Never Never (Never Never #1) - Colleen Hoover Page 0,8

ashamed. I don’t understand why anyone would want to take a photo of such morbidly sad things, never mind hang them on their walls to look at everyday.

And then I turn and see the expensive camera perched on the desk. It’s in a place of honor, sitting atop a pile of glossy photography books. I look over to where Silas is also studying the photos. An artist. Is this his work? Is he trying to recognize it? No point in asking. I move on, look at his clothes, look in the drawers in the rich mahogany desk.

I’m so tired. I make to sit down in the desk chair, but he’s suddenly animated, beckoning me over.

“Look at this,” he says. I get up slowly and walk to his side. He’s staring down at his unmade bed. His eyes are bright and should I say…shocked? I follow them to his sheets. And then my blood runs cold.

“Oh, my God.”

I toss the comforter out of the way to get a better look at the mess at the foot of the bed. Smears of mud caked into the sheet. Dried. Pieces of it crack and roll away when I pull the sheet taut.

“Is that…” Charlie stops speaking and pulls the corner of the top sheet from my hand, tossing it away to get a better look at the fitted sheet beneath it. “Is that blood?”

I follow her eyes up the sheet, toward the head of the bed. Next to the pillow is a smeared ghost of a handprint. I immediately look down at my hands.

Nothing. No traces of blood or mud whatsoever.

I kneel down beside the bed and place my right hand over the handprint left on the mattress. It’s a perfect match. Or imperfect, depending on how you look at it. I glance at Charlie and her eyes drift away, almost as if she doesn’t want to know whether or not the handprint belongs to me. The fact that it’s mine only adds to the questions. We have so many questions piled up at this point, it feels as though the pile is about to collapse and bury us in everything but answers.

“It’s probably my own blood,” I say to her. Or maybe I say it to myself. I try to dismiss whatever thoughts I know are developing in her head. “I could have fallen outside last night.”

I feel like I’m making excuses for someone who isn’t me. I feel like I’m making excuses for a friend of mine. This Silas guy. Someone who definitely isn’t me.

“Where were you last night?”

It’s not a real question, just something we’re both thinking. I pull at the top sheet and comforter and spread them out over the bed to hide the mess. The evidence. The clues. Whatever it is, I just want to cover it up.

“What does this mean?” she asks, turning to face me. She’s holding a sheet of paper. I walk to her and take it out of her hands. It looks like it’s been folded and unfolded so many times, there’s a small, worn hole forming in the very center of it. The sentence across the page reads, Never stop. Never forget.

I drop the sheet of paper on the desk, wanting it out of my hands. The paper feels like evidence, too. I don’t want to touch it. “I don’t know what it means.”

I need water. It’s the only thing I remember the taste of. Maybe because water has no taste.

“Did you write it?” she demands.

“How would I know?” I don’t like the tone in my voice. I sound aggravated. I don’t want her to think I’m aggravated with her.

She turns and walks swiftly to her backpack. She digs around inside and pulls out a pen, then walks back to me, shoving it in my hand. “Copy it.”

She’s bossy. I look down at the pen, rolling it between my fingers. I run my thumb across the embossed words printed down the side of it.

WYNWOOD-NASH FINANCIAL GROUP.

“See if your handwriting matches,” she says. She flips the page over to the blank side and pushes it toward me. I catch her eyes, fall into them a little. But then I’m angry.

I hate that she thinks of this stuff first. I hold the pen in my right hand. It doesn’t feel comfortable. I switch the pen to my left hand and it fits better. I’m a leftie.

I write the words from memory, and after she gets a good look at my handwriting, I flip the page