Charlie thought she had no more tears left to cry, but Peter proved her wrong. He threw a dozen accusations her way, and she spent an hour explaining herself, spinning white lie on top of white lie until he forgave her. They fell to the pit of her stomach, rotting in her swallowed tears.

Why was Peter so paranoid over the idea of her "cheating"? Why was the sole thought of Jonah being her "ex-boyfriend" enough to make him mad? He knew little of Charlie's past, and with the way he reacted, she needed to keep it that way.

She felt disgusted by her selfishness, clinging to him because she had nothing else. Her devotion had not resulted in another hopeless, one-sided crush. She'd been careful. She'd been reasonable, forcing her eyes not to light up at the sight of him, keeping her distance for weeks so she wouldn't scare him away.

Raquel's words the other day: Talk about possessive.

"Possessive" may have been the only thing Jonah and Peter had in common. What was it with Charlie and her attraction to these jealous, angry guys? Whether at thirteen or eighteen, why did she feel the need to make them her world? The reason to keep on living? Why did she feel so empty her only remedy was to latch onto someone else? To become this obsessive stalker desperate to escape herself?

No one loved her when she showed that part of her to them.

The only person who'd accepted it had strutted into her Gothic Literature class two weeks before, miraculously alive. And she couldn't help it. Now that she'd seen him breathing, she wouldn't have it any other way.

Even now, she wouldn't let him die.

But she knew better. There was no going back to normal. No pretending everything was fine. Jonah's words would play in her head for hours on end. She was strung out on his sarcasm, his bruises, his anger. Overdosing on his taunts, his threats, his pain. They cut through years' worth of emptiness in the worst way, and even though seeing him would now always be a bad omen, hearing his voice, exposing herself to him... it had lifted something in her.

Because fifteen-year-old Charlie in the mental hospital would be so happy. So, so thrilled to know that one day, she'd find out Jonah was alive and would even want to speak to her again. Even if he picked her apart, pointing out her every flaw. Even if he threatened to kill her.

Charlie was one disturbed girl.

And to think Peter talked of marrying her—the sole chance at normality she'd get. And despite her grief over Lilith's murder, she still hoped to be a veterinarian and open a rescue shelter someday. She hoped to live surrounded by kitties, brothers and sisters—the family she never had.

But none of it would mean anything if Jonah killed her first.

She wanted to believe he wouldn't do it. Even with the memory of him going on about his elaborate torture fantasies—like wanting to put a cage with a rat over his aunt's head and make it chew through her eye. He'd seen it in a horror movie and kept playing the clip for Charlie over and over again. "Stop looking at me like that," he'd said when she turned it off. "You know I would not do that to you. Never you."

She wanted to believe he wouldn't do it now. If Jonah wanted a rat to chew through her skull, he could've done it weeks ago.

Maybe it wouldn't have been enough.

Here he was: biding his time, making a spectacle of their lives before he took them both. Because if he wanted to kill her, did it mean he wanted to die, too? Together or never?

Charlie needed information. Where he lived. Who he lived with. The picture of the license plate was a start, and on Saturday night after Peter left, she ran the plate number through every online directory she could find. In came empty result after another until she gave in and paid for a service boasting nation-wide DMV records.

And there it was. The model for the car she'd seen picking up Jonah from school, the owner's name in bold underneath.

Camila dos Santos Cavalcanti.

Camila.... the name didn't ring a bell, but she had the same last names as him. Sister... he did have a sister. She'd stayed in Brazil with their parents, and he said nothing about her except that he also wanted her dead. A mumbled threat under his breath, a hesitation that wasn't there when he talked about anyone else.

The information on the site was scant at best. Camila's name, the license plate number, and a Miami address. Was that where Jonah had been living before? When they arrived in Miami as runaways, Jonah complained about the drab, dirty architecture, the seaweed covering the beaches, the superficial atmosphere. But Charlie liked how she heard Spanish everywhere, the colorful murals and neon signs of Little Havana, and the Cuban restaurant they stopped to eat at. She'd even dared to dream—what if her biological parents were near? 

●     ●     ●

God.

If such a thing existed, Charlie doubted it had the slightest intention of sparing her.

Mothers, fathers, and children surrounded her, piled one-by-one into the pews. When she first met him, Charlie assumed Peter came to church with his dad, but the opposite was true. He and Charlie sat by themselves.

The preacher recited passages from the Bible, his words echoing through the hollow room: "Children, it is the last hour. And who is the liar but the one who denies that Jesus is the Christ? This is the Antichrist—the one who denies the Father and the Son."

Was this she normality she ached for? Church-going college sweethearts, Peter beside her with hands clasped to the divine. Every time she did the same, part of her feared the preacher would zero in on her, a long, bony finger pointed as he declared: liar.

She wished she believed. She wished she understood Peter's faith, now more than ever as she prayed.

Let it be so Jonah didn't mean what he said.

Please, she asked, let us live.

There was no stir in her chest as she did it. No sense of divine assurance—only the bottomless pit her lies had carved inside her.

Praying to Lilith would've had the same effect.

"For false Christs and false prophets will arise, and will show signs and wonders," the preacher continued, "in order to lead astray, if possible, the elect." He flipped through the thin pages. "But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin."

The familiar sense of being watched gnawed at Charlie's back, and she turned to see none other than Evan sitting a few pews away.

Several churchgoers gave him sideways glances—the boy with short, jet black hair and fresh cuts standing out sharply against his ivory arms. He had his legs spread as he scrolled through his phone, earning even more disapproving stares.

Peter turned for only a few seconds before focusing on the sermon again.

Lilith: Looks like both of them made a quick recovery.

"What's he doing here?" Charlie hissed.

Her boyfriend went silent for a long moment before answering, his lips pale from the so-called stomach virus. "Friggin' stalker. Ever since the Jonah deal, he thinks we're friends."

She assumed they only tolerated one another's presence because they were on the same football team, though Evan didn't seem nearly as bothered by Peter as Peter was by him.

"I don't understand why you involved him in the first place," she said.

"No one else would agree. Mateo only did it because he cares about weird stuff like animal rights."

"...but you're not friends with Evan?"

"In middle school. Now? Not in a million years."

"You were friends in middle school? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Nothing matters before I found God." He glanced at Evan again, who was now casually flipping through a Bible, and she noticed his sleeveless BLOWFLY ANGEL LUST shirt, stamped with one of the cartoon zombie designs Raquel had made.

"That band," Peter said, loud enough for Evan to hear. "What kind of name for a band is that?"

"Quincy told me angel lust refers to—"

"I know what it means." He winced. "It's sick. Just sick. And he wanted me to be part of it. Even then, I knew it was satanic."

"Do you think he's satanic?"

"I don't know what the frick he is."

How had her obsession with all things Peter Wright not unveiled this earlier? The wooden seat was hard and uncomfortable beneath her. The preacher's voice clawed at the barren spaces between her ribs. "Let no one in any way deceive you, for it will not come unless the apostasy comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed. The son of destruction, who opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, displaying himself as being God."

"I didn't know you played music," Charlie whispered to Peter.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Not anymore."

He went still. Panic flickered across his face—the same as when he'd seen Lilith's gray, lifeless form. An elderly couple nearby hissed at them to be quiet, and Charlie ducked low in her seat, silent until it came time to leave.

In all her secrets and white lies, it was almost comforting to know she hadn't been the only one with things to hide.

●     ●     ●  

a/n: what kind of secrets is peter hiding? 👀 any wild guesses?