Page 80 of Noctis

“What sort of advice?”

“Relationship advice. I’d started seeing someone new and wanted to know if I was the asshole without going on Reddit.”

“What was her verdict?”

Donald gave a little laugh. “Much as it stung, she concluded I was. One thing you could always trust Isla to be was honest.”

I lifted my head and looked him straight in the eye. “Did you kill her?”

“No.” No hesitation. No flicker of guilt. Nothing but a look of soft remembrance. “We were friends. I would never have harmed a single hair on her head. I miss her. Probably nowhere near as much as you do, but I miss her all the same.”

The rest of the conversation passed in something of a blur. I had a vague recollection of giving Donald my number so he could send the photos and making a half-hearted promise that I wouldn’t do anything as stupid as entering a stranger’s house again, but nothing beyond that. I may or may not have drunk the tea. He might have escorted me to the door, or I might have found my own way there. It was possible that we’d even talked about meeting up at some point.

All I knew as I made my way down the almost deserted street was that there was a hole in my chest that felt like it would never be filled. I was now certain Donald hadn’t killed my mother—a certainty that had nothing to do with the lack of evidence and everything to do with how fondly he’d spoken of her.

I also knew that he was a good man. Most people in his situation would have called the police without a second thought. He hadn’t, simply because of who I was. We might never have met before, but he’d almost acted as though he felt a sense of responsibility toward me. More so than my father, who was usually too busy with charity auctions to pay much attention to his only son.

The upshot of the entire night’s clusterfuck was that I was right back at square one with figuring out what had happened to my mother, and the realization burned like salt in a wound.

I didn’t know where Caligo was—whether he was still at Donald’s house, following me, or waiting for me at home. I couldn’t think clearly enough to weigh the probabilities of each scenario. I needed something to numb the pain for a few hours. I needed to lose myself in chemical oblivion. With that in mind, I flagged down a passing cab and, instead of telling the driver to take me home, instructed him to take me to the nearest nightclub that stayed open until the early hours.

When shots of tequila at the bar weren’t enough, I sought a dealer. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t my usual haunt; you learned to recognize the signs: the constant scanning of the room, the position they took up near the toilets, the stream of conversations that lasted less than a minute and always ended with a handshake as money and goods were exchanged.

Sure enough, it didn’t take long to spot a likely suspect. He smelled of sweat when I leaned in. It didn’t matter. I wanted drugs, not a hookup. “Cocaine,” I requested.

He shook his head. “I’m out.”

“What have you got?”

“I’ve got some brown, but it’ll cost yer.”

Brown. I did a quick tequila-addled calculation and came up with heroin. “I have money, but I don’t inject.”

“You don’t need to. You can snort it.”

Something deep inside me began shaking its head emphatically, telling me to say no. Unfortunately, it paled into insignificance beside the pain I couldn’t make go away. He said something as I exchanged money for drugs, something about the amount. I nodded, but I wasn’t really listening.

The toilets were marginally quieter than the dance floor, the music reduced to a relentless thud that made the cubicle door vibrate against my back. I locked it, then stared down at the packet in my hand.

Heroin.

Even the word should have been enough to stop me. It belonged to cautionary tales and hollow-eyed strangers in filthy stairwells, not to me in an overpriced nightclub with tequila still burning in my stomach.

The sensible thing would be to upend the packet into the toilet and flush it away. I closed my eyes, hoping that doing so would give me the strength to follow through. The only thing I could see, though, was my mother’s smiling face in the photo Donald had shown me. Any remaining hesitation crumbled.

I tipped some of the powder onto the back of my hand. How much had the dealer said? Not all of it; I knew that much. I snorted what looked reasonable, flinching at the bitter sting as it hit the back of my throat.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. I shoved the rest of the packet into my pocket, wiped beneath my nose, and left the cubicle. There was no avoiding my reflection at the sink as I washed my hands: glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, and misery written across my face in letters tall enough for anyone to read. I turned away before I had to look too closely.

The dance floor swallowed me whole when I left the toilets. Bodies pressed in from every direction, slick with heat and sweat. Lights flashed, breaking everyone around me into a series of disconnected images—raised arms, open mouths, hands sliding over skin. I pushed into the middle and let the bass take over. I danced with anyone who approached me, but not for long enough that they got any ideas. I didn’t want sex. At least I didn’t think I did.

At first, I wondered whether the heroin was doing anything at all. Then warmth unfurled beneath my ribs. It spread slowly through me, softening every hard edge it touched and doing a far better job than the alcohol ever could.

The music receded, no longer battering at my skull but wrapping itself around me. Even the crowd became comforting, hundreds of bodies holding me upright without knowing it. The knot inside my chest loosened for the first time in weeks.

There. That was what I needed. Not happiness. I wasn’t stupid enough to expect that.

Just nothing.