Light forced itself between her eyelids. Katrina sat up, unwillingly, and rubbed her eyes. Gunk and eyeshadow covered her hands. Something wet touched her leg.
She'd thrown up in Annie's bed.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Heat filled her cheeks. Her stomach churned. She threw up again, soaking Annie's old teddy bear in vomit. Oh, no.
She started crying as she dragged the sheets down to the washing machine. Shame she could handle, shame she could hide. Crying was so ordinary, such a mark of weakness—but she was weak, wasn't she? Just a stinking alcoholic. A human wrecking ball. Ruining my family, hurting everyone I touch.
She knocked over some of Annie's comics as she stumbled back into the room to grab the comforter. Hesitantly, she picked one up.
In the 1930's, some crafty bastards had used the medium to start telling stories about men with supernatural strength and agility. Indigo had shut them down fast, but co-opted the medium to record stories of its own greatest triumphs. Katrina's father had brought new ones home for her every week. She'd devoured them like candy, drinking in the message: the noblest act of all was to bend one's magic to the protection of mankind and the protection of the Seal.
Her fingers lingered on the newsprint. The story was new, but the themes remained familiar: a brave warrior fighting selflessly to protect a group of children from a crazed Descendant who wanted them dead. She'd imagined herself filling those heroic shoes, as a child—you goddamn drunk, you're so weak, you'll never be that that warrior. She dropped the comic before her tears could ruin it. Indigo made them fragile on purpose.
She couldn't bring herself to look at her phone until noon, after she'd showered, fixed the bed, thrown up again, and swiped some clothing from Anaïs. Fifty new texts and emails awaited her. The media wanted interviews, her coworkers hated her guts, and the one she dreaded was at the bottom.
Fired. For the third time. It felt like a punch in the gut. What did you think would happen, Katrina? You think you deserve a job? You're the one who keeps screwing stuff up! Part of her wished she'd told Winters about her drinking problem back when she'd been hired. The other part suspected Winters wouldn't have hired her if she'd known.
The world spun around her. Nothing felt quite real. She sat on the sofa and buried her head in her hands, but being alone with her thoughts was too much to bear. She flipped on the TV. Five minutes later, a picture of her with a blurred circle over her genitals popped up on CNN. She flipped it off.
Her phone rang. Senator Winters. She ignored it and poured herself a glass of Shawn's orange juice. Then she threw up in the sink. Senator Winters called her again. She let it go to voicemail.
Then came a third call.
Katrina realized that the solitude she was cherishing did not contain Kyle, who she vaguely remembered stuffing into Shawn and Anaïs's bed.
She stumbled up the stairs. The bed was empty.
"Crap." She wanted to curl up into a ball and vanish. Or find some way to turn back time.
Her phone rang again. This time, she picked up.
"Katrina?" Senator Winters gasped. "Where's my son?"
Kyle had left a note at his mother's hotel: 'I'm sorry'. Tears streaked the ink. He'd tossed his phone out on the pavement. His mother still had access to his bank account, which said he'd rented a car. The police had been contacted. They'd flagged his car speeding through a tollbooth, streaming northward. Officers in HamiltonCounty had also been alerted. Katrina had called and tried to describe the old hiking trails as well as she could, but she doubted they could find it.
The Winters had bought the better portion of the Harris land back in the eighties, when her father had sold it to pay off his debts. They'd build a mansion on the hill and spent every summer there. Kyle had been the only kid her age in a five mile radius. And if it hadn't been for that connection, you miserable drunk, you'd never have gotten hired by Winters to begin with. She and Kyle had spent months wandering those woods. If Kyle was feeling . . . sad . . . he'd go to their spot.
Shawn had left his car behind. She grabbed it and raced north. The radio kept telling her that the Winters' campaign was dropping in the polls. One conservative commentator shouted about how you couldn't trust a woman who couldn't even control her family, suggesting that maybe Tea Party Prescott was the proper heir to the cause. It might have meant something, or it might have meant nothing. Senator Winters' campaign could still recover . . . oh, Kyle, we don't know what'll happen, it's too soon to blame yourself!
Especially when what had happened was all her fault. You filthy dirty addict. She'd promised Senator Winters she'd watch out for Kyle. She'd had every reason in the world to stay sober. Hadn't she grown out of ruining her life? Your picture on the news. You're the joke of the 2012 election. The Monica Lewinsky who can't get laid. She'd never get another job in politics. Maintaining the family house and renting the apartment in the city had wiped out her savings. Shawn would give her money, but it'd eat at his marriage even more. Did he hate her for all the trouble she caused him? She couldn't blame him if he did.
The sun set quickly. Tall hills covered in fall leaves vanished into the grey sky. Shadows wrapped around her, as if she was driving into a tunnel that grew deeper every mile.
Four hours passed. She made a beeline for the Winters' mansion. The three story Tudor-style house loomed over the valley below. Lights glowed from the Harris house across the lake. Kyle's rental car sat in the driveway. The front door hung open. Katrina left Shawn's car running and sprinted inside. "Kyle! Are you in here?"
Warm light shone from the living room. Inside, she found the gun safe hanging open. Kyle's Glock was missing.
Oh, no.
Gravel spun from beneath her tires as she drove to the trailhead at seventy miles per hour. Anaïs's too-small sneakers pinched her feet as she sprinted up the hill. "Kyle!" The dense pines wove tight nets around the trails. An old chunk of slate that used to support a bench caught at her foot. Her lungs burned by the time she reached the lightning-scorched trunk. Her eyes strained to see through the night as she turned left onto the old deer track. "Kyle! Come on! Kyle!" Thorns whipped out and tore her pant leg. She gasped, but kept moving—and then she crested the bluff, and saw Kyle's silhouette against the moon, and froze.
He was pressing the gun to his chin.
"Hi." She kept her voice low, like she was trying to tempt a stray dog. "Can we talk?"
"There's nothing much to say, is there?" He didn't turn to face her. His eyes remained locked on the moon. "And don't say it'll get better. It won't."
She took a tentative step forward, aware she was walking on a tightrope. Her hands shook. "Why do you feel these way?"
"I've failed at everything I've ever tried to do, and now I'm ruining up my mom's life, too! Don't try to tell me it's not my fault, because the common denominator is always me!" A sob escaped along with the words. He lowered his voice. "You should go. I don't want you getting in trouble on my account. That'd be just like me, right?"
This is all your fault. You failed him. Failed him mom, failed yourself . . . so many times. You'll never be an agent again. Never have any power. Never be who you wanted to be. And here was Kyle, alone, burning with pain, and she would give anything to make it better.
"What if I go with you?" she blurted out.
Now he turned to face her. His eyes widened. "You can't! You have—"
"I have nothing, okay? No job, no money. My family hates me. You think you hurt your mom? I'm an alcoholic, and I can't control myself. I hurt everyone and everything I touch. You're the only friend I've got left, Kyle. I don't want to live in a world without you!"
He reached out and took her hand. "Kat . . ."
"I'll go first." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Remember those old games we used to play? You always let me go first."
He didn't say a word as he passed her the gun.
She gripped the cold metal. The hole in the end of the barrel drew her eyes like a magnet. No more hurting people. One quick flash of pain and everything's okay forever. She could pivot and throw it off the overlook before he could stop her. Was that why she'd asked for it? Would she really go through with it?
Her gun hand went up as she gripped Kyle's wrist. Her heart fluttered like a canary trying to escape a cage in a coal mine.
A gunshot echoed from deeper in the woods.
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