Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 80

I couldn't breathe. There wasn't enough air in the world to keep my head from spinning and my lungs were far too small to be able to take any in any way. Vaguely, I could make out Zayn's muffled voice. I didn't know how I made it out of the car, nor how I ended up on my knees in the ditch, only that seconds later I was emptying the contents of my stomach onto the ground.

Things were still fuzzy as I made my way back behind the wheel, working like an automaton under the hand of someone else to start the car back up, rev the engine, and rip a full 180 in a matter of seconds.

Where were my hands? Did they exist?

I knew they were driving, could see them clutched around the wheel, but I couldn't feel them. I couldn't feel any part of me. Everything was blurry, or ringing, or numb or heavy. Nothing felt right.

"Harry," someone was saying. "Harry. Harry. Can you hear me? Are you driving–?"

It was Zayn. He was still on the phone.

I didn't want to ask the only relevant question burning hot in my mind. Couldn't even get my tongue to wrap around the syllables if I tried. Instead, I somehow managed to ask, "The studio. Is she still–?"

"She's still there," Zayn was saying. His voice felt like an echo. Far away. "Morgan's on her way. I guess security messed up in flagging someone on the way in, I don't know how it happened, Harry, I'm so sorry–"

"Stop." I ground out, tightening my hold on the wheel. "Stop talking."

He didn't. "I'm sorry, H, I shouldn't have had you leave. I'm–"

"Don't," I snarled. The car was nearing 110 mph. "Don't say that fucking word." Sorry meant something had happened. Something permanent that was no longer reversible or needed forgiveness.

Sorry meant she was dead.

"You have to–" Zayn seemed at a loss on the other end, "Just please, stay safe on the way there, Harry, I don't want–"

"I have to go," was all I gave him before ending the call.

I hadn't bothered to ask what had happened. How it had happened; how he'd found out. I didn't even ask if there was anyone there with her. It didn't matter because I would be soon. It was me she needed; it was me who should have fucking been there. The urge to squeeze my eyes shut again was overwhelming but I forced them to stay open. Forced them to glance at every street sign I passed, every light and stop sign I'd barely paused for, every last landmark that I'd blew through on the way here, away from her.

Riv.

River.

Riv, Riv, Riv –

This was my fault.

It was always my fucking fault.

I was just shy of hopping the curb when I arrived out front of the studio, practically hauling myself from the seat in a running start. A few security men lingered around the front door and when I caught sight of Morgan's jacket, I realized they were the few that had ridden back with her. Neither of them tried to speak to me as I came rushing forward, realizing with a start that I was shaking when my handed landed on the door.

"Harry–" Morgan's voice was the first thing I heard upon entry. That and the stupid fucking bell –

"Jesus Christ," I reached up and yanked it clean off the hinges. When I opened my hand back up, the ball had shattered in my palm. A hand that was still shaking because beneath my blood that now currently dripped onto my shoes, was another trail of blood.