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I knew that would get him. Tate freezes, and I wait eagerly for him to lose his fucking shit.

"Noah, don't," Silas says. "Just…stop, okay? You don't have to like it, but you still have to go with us because I won't leave without you. If you want to stay here and go to prison, then I guess we're going to prison. I'll make sure they know you didn't really hurt anyone."

"I'll fix it," Tate says softly. "I'll do better. I'll make you happy—you know I can makeyou happy."

"I don't want your guilt or your pity. I just want you to keep being the same piece of shit asshole you've always been."

He sighs, still refusing to take the bait. "I'm going to go put this stuff in the car."

"I'll take it," Silas says. "I'm going to go get some cash, too, just in case we run into some trouble. I'll fill up the tank and change the oil, then we should get out of here. Did you bring the hair dye?"

"Yeah," Tate says. "It's in the bag."

"You're leaving me with him?" I ask Silas.

He sets a plate beside the bed. "I made you a bagel," he says. "You should try to eat, okay? It's only for an hour—less than that, even. I'll be right back."

"Yeah, fine." I sigh, crossing my arms in front of me and looking up at the ceiling. "I don't care what he does to me anymore, anyway. Maybe he'll finally stop talking shit about it and just fucking kill me so we can all be done with this."

"Go ahead and drag me if it makes you feel better, Noah," Tate says, setting the bag of clothing next to Silas.

Just another sign of how small and meaningless my existence here is—everything I own fits in a garbage bag. And for every person in this town, the world will keep turning when I'm gone. Maybe Winter Falls will even become a tourist spot for true crime aficionados. The Poplar Café will become the place where one of the Multnomah County Massacre killers worked for a year, still killing, quietly sating her thirst for blood, until she accidentally served one of her victim's fingers to a customer and had to fucking bail.

Silas places his hands on my cheeks and presses his forehead to mine. "I love you," he says before he presses his lips to mine. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

I nod, and then watch him grab the bag of clothes and leave, closing the door behind him, leaving me in my failure-seeped apartment with the last person in the world I want to stew in that failure with.

I shoot daggers into his back with my eyes while he pulls rubber gloves over his hands and begins mixing hair color on top of my emptied dresser.

"It's too quiet in here," he says.

"I like the quiet. You should try it sometime…although, I admit, I can see now why it's such a problem for you. Alone with your thoughts all the time? I wouldn't want that, either."

"No, you probably wouldn't. Most of my thoughts are of you."

I scoff.

"They're not always good; I didn't say that," he says. "But theyaremostly of you. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck while drunk and, unfortunately, didn't fucking die."

He sits beside me on the bed and reaches for my hair—slowly. So unnaturally slow, like he's waiting for me to recoil or fight him off, but I don't have the energy for that. He ties half of my hair in a top knot and starts painting the thick dark color onto my hair.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"Did you look at the IDs Silas made for you?" Tate asks. "He changed your hair color to dark brown, so it needs to match."

"I'm just going to do it again," I tell him. "As soon as I get a chance, and I won't fuck it up next time. I'll get it right."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. And you know what? Knowing it might actually hurt you—or at least bother you a little bit—makes it that much better. You say you always know when I'm lying. Tell me I'm lying about this, Tate."

He sighs. "No. You're not lying. But I'm going to make sure you don't. I'm going to take care of you. I won't let you go. Ever."

"You know what? That sounds fucking terrifying. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a threat."

"Yeah, well, who wouldn't want to be loved like a threat?"