Kate

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“Don’t make me hurt you—get the hell off!” I bat at Wes’s head. He’s the one hurting me, damn it: his knee’s pressing into my stomach, and something sharp’s sticking me in the back. If he doesn’t let me up this second—

“Promise you won’t run.”

I’m not promising that.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

“You already are.” And I’m suffocating, pinned under him—I don’t want this, can’t deal with this: I need out. I spit in his face to distract him and slam my knee into his crotch. He shrivels up instantly, clutching at himself as I buck him off. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” I toe him in the ribs. “Well, too bad. Because that’s the only way I’m ever touching your genitals.”

“Kate....”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“I’m—I....” He curls up tighter, both hands tucked between his legs.

“Oh, you can shut off the waterworks.” I kick him again. “How could you do that to Dev?”

“I didn’t!” Wes turns his face to the floor like he’s trying to disappear. “You honestly think I’d—you think I’d do that?”

“I know you would. And you did.”

“I didn’t.” His shoulders are shaking. I’m not impressed. Has it always been an act, this miserable persona?

“Whatever. I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” Wes grabs for my ankle, thinks better of it, and curls in on himself instead. “No, please. Wait. Just....” He turns up his face, streaked with dirt and snot and tears. I’ve seen him cry before, but not like this. This is pathetic.

“Forget it.” I back away, disgusted.

“It wasn’t me!” He’s wailing, now, crawling, inching after me like a worm. “I—he just killed himself, I swear. I don’t know why.” His hand comes down on an exposed nail, and he howls in pain. Shudders his way through a storm of sobs. “God, it hurts.”

“Good.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t. I found the flash drive, remember? In the sink?”

“’Cause I put it there!” He’s practically screaming. “He was already dead, and I still had a key, and I just wanted to scare you. No-one was supposed to die.” Wes sucks at his wounded hand. I ignore the urge to help him—let him get blood poisoning. Let him fucking die.

“What about Kyle? Let me guess—that wasn’t you, either?”

Wes snuffles wetly. “No, it was. But I didn’t know—I thought....” His voice rises to a childish whine. “They were just meant to get divorced. They hated each other, anyway. How was I supposed to know she’d kill him?”

Something dark and poisonous wells up in my heart: absolute loathing. I despise this man—this groveling creature, trying to snivel his way out of responsibility. How many times has he done this? Can I trust any of my memories?

“Please. You have to believe me. I only killed one person on purpose, and that was Matt Danbury. I’d never have done that to Dev. Never.”

“You—what? You killed...you knew?” My rage blossoms, turning huge, all-consuming. “You killed Matt Danbury, and you let us think, all this time... You let us carry that guilt, and it was you?”

“But I didn’t kill Dev.”

“And that makes everything all right? At best, you exploited his suicide, made us all think...made us all picture—what’s wrong with you?” I advance on him again. “No. Don’t answer that. Just tell me why. What was it about our friend’s awful, lonely death that made you think...made you want to do this?” I’m almost crying, myself. I bite my lip hard: he’s not getting my tears.

Wes wipes his face, leaving a bloody smear under his nose. “You laughed at me.”

“What?”

“You laughed at me.”

I what? “When?”

“The day we found out about Dev.”

I laughed, that day? At him?—at anything? Outrage mingles with disgust in my gut. All this, over some slight I can’t remember? I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

“I said how I almost kissed you that time.” He struggles to his knees, wincing. “I thought we could finally... I thought we could comfort each other. You laughed at me.”

I...what? What? He was laughing too. And.... “You thought—you wanted to use my grief to get in my pants? That’s not comfort; that’s—”

“No!” He staggers to his feet, still clutching his groin. “Not that. I just wanted you to love me. With your heart, not your body. I promise.”

That’s worse. Or as bad. Definitely not any better. “Gross. Ugh. That’s foul, Wes. And I’m leaving. And fuck you.” I flap my hands at him—get back.

He shambles at me like a zombie. “I can’t. Can’t let you do that.” A sick look spreads over his face. “I’m sorry.”

I skitter away, stumbling on the uneven floor. The thought of him touching me, this twisted, funhouse-mirror version of Wes, has my stomach doing somersaults. “You have to let me go. Don’t you see? There’s no coming back from this.”

“Why not?” He’s sidling around me, angling for the door.

“Because you—you played me for a fool. All of us, all this time; you’ve been lying, playing on our sympathies to get what you want.” I shove the table into his path. “Did your dad even have an accident? Or was that you, too?”

“Just come with me. I can be good. You’ll see.”

“I’d be your prisoner. Is that what you want?”

Wes lifts the table by one decaying leaf and sends it flying. His face contorts into something terrifying, an awful mask of rage and desperation. “If that’s what I can get!”

Oh, hell no.