The detective gestures to the seat beside my dad's unconscious body but I just shake my head. With a sigh, he brings out a little pad of paper from his inner coat pocket. Detective Franks clicks the top of his pen and looks at me.

"Okay, so," he says, "first I just need general stuff. Your dad was attacked in his own home. Doctors said he took a harsh beating to the eye, with a weapon, most likely a bat. He has two cracked ribs, multiple bruises and a broken ankle. The bruising around his injured ankle had looked like the outline of a shoe, as if someone had continuously placed pressure on the bone until it snap—"

"Can we get to the questions?" I ask bluntly.

He nods. "Of course. What was the state of your house when you walked in? Door open or shut? Things misplaced . . . taken, stuff like that."

"The door was wide open," I say. "I came back from school with my friend and saw my dad's body through the open door. Um . . . nothing seemed out of place, but I can't be certain. I wasn't paying much attention to anything but him."

Franks scribbles something down on his paper. "Anything else? Signs of a struggle, such as broken objects, marks or anything on the interior of the house?"

"Isn't that your job to find out?" I scowl.

"I'm just trying to help," Franks says calmly.

"I'm not a forensic scientist, Detective Franks," I say. "I don't know. All I was really focusing on was the fact that my dad was lying on the floor bleeding to death."

Franks stares at me for a moment too long and I try to soften the expression on my face.

"Of course," he says again. "My apologies. I know this must be hard. I'll make this quick. I just need to know one last thing."

I nod my head for him to continue.

"Do you know of anyone that would do this? Someone who wants to inflict harm on your dad? Any enemies? People you saw him fall out with?"

Carl stares back at me in my mind. His smug smile and beady eyes. He just stands there, laughing. I want to hurt him. Maybe it's the first time that I've felt anger like this to such a high level, but I want to hurt him so bad. I want to kill him. I want to kill him. Hurt him like he hurt my—

"No," I say. "I don't know of anyone."

Franks looks at me for a moment too long again before writing on his paper. "Okay. Thanks for your time. I hope he gets better. I'll stay in touch if anything comes up."

I nod silently and Franks slips his pad of paper back into his pocket, clicking his pen off and turning around. I bite my lip and chew on it in thought before cursing inwardly and lurching forward, grabbing the back of Frank's coat.

"Wait," I say, and he turns to look at me, brows furrowed. "He gambles. A lot. I don't . . . I don't know if that helps."

Franks narrows his eyes and tilts his head forward. "Yes, yes it does. Thank you, Francesca."

His coat slips through my fingers as he walks away. I clench my eyes shut just as the door clicks closed. I only begin to calm down when my mind registers the pain of my nails digging into my palms.

Ten minutes later, Tyler comes walking in. He looks pale and I immediately straighten in my chair. "You okay?" I ask.

He nods. "You?"

I nod. "Ethan?"

"He'll live." He tries for a smile. "Your dad?"

"I'm just hoping he'll wake up soon," I say and stand up, walking over to him.

His black hair is greasy and sticking to his forehead, a light sheen running through it from the lights. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me and I don't even bother imagining what I currently look like. My back aches, my eyes sting and my entire body is slouching.

I place a hand on Tyler's shoulder and run it up to his cheek lightly, cupping the slightly hot flesh under my palm. Tyler's tired eyes shut from exhaustion and I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his.

"I'm sorry," he whispers shakily. "If I hadn't started fighting . . . this might not have happened. It's my fault."

I shut my eyes and rub my thumb against his skin. "It's not your fault," I say softly, "and you know it. Stop talking crap. My dad was going to gamble one way or the other. I was going to get involves anyway."

"But Ethan . . . " he sighs.

"Tyler, you couldn't have predicted that," I say.

"He could have died because of—"

I cup Tyler's face with both my hands until he looks at me. "Carl," I say firmly. "He could have died because of Carl. Not you. Never you. You didn't stab him; you didn't beat him up. You didn't hurt him. Carl is the one to blame for this."

"It's not that easy to just put all the blame on him," Tyler says.

"You weren't the one holding the knife," I say. "You weren't the one holding my dad down and stomping on his ankle over and over again until the bone eventually snapped. You weren't the one that sliced Ethan's stomach open. You weren't the one who hit my dad's eye with a bat. You weren't the one that hit Ethan enough to make him almost choke on his own blood. You didn't do this. So stop beating yourself up about it, okay?"

Tyler closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine again. "I can't do this."

"You have to," I whisper. "This isn't just about you anymore. We're all involved. And it's not just your friends that Carl's gonna hurt. You've seen what he can do."

"I wish I could just run away. Forget any of this ever happened."

"We only get one chance to live a life we're proud of, Tyler," I say softly. "Would you be proud if you ran away and let Carl continue to do this to everyone else?"

He shakes his head.

"So don't let that be an option." I rub his cheeks with my thumbs. "You've got a chance. Take it."

He breathes out deeply through his nose and wraps his arms around me, burying his head in my neck. I rub his back gently.

"You're stronger than me," he admits. "How come you're not freaking out like I am?"

"I don't know. Guess my mind just hasn't processed it yet."

Tyler pulls away and my arms drop to my sides. He caresses my cheek with his hand and slowly leans down, pressing his lips to mine with a soft, light touch.

"Thank you," he murmurs against my lips.

"For what?" I ask.

"Being there," he answers and drops his head down against my shoulder as I carry most of his weight on me and I can't help but feel that it's much more literal than it should be.

***

During my spare class I find myself stuck in an empty art room, flicking a paintbrush back and forth over a canvas. It's the canvas I bought weeks ago and never knew what to do with it. Now I waste it, brushing random color across the surface and making one big, bold mess.

The lights are off and the only source of light is the natural glow coming down from the high windows. Spending the entire night in my house alone hits me like a brick. Sure, I have spent nights alone as my dad goes out gambling. But this is different. He is laying in a hospital, sleeping away the injuries he got from a near-death beating.

The idea of that chills me to the core.

I got home to see the police had already searched through the house, taking what they needed from the 'crime scene' and saying that I was okay to stay the night. My house is a crime scene. That just makes me feel sick. What's worse is that I know Carl walked through the house, touching the walls, clicking his shoes against the floor and leaving his imprint on something that is meant to be mine.

I swipe the brush against the canvas in a particularly harsh movement and stop, staring at the mess in front of me. The colors blend disgustingly, making a dark and unappealing color that coats the whole painting. The brush strokes swirl and warp, twisting and intertwining with each other.

I want to kill him.

They move against the canvas and I stare blankly down at it. Carl's eyes flicker into my mind and my entire body tenses. The canvas warps until it looks like it's bulging out towards me from the middle. I frown and blink rapidly.

I want to kill him so bad.

Carl's eyes carve their way out of the canvas, the material stretching until it begins to form a face. A mouth appears, coated in the dark colors of my painting, open wide and screaming.

I want to hurt him.

Carl's face stares back through the canvas and I pick it up, smashing it down on the table over and over again until it rips open. I look down at my normal, plain canvas that is wet with paint and torn in the middle. I blink and open my mouth in shock, my body shivering.

It's just in my head. Stop it. It's just in your head.

"It's just in your head," Carl's voice suddenly whispers in my ear and I turn around, throwing the paintbrush with a yell.

Nothing.

"Franny?"

I look towards the door, eyes frantic and my body heaving with every deep breath I take. Tally stands in the doorway, looking at me in shock. She slowly takes a step forward.

"I..." my voice cracks and I clamp my mouth shut, the muscles in my face twitching and trembling.

"Franny," Tally whispers, a few feet away from me. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

My eyes burn. "No, it's not," I croak out, shaking my head slowly as my vision blurs. "It's never gonna..."

Tally catches me just as I'm about to fall. A sob runs through my body. I shut my eyes but the tears still fall. "It's never gonna—" I sob hysterically, "—it's never gonna be okay."

Tally's hand runs over my hair as she sits on the floor, trying to keep me up as my entire body breaks down and I become a crying, unresponsive mess.