Page 53 of Overdose

And then I freeze.

My fingers tighten on the vodka case. My pulse stutters.

There.

In the middle row. Third photo from the right.

Brynn.My sister.

Hair wild, pupils blown, laughing into a kiss. Not just any kiss.

His.

Noir.

Mouth locked on hers. His hand fisted in her hair. Her fingers hooked in his collar like she wanted to drag him under with her.

Blair, you dumb bitch. How did you not see this coming?

Because of course. Of fucking course. The stares. The tension. The way his kiss felt like he knew me. The goddamn ghost he turns into when I’m high on whatever pills I could find. I thought it was just trauma, some mutual brand of broken.

But no.

Heknewher.

He touched her.

He kissed her like that.

I drag a hand through my hair, tug at the roots like maybe pain will knock the static loose.

I mean, who needs therapy when you’ve got a rave, a vodka crate, and a visual gut punch waiting in the back room?

I lean in closer, like an extra inch will change what I’m seeing.

It doesn’t.

She looks alive in that photo. Electric. Like this world didn’t swallow her, it worshipped her.

And him?

He looked right at home.

Of course he did.

Because apparently, they both belonged to this world long before I ever clawed my way in.

The bottle box thuds against the ground, but I don’t notice until I hear the slosh of vodka inside. My hands are shaking.

What the fuck.

What the actualfuck.

My stomach drops.

I rip the photo off the wall with a shaky hand. My legs move before my brain catches up, carrying me back to the bar with the photo clutched like evidence. Like proof that I’m not crazy.

Cass is still behind the counter, double-fisting tequila bottles like she’s bartending for the apocalypse.