the sweat on his face. The new scratches Mrs. Marino had left him with stung as the fabric brushed over them. When he dropped his arm, he grimaced at the blood staining the cuff. Carefully, he probed at the scratches, trying to determine how deep they were.

All he could determine was they were deep enough to make him bleed.

Fingers still tracing over the stinging lines, Con made his way back to the path and began walking, winding farther into the trees. Compulsively, his brain began to replay his run-in with Mariah Marino. Was there something he should have noticed. Had her words been slurred? Had she stumbled when she walked and that's why she ran into him?

As much as he knew this second-guessing game was not going to help him, Con couldn't stop it. The same thing had happened after Jenna died.

If he'd had a little less to drink that night, would he have noticed that he shouldn't have given Jenna his keys? Would he have been able to see that she wasn't acting right? Would he have called a taxi instead?

Would she still be alive? Would he still be sane?

Con huffed out a breath and walked faster, trying to get the motion to dull his mind. The dark outlines of the trees began to smear and blur in his periphery, black shadows melting off them to leave them bone white.

"Not now," he begged, training his eyes on the unchanging ground.

The shadows took that as permission to begin whispering. Con could never understand what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about him. To him. Blaming him.

On the white, dead branches and pale trunks, black butterflies perched, beating their obsidian wings softly.

His lungs started to constrict, only allowing short, sharp breaths. His vision dimmed, his pulse pounding in his throat and temples. Con shook his head, wiping at his eyes to clear them. Fear slithered across his skin like a snake, wrapping around his neck and strangling him.

"Fuck," Con hissed before he gave in and began sprinting through the trees.

He didn't know where he was going. He wasn't sure if he was still on the path. All he knew was he needed to run. If he didn't, something bad would happen.

Trees whipped past him, their branches reaching out to snag and scrape at him. Roots tried to trip him, everything in the forest attempting to slow him down. His breath was a hurricane, painful in his throat and seared his lungs, like he was trying to inhale powdered glass.

Con didn't know how long he ran before it started to ease off. Pain radiated up from his knee as he was finally allowed to slow—to stop. He stumbled a few more steps, weaving away from the trees. Everything was a dark shade of grey as his muscles gave out and he collapsed, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Pressing his face against the ground, Con inhaled the scent of cold earth and dead leaves. His fingers curled into fists, digging into the hard ground and packing dirt beneath his nails. 

He lay there, trying to recover from the panic attack, until the first clap of thunder. It rang in his ears moments before the skies opened up. Con sat up, tipping his face back to the cold rain. It washed the sweat from his skin and slipped between his parted lips. It plastered his hair to his head and painted his clothes to his body.

It cleared his mind, allowing him to regain control. He looked up, water dripping from his lashes, and watched as the shadows shifted restlessly. When he narrowed his eyes at them, they murmured their discontent before slithering back into the trees.

Slowly, Con stood. He was shivering hard now, the water leaching every scrap of warmth from his body. His knee was screaming, the tissue surrounding his kneecap pissed about the harsh strain the run had put on it. Con limped forward, indulging in his misery. He paid full attention to the pain in his knee, on his face, to the numb ache of cold beginning to spread over his skin.

It sort of amazed him when he found himself breaking through the tree-line. He'd always had a good sense of direction, but if his insanity had taught him anything, it was to not trust his senses. 

The hotel stood proud against the storm, indifferent to the stinging rain or howling wind. Con stayed in the negligible shelter of the trees for a moment longer, studying the golden glow of windows. Smoke rose from a few of the chimneys, just to be caught by the rain and pummeled down. Lightning cracked overhead, limning everything in silver-white.

It would be warm in there. He could shower and fall into bed. Except...he wasn't tired. He'd slept for more than twelve hours last night, and he could still feel some of that hectic energy leftover from his kiss and subsequent fight with Taemin.

"I should be," he muttered to himself, finally breaking away from the trees. The unchecked rain hit him with renewed force. Con was convinced he'd never be dry again.

He should have been tired. Panic attacks were exhausting. They sapped all the energy from his body like a seizure did. But all Con felt was the fatigue in his muscles from running so hard for so long.

Still trying to puzzle out what was wrong with him, Con wasn't watching where he was going as he made the long trek across the soaked lawn. He didn't see Ella break away from the porch until she had slammed into him, her arms wrapping him in a tight hug.

He stumbled backwards, arms going up automatically to hold her closer. She was so warm.

"Con, you're soaked," she said, voice heavy with concern. "What happened? Why did you disappear like that?"

"I..." He trailed off, frowning down at her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic. "How...How long have I been gone?"

"More than an hour."

He turned slightly to find Taemin standing just a few feet away. His eyes flickered away from Con and he shrank back a little. Con was so stunned he couldn't remember that he'd told the other man he didn't want to be anywhere near him. His arms tightened convulsively around Ella.

He'd never lost an entire hour to one of his attacks before. More than an hour. 

"What happened, Con?" Ella took his face in her hands, brushing wet hair back from his eyes. "Why did you run out of the hotel like that?"

He just shook his head. He couldn't talk about it right now. Not yet.

"It doesn't matter," Taemin said, gesturing to his sister. "Come on. Let's get him out of the rain. He's freezing."

To Con's immense relief, neither Park tried to press him into talking. Ella threaded her arm around his waist, leading him toward the porch where Taemin waited. His eyes were just as concerned as his sister's. Guilt twisted in Con's chest. He hadn't thought anyone would worry for him.

And while it should have been odd that near strangers were so worried for him, Con couldn't manage to feel weird about it. Having Ella's arm around him felt natural as breathing. So did reaching for Taemin's outstretched hand so he could help Con up the steps.

It was just...just the briefest flash. Lightning cracked, dazzling Con's eyes and he looked up out of instinct. Something darker flew across the clouds, hurtling toward them.

Con lurched to the side, carrying Ella with him. They landed in the muddy grass next to the concrete path moments before something slammed into the ground, right where they'd been standing. A sickening crack reverberated in the air.

Ella's breath shuddered beside his ear as she squirmed, trying to see what had almost hit them.

"Don't look," Con said, lifting a hand to stop her from seeing it, even as his own gaze was drawn back.

Taemin still stood on the porch, hand outstretched. But his eyes had gone wide with horror, his chest still as he held his breath.

"Oh God," Ella breathed, sitting up. Her hands covered her mouth as her body swayed forward. His sister's voice goading him to action, Taemin leapt from the porch and slid to a stop in front of her. He pulled her to his chest, speaking rapidly in Korean.

Con flinched when Taemin took his arm, pulling both him and Ella to their feet. When they were all standing, he grabbed Ella by the shoulders. "Go inside," he ordered. "Go to the front desk and have them call the police. Con and I will stay until they come."

"I..." Her eyes flicked to the body at their feet. Her face was pale, her eyes glazed.

"So-ri-ah. Now."

She licked her lips and nodded, turning on her heel and running toward the door.

Con finally found the courage to move forward. He recognized the once-white blazer, now stained red. He crouched and gently brushed a few blood-soaked strands of hair away to meet Nina Marino's dead stare.