It did shut him down.

Even when his father called the hospital and tried to demand a little more information, all Tristan could do was stare at the wall, a numb shell.

It was hopeless.

He didn’t even know her grandparents’ names. All he had was Cambridge, England. It wouldn’t be enough—the search was too huge and there was no way of narrowing it down.

His only hope would be Helena contacting him, but he had a sick feeling that she wouldn’t be able to.

It was over.

He was never going to see her again.

He somehow made his way up to his room an hour later, stumbling inside and slapping his hands against the desk. He gripped the shiny surface, his chest and stomach aching from the crying. His eyes were swollen and tender. He rubbed at them anyway. His insides were raw and hollow.

Sucking in a ragged breath, he gazed out his window. The skeletal trees were in full bloom with spring blossoms, fresh new life reviving the trees to their summer splendor.

Tristan’s eyebrows dipped and he lurched for the curtains, yanking them across and shutting out the cheerful view. Spinning around, he eyed the cranes dangling from his ceiling. His lips formed an ugly line, a bitter growl rumbling in his throat.

Jumping onto his bed, he snatched the cranes and yanked them off the ceiling, throwing them across the room and screaming, “Why?” until his voice was hoarse.

His bedroom door flung open and his father filled the gap. His face was etched with worry, his soft brown eyes brimming with compassion.

Tristan’s knees buckled and he slumped onto his bed, bowing his head and sniffling.

“Leave me alone. Please,” he whispered brokenly, “just leave me alone.”

He closed his eyes, waiting in agony until the door finally clicked shut.

Gone.

She was gone.

He buried his head in his pillow, curling his body into a ball and closing his eyes against the paper cranes scattered on his bedroom floor. He willed oblivion to take him. He didn’t know how else to manage the pain.

* * *

Four weeks passed.

Each day was long and painful, shrouded in anguish. Tristan didn’t know how to cope with the world so he remained shut down, running on autopilot. Shuffling through the school hallways, he kept his head down and didn’t really talk to anyone.

Miss Warren tried to hold him back after class but he ignored her request, dumping the poetry book on her desk with a bitter thank you.

That poem had become worthless. How could he carry Helena now? She was no longer part of his journey. It made everything pointless.

Squirming in his seat, he checked the clock on the wall and was relieved to see he had less than five minutes until he could get out of the hell pit and return to the sanctuary of his room. He barely opened the curtains anymore, enjoying the black haven he’d created. It was easy not to think in there, to simply sleep and pretend like nothing existed.

The bell trilled, a shrill sound that made Tristan jerk in his seat. A couple of students behind him snickered but he ignored them, snatching his books off the desk and walking out of the classroom while the teacher was still yelling instructions at him.

With his head down and his hands in his pockets, he dodged human traffic and made a beeline for his locker. Slowing to a stop, he spotted Mikayla’s small feet planted on the linoleum floor and rolled his eyes.

She’d been talking to him every day, the only kid in the school who hadn’t given up on him despite the fact that he’d stopped talking. Pressing his lips together, he rolled his shoulders and steeled himself.

Shuffling up to the shiny blue metal, he glanced at the back of her head. That’s when he spotted the inside of her locker. His lips parted, a deep sympathy ripping through him.

Rotten bananas, black and oozing, covered all her stuff. He had no idea how they’d gotten into her locker, but it almost didn’t matter. The damage had been well and truly done. Mikayla stood in paralytic shock, her petite nose wrinkled at the smell. Her chin trembled, her lips wobbling as she took in her ruined books.

Tristan knew who was responsible, but he doubted anyone could prove it.

He wanted to do something—tell her he’d kick Owen’s ass, offer to go get the custodian, place a hand on her shoulder and tell her he was sorry—but he couldn’t.

Instead he backed away from his locker, creeping out of the school before she noticed him. Like a coward, he ran to his bike, unlocked it with shaking fingers, and took off for home.

Helena would have been so disappointed in him, but what did it matter? She wasn’t around to confess to. She wasn’t there to tell him what he should have done. She was gone and he was once again lost.