I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know I’m being carried upstairs and tucked into bed.

   “Jake,” I whisper. “Where are you going?”

   “I’m going to sleep on the sofa downstairs.” He hands me some clothes to sleep in. I’m still in my prom dress. “No one will bother you here. Just try to get some rest, okay?”

   I start to cry. He sits down next to me instantly, holding and soothing me.

   “Please, Jake. Can you stay, please? I don’t want to be alone.”

   “Sure . . .” It sounds like “shaw”—his accent again.

   “Get dressed, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He kisses my temple and leaves the room.

   I get out of bed and undress. I put on the clothes he handed me: a plain white T-shirt and boxers. I have no underwear, no bra. I have none of my own clothes. I don’t even think I can go to my house to get them. Oh God, what happened?

   When I get back into bed, I can hear hushed conversation just outside the door.

   “Get some rest, sweetheart—both of you. Well . . . try, anyway.”

   “Thanks, Mom, for everything. I mean it.”

   “Honey, you don’t need to thank me. You did such a good thing today. We’re very proud of you.”

   “I didn’t do anything, Mom.”

   “Try to get some sleep, son,” a deep male voice says. It must be his dad. “You have a meeting with your agent here at nine in the morning. Don’t forget.”

   “We can’t cancel?” Jake asks.

   “Son, he’s traveling from LA. Just tell him you’re not interested right now and send him on his way.”

   “Good night, guys,” Jake says, opening the door. He closes it behind him then leans against it. He’s holding an ice pack on his hand, injured after punching James. He takes a deep breath and exhales, puffing his cheeks out. He looks at me—for a few seconds, minutes, hours . . . Who knows.

   “God, Kayla. I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks.

   I stare at him.

   He puts the ice pack down on the dresser and starts to strip out of his clothes. I look away. He then slides into bed with me, dressed in his tank and boxers. We face each other.

   He suddenly sits up and rips his tank off. “Smells like beer,” he says and gets back under the covers. We pull the blankets up to our chins.

   “What happened to them, Jake?”

   He looks at me, and tears fill his eyes. He pulls me in and wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on top of my head. He clears his throat.

   “The police think your family walked in on a burglar, and the asshole shot them, Kayla.”

   I tense.

   “He got away, but he tried to burn the house down first—to get rid of the evidence, I guess.”

   I lie silently, tears streaming down my face. I wipe them on his chest.

   “The place is covered in fingerprints, so they should be able to catch the asshole soon. They got a lot of witnesses, too. The police are calling it a random act of violence.” He runs his fingers through my hair and kisses my forehead again. “I know it doesn’t bring them back, Kayla, but I’m really sorry about all of it—about James and your best friend, and now your family. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling. Just know that my family and I, and my friends—our friends—are here for you. I know that I just met you tonight, but I truly do care about you, Kayla. If there’s anything you need or want, just tell me, okay? Promise me you’ll do that?”

   I nod, the lump in my throat preventing me from speaking. I fall asleep in Jake’s arms, sheltered from all the evil in the world.

NINE

MIKAYLA

   The next morning I wake up needing to use the bathroom. The bed is empty. My head is pounding from the previous night’s crying, and I try not to think about any of it too soon. I look around the room and notice two doors on the right. I pray that one of them is a bathroom.

   I get up and creep over to one of the doors. The first one I open is the one I need. I then crawl back into bed.

   I hear men’s voices downstairs. I look for my phone on the nightstand and see a glass of water and two aspirins. A note is leaning against the glass: “Had to take care of some business, be back as soon as it’s done. Take the aspirin for your headache.” It’s signed Jake.

   I do as the note says then look at my phone: 178 missed calls from James and several unknown numbers and thirty-two new text messages. I check if there are any texts that aren’t from James. There’s nothing from Megan—not a single call or text. Then I read my mom’s text from last night:

   We love you too, sweetheart. Have a good night. Emily is begging for ice cream. We’ll bring you back a big batch of cookies’n’cream. It will be waiting for you in the freezer, wake me if I’m asleep and we can share some.

   They must’ve come back from getting ice cream and walked in on the burglary. I close my eyes and wish it would all go away.

   I lie in bed for a long time before I realize I should be doing something—anything—else. I start to panic. I’ll have to deal with lawyers, insurance, and funeral planning. I’m legally an adult, so I won’t have any help.

   I’m going to have to bury my entire family.

   I suddenly feel claustrophobic. The walls closing in, I rush to the door and pull it open. I stop in my tracks. Jake’s mom is bending down to put a tray of food and a change of clothes in front of the door.

   She gasps when she sees me, startled. “Good morning, Mikayla,” she says, smiling awkwardly. “I’m not sure what your size is, but I think you’ll fit in my sweats.”

   She hands me the clothes and picks up the tray. She walks into Jake’s room and sets it down on his dresser. Wandering over to his desk chair, she fingers the dress from last night. It’s laying across the back of the chair. She won’t look at me. I sit on the edge of the bed with the clothes on my lap and wait.

   “This must be incredibly hard for you,” she finally says, trying to hold back tears. She comes to stand in front of me, leaning against the dresser, and clears her throat. I notice she doesn’t have an accent. “Sweetheart, I need you to understand that I’m not asking you this because . . . Well, because we don’t want you to stay here. You can stay as long as you need to—we’ve already told Jake that. I’m asking because it’s an important step in the process, I guess. Is there anyone you should call—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents? Anyone?”

   My parents had a lot of friends and acquaintances, but we were a small family. People cared about them, but there isn’t anyone in particular who would care for me—except maybe my aunt Lisa. She wasn’t really my aunt. Both my parents were only children, and my grandparents are dead.