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Chapter One

Quinn

The rush hits me hard as the beat drops, as if the DJ planned it. I stretch my hands in the air and close my eyes, lost in the way my body comes to life with every breath. The beats shift, turning from music to something magical. A command to move.

I obey, opening my eyes to watch my hands in the strobes. I catch the eye of a girl dancing next to me, and she grins, shaking her lanky frame with the same abandon that I am. In this sweaty little underground club, no one is posing for Instagram selfies or prancing about in high heels. We’re all here to have a good fucking time.

My sneakers stick to the floor as I dance, and the crowd presses tighter, the dance floor filling up. The DJ raises the tempo from a trance to harsher hard house beats, and more men join in, some of them shirtless. Time passes as we move in a mass together, all dancing in our own little bubbles.

Too soon—though it could have been hours, who knows—the first telltale signs of the comedown creep in. The music loses its hypnotic power, the lights seem to dim, and all at once, I’m aware of the way my drenched crop top is clinging to my skin. I lost my water bottle ages ago and am thirsty as all hell.

Time for a break. Then I’ll drop the second pill I’ve got tucked in my bra and keep going.

Christ, it’s hot in here. The girls’ toilets are a hive of activity, women chatting and ducking into cubicles in pairs. The bouncers here turn a blind eye to pretty much anything, but even they’d react at people racking up lines in the open. I squeeze past the line as a woman shouts, “Hurry up, girls! Some of us actually need to pee.”

It’s really fucking hot.

I splash cold water on my face, then drink some from my hands. As I lean on the counter and stare at my blown-out pupils in the dirty mirror, a woman taps my shoulder. She’s a bit older than most of the others, into her thirties, and looks worried. A clubbing mother hen, looking out for everyone.

“Are you okay? I’ll grab you some cold water from the bar, if you like. Where are your friends?”

A damn good question. I arrived with Lisa and her new boyfriend but haven't seen them in…shit. Ages. Lisa lives in the building across from me, and we were supposed to Uber home together. I might not have enough in my bank account to make it on my own.

And just why the hell is it so goddamn hot?

I sway as heat rushes up my neck. Fresh sweat breaks out on my clammy skin. My heart races, and all at once, I realize what is happening.

Oh no. Oh fuck.

I reach for my purse, but it’s not there. What? I scan the bathroom through eyes that grow blurrier by the second. Where did I put it? My medication. I need…

“Hey.” The mother hen peers into my face. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

“My pills.” I stare around as though the purse will magically appear, but it must be somewhere on the dancefloor. Did I set it down to dance?

“You don’t need any more just now, darling. Come out into the smoking area. I’ll get you some water.”

I want to scream at her well-meaning but totally wrong attempt to help. “No. It’s medicine for my heart. In my purse. I don’t know—”

The room spins, and I can’t finish the sentence because all I can think about is staying on my feet. I lean over the sink as blood pounds in my brain. People are talking, but it’s distant. I can only pick out a few words.

“...what…”

“...hospital…”

“…911…”

Arms wrap around me, helping me to the floor as blackness covers everything.

***

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It's a horribly familiar sound, echoing around my brain as I come back into my body. I know where I am.

Hospital. Again.

I'm a fucking idiot. I open my eyes a crack, then shut them in a hurry when the light hits me. A quick shift of my limbs reveals a drip in my arm. A cart rattles as someone pushes it past my bed. Two women walk by, chatting quietly.

Christ, my head is pounding. I shift on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. At least I'm not dead.

Not this time.

Not yet.

Fuck, though. How much is this going to cost? I'm still paying off the last two hospital trips.

The swoosh of the curtain announces a visitor. I force my eyes open, braving the glare, as a stern woman in a white coat enters. She checks a tablet and clucks her tongue. “You're up.”

“Looks like it.”

It comes out rude and clipped. She frowns before tapping a short nail on the tablet. Then she sighs, sets it down, and her face softens. My stomach clenches at the expression.

Just give me a lecture and send me home. Don't look at me like that.

“I'm guessing you know what I'm about to say. Stimulant drugs are the worst possible combination with your condition. It's not a joke, Quinn. What were you thinking?”

“I know it's not a joke,” I mutter. Nothing funny about getting a middle-aged disease at twenty-one. At first, I was so careful, following all the recommendations. But then the accident happened, and everything went to shit.

The doctor continues. “You're only twenty-four. Many Brugada patients live full lives. Why risk it for the sake of a night out?”

I can't frame an answer, and I don't owe her one anyway. I meet her gaze. “Can I go home now?”

She looks poised to say more, but a frantic beeping across the room catches her attention. She looks at me with a sigh. “We'll keep you under observation for a couple of hours longer. Try to be sensible, or you'll be back here soon. If you don't end up in the morgue.”

She walks off, leaving me open-mouthed. Blunt, for a doctor. I almost like her for it.

The next two hours crawl by without a phone to distract me. I try to tally how in the unholy fuck I'm going to pay for another one and come up short. I need to sleep, but the blanket is thin, and the AC is set to Arctic levels. I'm wearing a miniskirt and a crop top. The bus ride home is really going to suck.

“Quinn?” A quiet voice pulls me out of my mopey thoughts. A nurse is smiling at me, and it takes me a second to place her. Suzy, from my building. We're not exactly friends, but we chat sometimes, and I fed her cat once when she had to rush off for an emergency. I almost smile when I notice her hair. Bright pink, just like mine.

“Hey.” I tap my head. “We’re twinsies.” It's all the small talk I can manage. She seems to understand. Benefits of talking to a nurse, I guess.

She smiles and touches her ponytail. “Yes. Just thought it might be fun, you know? Not sure if I’ll keep it like this. Anyway, I’ve got good news. You've been cleared to leave.” She bustles around me, unhooking the monitors and the drip. “Do you have anyone to pick you up?”

“I gave my driver the day off, unfortunately.”

She smiles at the weak joke, then frowns as I stand. “Don't you have a purse?”

“I lost it at the club.”

“Oh. How are you getting home, then?”

A good fucking question. Without my purse, I don't even have money for the bus. Shit. An awkward silence falls as she waits for an answer. “I'll figure something out.”

“Look, give me a few minutes, and I'll call you an Uber.”

“No.” She's just being nice, but the tinge of pity in her wide brown eyes makes my skin crawl. “I'll be fine.”

No chance I'm owing her forty dollars I have no way to pay back.

I expect her to back off, but instead, she holds up a hand. She’s probably used to dealing with people as messed up as me. “At least let me give you five bucks for the bus. I owe you for taking care of Max last month.”

I almost say no—it's right there on my tongue—but I'm all out of options and so damn tired I can hardly think. I can't walk home, and knowing my luck, if I hitchhike, I'll get picked up by a serial killer. It burns my throat, but I force out, “Okay. Thanks.”

She grins, and it's a sunny expression. “Great. Give me a sec.”

I pick at my neon-pink nail polish as I wait for her to return. I painted them last night to match my hair. It looked cool, but it's already started to crack.

Suzy returns, passing me a five-dollar note and a bright pink hoodie. It’s got a band name on it, and I squint, trying to read the curly script splashed across the logo.

She saves me the trouble. “It’s my cousin’s band. The Pathfinders. She gave me this as a birthday present.”

“Are they any good?”

Suzy pulls a face. “Not my thing, but you never know, you might like them. Anyway, it’s cold, and I've got a coat in the locker room. You can give it back later.”

Again, I have to fight the urge to refuse her kind offer. Why the hell is she being so nice? We’re not even real friends. But I'll be fighting off weirdos on the bus in my club outfit, and the hoodie does look warm.

I accept it with a smile that feels false on my face. “Thanks. Really. I'll drop it back tomorrow. When do you get off?”

“I'm on a twelve shift today, then I'll be sleeping most of tomorrow. Just hang it on my doorknob.”

“Will do.”

She gives an awkward little wave and hurries off. I pull on the hoodie, feeling like a thief. No perfume clings to it, thank fuck. That would have been weird.

I stand to leave, and my head swims. How long since I ate? I’ve had nothing since the fries yesterday afternoon. I'll have to wait till I get home, though, and I've got one more stop to make before I catch the bus.

The long-term care unit is as quiet as ever. These patients don't get many visitors. In most cities, they're shipped out to nursing homes or rehab facilities, but we've got a special section of the hospital dedicated to no-hopers.

Well, not no hope. That would be too easy. Instead, there's always the tiniest sliver of possibility that this time, things will be different. That Marlowe will open her eyes and demand to know what the fuck is going on.

The nurse on the desk recognizes me from when I used to be a frequent visitor. I can't remember her name. She waves me through, but before I step into the quiet ward, I check, “No one else is with her?”

She shakes her head. “No. Your mom and dad were here yesterday, for a bit.”

Marlowe’s mom and dad. Not mine. I don't correct her, though, as I head in to visit my foster sister.

Marlowe’s eyes are closed, as always, and her chest rises and falls as if she's just asleep. Has she gotten skinnier? Hard to say. Something is different, though. I stare until it clicks. They’ve cut her hair again. It’s sharp to her chin, and the highlights are growing out. She’d hate it.

I hate it, too. It makes it harder to picture her as she was. It’s only been six months, but it feels like an eternity.

I sit with her and launch into an account of the night just gone. Maybe she'll come out of her coma just to tell me how goddamn stupid I am. I finish the story and pause, waiting for a response. It doesn’t come, of course, and all at once, I can’t stand being here a single second longer. I’d rather be anywhere.

My mind strays to the half bottle of vodka in the door of my fridge, next to the expired milk. Maybe, when I get home, I’ll drink the rest of it and erase Marlowe’s face from my mind for a few blissful hours.

I give her cold hand a squeeze, mutter a goodbye that comes out garbled through my thick throat, and race out without a word for the nurse.

Screw this fucking place.

I walk to the bus stop. The mid-morning light stabs my eyes and confuses my senses. Even though my brain knows it's almost lunchtime, part of me was still expecting it to be dark.

The street is busy even though it’s Sunday, mostly miserable people who stare at their phones or down at the ground with grim expressions. No one comes to the hospital for fun. Two nurses chat together over steaming coffees from a cart at the side of the road. God, I’d kill for a coffee.

I sit as close to the front of the bus as I can, head leaning against the glass. The vibrations soothe me into a peaceful state.

Please, no one sit next to me.

They don’t, and I have to fight not to fall asleep as the bus lumbers toward my part of town. I can’t stop yawning as it finally pulls in. Almost home.

I shove my hands in the front pocket of the hoodie and walk the short distance to my building. I got lucky with this apartment, even though it’s dingy and in a rough area. I have a housemate, but he works away for weeks at a time, only returning for short bursts. The rent is cheap, and it’s not too noisy except on the weekend when I’m usually out anyway.

It’s also lucky we keep a key in a lockbox at the front door, or I’d have been screwed.

The elevator is out of order—it has been for months—so I head for the stairwell. There’s no one around, which isn’t unusual for this time on a Sunday. Most people will still be sleeping it off. Something gives me pause, though, and I stop before opening the door. A prickle at the back of my neck.

It’s really quiet. Usually, music comes from somewhere. A couple arguing, a kid screaming, a TV on too loud. But the whole place is silent. And Eric, the homeless guy who hangs out at the front, isn’t there either. What the hell?

I shake my head. Stupid. I’m just tired, on a comedown, and getting paranoid.

As I push open the door to the stairwell, a thick hand wraps around my mouth.