Chapter 2

Jerome moved first, snatching the old length of knotted rope out of the bundle.

The rope was worn, its fibers fraying loose, and the inner core was stained a deep, unwashable red.

Three years ago, when Jerome, Zenobia, and I had gone climbing in the Alps, we'd been caught in an avalanche and swept down the ridge.

When I came to, Zenobia's legs were ruined.

Everyone said I'd cut the lifeline to save myself—that was how she'd ended up crippled.

Zenobia spoke, her voice trembling.

"Leona, why do you still have this?"

Someone nearby let out a cold laugh.

"What did I tell you? Only the guilty hold on to the evidence!"

A few others chimed in.

I ignored the jeering, my eyes locked on the rope.

Back then, I'd been unconscious. It was Duncan who'd gone to the rescue station and collected everything that belonged to me.

Everyone had been so eager to brand me guilty—everyone except Duncan.

He'd kept this knotted length of rope all that time, saying he hoped that one day it would clear my name.

"Give it back to me. That belongs to Duncan."

Jerome's fingers paused for a heartbeat over the dark red staining the rope. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly—then he sneered again.

"Don't keep using your brother as an excuse to lie. This is evidence. There's no way I'm handing it over to you."

My eyes burned. "Didn't you say you'd already gotten to the bottom of this three years ago?"

He shot me a glance.

"Just because the matter's settled doesn't mean you have the right to touch it."

I lunged for it.

Jerome hadn't expected it. He stepped back and caught my cracked, frozen wrist in a reverse grip, the pressure light.

"Stop it. The wound will split."

"That was left to me by my brother."

Jerome let go and tucked the knotted rope into the inner pocket of his coat.

"It was left to make you face what you did, not so you could keep weaseling out of it."

My hand fell to my side, the joints too stiff to bend.

During the avalanche, a secondary rope had wound around Zenobia's left leg, and the bleeding wouldn't stop.

What I'd cut was that secondary rope.

But when she woke up, she'd cried and said it was my fault.

All Jerome had said was, "Zenobia would never lie about her own legs."

Then he turned and walked over to her.

The wind sent ash from the bonfire drifting onto my arm.

I went back to the bundle, crouched down, and started looking through my brother's belongings.

A few worn pieces of clothing. A pair of sneakers with the soles worn smooth. A notebook with the words "Account Book" written across the cover.

And a photograph.

Duncan, standing in front of a blood donation van, giving a thumbs-up to the camera, grinning wide enough to flash his canines.

He was thin to the point of being gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his chin sharp enough to hurt to look at—but the smile was the same as ever.

I pressed the photo to my chest, my nails biting deep into my palm.

Don't cry.

My tears would only become their next punchline.

I bound the bundle back up, gathered it against my chest, and stood.

"Leona."

Zenobia called after me.

She glanced down at her own legs, then suddenly smiled.

"Leona, do you know what I've hated most these past three years?"

She lifted her head to look at me. There was no fragility in her eyes now—only a satisfaction she couldn't quite hide.

"What I hated most was that you crippled me, and yet you still get to walk on those legs of yours, all the way over to Jerome."

She lifted her chin, gesturing at the slush-soaked ground beneath her feet.

"So today—you're going to kneel. Get down on the ground at my feet."

"You owe me a pair of legs from three years ago. You're going to pay it back with your dignity."

The bonfire lit up her innocent face.

Jerome stood right behind her, and said nothing in protest.