PROLOGUE - The Accident
He’s dead.
Oh God. He’s not breathing. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. What have I done? What have I done?
“Breathe, damn it!” I shout at him, but like all boys my age, he ignores me. Even in death, a boy can do that.
My sister’s shaking hands press down on his chest as I breathe air into his mouth. The force of her thrusts sends his limp arms flailing with every downward push. I can barely see the tops of her fingers, sunken beneath a growing puddle of red. My skin feels hot, yet my arms are covered in tiny bumps. My soul is freezing from the inside out.
The boy’s bike lies a few meters away, right in the middle of the highway where dozens of cars are now stuck in the kind of traffic our town rarely sees. Its front wheel is still spinning, but the frame is bent in a tangled mess.
Even distracted by this nightmare, I notice it’s a ridiculous shade of orange. Only an immature boy would buy a bike that gaudy. God, is he even old enough to shave?
“I called an ambulance!” a middle‑aged woman shouts from behind me. I can’t look away from the broken orange bike long enough to tell her it’s too late.
“Please wake up,” I whisper to the cyclist who didn’t see me flying toward him while crossing the highway. Desperately, I pinch his nose and open his mouth again. My breath forces its way through his tween lips. His ribcage rises to greet it, but as soon as I lift my mouth, the air escapes him again like a depleted balloon the day after a birthday party.
I slap him. Hard. Again and again, feeling absurdly betrayed. He must only be a few years younger than me — aren’t all young people supposed to have each other’s backs? How can he do this to me?
I sob.
“Sissy, you need to stop. He’s gone.”
I stare at his chipped black nails and blood‑soaked Kiss the Chef tee. A punk. Punks don’t die on the side of the road. They grow up and out of their rebellious phase. They live long enough to hang up their street clothes and embrace a suit job. They find wives who think their ex‑rocker stories are endearing. They watch their kids grow into the same rebellious streak, and even when they scorn their children’s choices, they secretly relive the good times — the ones where they rode around on orange bikes and hung out with friends who were just as misunderstood as them.
They don’t die young, and certainly not in a small, boring town like this one.
But he’s dead.
How? The question runs a marathon through my mind, even though the answer is obvious. I killed him, that’s how. But it still doesn’t make sense, no matter how often I repeat it.
Please wake up, I silently beg. My fingers shake as I try to find his pulse again, my mind scrambling for a solution. Some people wake up after their pulse flatlines, right? People who drown or are electrocuted? I just need to wait for his pulse to come back and I’ll be fine.
“Please, please, please…”
I collapse beside him when he refuses to give in — to breathe in. Through my tears, I stare at his blood‑stained lips. His family will never see him smile again. Oh God. I killed someone’s son and ruined their lives, and I don’t even know his name.
Two hands brush my shoulders and urge me into a sitting position. There is blood everywhere — on my creamy blouse, on my hands, on my lips. How can one lanky boy hold this much liquid?
“What’re your names, girls?”
Through the haze of my tears, I make out a man hovering over us. His shirt is a significant shade of blue.
Not only have I taken away this boy’s life but mine as well — all for the sake of a text message I was too stupid to ignore.
If my sister had been the one driving, she’d know what to say to turn this around. She was the strong one — the child who barrelled through confrontation like a bulldozer while I hid behind it like a shadow.
The policeman looks at me pityingly — and with the barest hint of contempt.
“I’m…” I can’t say it. The second I open my mouth and utter my name, the future as I know it will cease to exist. I’ll forever be known as the Boy Killer. The Everson Monster.
“Our parents will be here in three minutes,” my sister declares, pulling me under her arm. “We’re not saying anything until they’re here.”
The policeman purses his lips. “You can tell them to meet you down at the station if they’re not here in three minutes. Either way, you’re coming with us.”
