Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(72)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

I pick up a few of his drawings, fold them, and tuck them into my pocket. Then I leave his room and peek into the room at the end of the hallway, Tristan’s room. Or at least the room I saw him shooting up in. It looks to be in the same condition as Quinton’s: completely trashed, stuff ruined and thrown all over the place, and a dresser tipped over, the contents of the drawers dumped out.

I turn around, feeling the hope inside me dim a little, feeling my oxygen fading. I need to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air, get my thoughts together—pull myself together, before I have another meltdown like yesterday. So I hurry down the hallway, but slam to a stop when one of the doors on my left swings open and someone steps out.

I jump back, startled, but slightly relax when I realize it’s Delilah. “Shit, you scared me,” I say, pressing my hand over my heart.

She gives me a dirty look, her swollen eyes stained with mascara and her cheek puffy and red like she’s been struck there. Her auburn hair is tangled, she has on an old T-shirt that goes to her mid-thighs, and she’s barefoot and walking around on glass but it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“You should be scared,” she says in a strained voice, her legs wobbling, and she braces her hand on the door.

Shaking my head, I move to leave, not wanting to get into this with her, but she quickly rushes toward me and throws her arms around me, hugging me way too tightly.

“Oh, Nova, this is so bad.” She starts to cry into me and I have no idea what to do or if I want to do anything.

Awkwardly, I pat her back. “What’s bad?” I ask. “Delilah, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she cries, her shoulders heaving with each breath as she grips me. “Everything’s so f**ked up.”

“Why? What happened?” I ask, my muscles stiff under her hold.

She shakes her head and tightens her hold on me, so it feels like I’m suffocating. “We all screwed up.”

Fear courses through my veins. “Who screwed up?”

“Me,” she sniffs. “Tristan…Quinton. Everyone.”

I’m not sure what state of mind she’s in so I choose my words carefully, even though all I want to do is shout at her to tell me what the f**k happened. “Delilah, what happened exactly…where are Quinton and Tristan? Did…did Trace do something to them?”

“Who knows,” she says, still soaking my shirt with her tears as she shrugs. “He could have killed them for all I know…I haven’t seen them since yesterday when everything went to shit…when I…” She glances at her arms and legs, which are covered in bruises. She blinks and then looks at me, her hysteria calming. “Either living out on the streets somewhere or dead in a ditch.” She says it with so little compassion and it infuriates me.

I jerk back. “You’re lying.”

“Believe whatever you want, but I’m not.” She hugs her arms around herself as she collapses to the floor on her knees. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, whether something actually happened or she’s just on something. And as much as I’d love to help her, I need to find Quinton.

I crouch down in front of her. “Delilah, when Quinton left here was he okay?”

She shakes her head. “No, they beat him up.” Then she turns to her side and curls inward, into herself, her tears drying, but her sadness amplifying.

I shut my eyes, counting my inhalations and exhalations, sucking air in and blowing it out of my lungs. What does that mean? That he’s beaten up but still alive. “You don’t know where he went?” I ask, feeling completely hopeless at this moment. Like I’ve drowned and I’m sitting at the bottom of a lake, still breathing, but there’s no way back to the surface.

“No.” She brings her knees to her chest, balling herself up more on the floor that’s stained and covered in sharp pieces of glass, a death trap, yet she doesn’t care. “Just go away. Please. Before Dylan wakes up and takes his anger toward Quinton out on you.”

Part of me wants to press her for more information, but the other part wants to get the hell out of this house and go find Quinton. “You should come with me, Delilah. Get out of this house.”

“Would you please just f**king go!” Delilah shouts. “I’ll be fine.” She mutters the last part like she’s trying to convince herself.

I’m not sure if it’s right—leaving her in that kind of state. Right and wrong. Whom to help? It feels like there’s a really thin line between the two at the moment. When Delilah shuts her eyes, looking like she’s drifting off to sleep, I stand up and head out of the apartment, but my body and mind ache with each step.

Lea’s not there when I walk outside. When I glance down at the car, I can see her sitting inside, staring up at the balcony, where Bernie is shouting over the railing something about Jesus saving everyone. He’s tripping out of his mind and Lea’s probably scared out of hers. I should be, too, but Quinton is consuming my thoughts. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute as I rush toward the stairs, pushing Bernie out of my way when he grabs my arm. He staggers to the side, nearly toppling over the railing, and starts shouting that I’m not going to be saved.

I pick up my pace as I reach the stairs. My thoughts speed up and I start counting my strides as I jog across the parking lot. I’m halfway across it when it hits me. All of it. The fact that I may never see Quinton again—may never know if he’s alive again. That the moment I walk away from this apartment, that’s it. I’ve given up. It’s over and have to accept that I may never see Quinton again. That I’m going to have to feel that sense of loss again. The responsibility of not stopping it.

All I want to do is count and not hear the thoughts. I want them to shut the hell up.

Two large breaths.

Five heartbeats.

Too many rocks on the ground.

One guy in the background, shouting for the world to hear, but he’s saying things and doing things no one wants to hear or see, so everyone ignores them.

One step.

Then another.

Taking me farther away from this place.

Delilah’s lying on the floor, broken and beaten.

Quinton and Tristan could be dead somewhere in a ditch.

Gone.

Two people dead. Two people I knew. That makes four people I’ve lost.

Four. And only one of me.

I make it to the front of my car before I collapse to my knees and tears spill from my eyes as hopelessness drowns me, pushes me down to the ground. I grasp at my throbbing chest as I see the bigger picture open up in front of me: just how many people need saving. And how it’s pretty much impossible, since I can’t even handle one person.