CHAPTER ONE

SUSPECT

December 15th

When my thoughts are lost, I find them in the shadowy crevices of my mind, hoarding Blake Collins. Yes, hoarding. She’s a selfish little hussy. Always keeping him to herself, but most of the time I’m okay with that. He can stay there. It’s where he belongs. In a secluded space, a sealed fortress, where he can’t affect me.

The night my life collided with Blake Collins, it was cold. February eighth. I remember because it was my birthday. My sixteenth birthday. Jess talked me into going to a bonfire on the beach to kick off my sixteenth year with the rest of our high school. Or rather, the cool kids. I wasn’t one of them, nor did I care to be one of them, but Jess insisted it was a rite of passage. Despite our craptastic lives, sweet sixteen deserves to be memorable, and this bonfire is the perfect occasion. She knew I hated being around people, especially the pricks from our school, but for once I threw caution to the wind. In hindsight, I should probably thank Jess. Or curse her. I’m still undecided. If not for her, I’m not sure my path would’ve intersected with Blake Collins.

It was one of those life-altering moments. Eyes locked. Heart stopped. Time ceased to exist. Do I even exist? Silly question. I felt more alive than ever. When the shadowy crevices uncurl their talons and release him, I still remember how he made me feel. Warm. Secure. Invincible. But most of all—alive.

Blake was far from what I expected out of life. I had a plan, a solid one. Keep up my grades. Go to college. Get into law enforcement and get all the sick freaks off the streets. I wanted to become an FBI agent, make a real difference in this corrupt world. Be someone no one expected me to be. I wasn’t going to let some stupid boy ruin my perfect plan.

As soon as our lives intertwined, my mind drew a blank. Plan? What’s a plan?

My sole purpose was Blake Collins.

We spent nine hundred and twelve days together. How do I know this? When the days were stolen from me, I wanted to remember every last one. I didn’t want to forget a single day. Pathetic as it may seem, they shaped me, made me who I am today. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, who knows? But I am who I am.

I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. The longer we were together, the more concrete it appeared, but life, once again, laughed at my plans. It had something entirely different in store.

I haven’t seen Blake Collins in ten years. Well, I haven’t seen him in person. I’ve seen him on albums and magazines, in music videos and interviews. To which I either flip the CD cases and magazines, close my web browser, or change the channel. It’s easier that way. The pain and confusion and betrayal are lifted. I don’t owe him anything. Especially not my thoughts.

I wish I could say the same about his music, but I’ve bought every CD. A sick part of me needs to support him. I’m nothing but a number, inching his ranking higher on the charts, and yet, it’s like I need to prove something. I never gave up on him, even if he gave up on me. I’ve refrained from listening to them, unable to hear the voice that trapped my heart. The albums remain shoved in a shoebox on the top shelf of my bedroom closet collecting dust.

Now I sit on my couch, staring at the TV. Blake Collins’ face is plastered across my flat screen with his devilish grin and irresistible left dimple, captivating me all over again. I couldn’t change the channel if I wanted to. This time the white scrolling bar along the bottom of the screen isn’t about his number one hit song or platinum record. It isn’t about his last stint in rehab or latest scandal or upcoming nuptials. He’s the sole person of interest in the murder of his fiancé, Scarlett Watts, Hollywood’s favorite It Girl.

“We’ve received more information about the circumstances surrounding the death of beloved star, Scarlett Watts. Her body was found around six-thirty this morning in her car after being shot near Central Park. At this time, it’s unclear what she was doing there, or if she was meeting someone. The last known person she was in contact with before her death was her fiancé, Black Lynx’s lead singer, Blake Collins. No other details have been released.”

I aim the remote at the TV and raise the volume. Scooting to the edge of my couch, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. My mouth hangs open as I take in the information bomb from the brunette newscaster. I flip the channel, and he’s there. I change it again. BAM. And again. It’s a screwdriver to the heart every time. The story is on every station. Each reporter looking more devastated than the last over the “tragic loss” of Scarlett Watts. It doesn’t sink in. I am impenetrable. My brain rejects it, unable to accept this as real life.

Scarlett’s perfect red lips and perfect blonde hair and perfect vibrant blue eyes fill the screen. It’s the one time I wish I had a smaller screen, so I wouldn’t have to see so much of her. I can’t believe I honestly thought that about a dead woman. I gulp back a sip of vodka from my minibar-sized glass bottle. When I knock back another sip, it’s empty. I unscrew another.

“The investigation into the murder of the humanitarian celebrity continues. Scarlett Watts, who returned from Mali only months ago, was supposed to appear for an interview this morning with Good Morning America after recently finishing filming her latest movie, When Stars Burn. She’d been unreachable for several hours and was last seen leaving Fig and Feta in Chelsea with rock sensation, Blake Collins, last night. While sources are indicating he may be involved in the case, there have been no arrests made.”

It couldn’t be. He couldn’t. Blake isn’t capable of murder.

But isn’t that what everyone says? When, in reality, everyone is. Anyone can spiral into a jealous rage or let betrayal fuel their temper. Anyone can let emotions dictate decisions. Substances can skew mental states. Humans are imperfect creatures by nature. No one is exempt from murder with the right motivation.

I would know. I’ve danced with the Devil himself.

As tired as I am, I try to keep my eyes open, taking in every detail the reporters can give me. Hours pass as I comb the Internet, thirsty for any new details. The stories blend together—speculations made, motives tossed around. Eventually, I can’t fight the alcohol and exhaustion and fall asleep to the sound of the droning newscasters.

Loud banging wakes me. I fall off of the couch and land on my hip, nailing it on the hardwood floor. I groan. That’s going to bruise. The knocking doesn’t stop. My head throbs. Why did I drink so much? Oh, right. Because it’s the second love of my life. Right next to solitude.

I grab my phone from the coffee table and rub my eyes to see the time more clearly. They sting from the remnants of leftover mascara. 10:07 AM. Wait, what? I blink, rub my eyes, and read the time again. 10:07 AM. Blackout drunk or not, I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late. Granted, I have no idea what time I actually fell asleep. It could’ve been five hours or five minutes ago. My mind and body feel no difference.

The only person it could be this early on a Saturday morning is Jess. I toss my phone onto the couch and crawl around it, peering at my front door. I didn’t get enough sleep for this garbage. Gradually, I gather my aching body off of the floor. The knocking persists.

“Give me a second!” I holler, whimpering as I rub my tender side. “I’m coming!”

Without thinking to look through my peephole, caught in my hazy state, I twist one deadbolt, and another. The metal thunks with every rotation. Thunk, thunk. I unlock the last one—thunk—and swing open the door. My heart jolts, and my lungs lose all purpose. Inflate and deflate, I tell them. Nothing happens.

Holy sh—
“Hey, Kat,” Blake says.