Free The Space Between by Brenna Yovanoff Page A

mean.”
    “What’s Desmond?”
    “A person, a guy. Desmond Wan. He lived here a long time. Him and Tru are sort of best friends.” She’s talking faster now, like the words are in danger of bursting inside her chest. She has to get them out before they detonate. “Then Dio got into college though—Northwestern—I mean, it’s crazy . They gave him this huge scholarship and everything. So now we don’t really see him except when he comes home to visit his grandma. Tru just goes there a lot. They still, like, party together and—”
    I can only decipher half of what she’s telling me and I hold up a hand to make her stop. “Thank you. Could you tell me where to go?”
    “Can’t you just come back later?”
    “I have to talk to him now, as soon as possible.”
    Alexa is watching me shrewdly, her gaze traveling over my black bag and my boots, studying my face. “Is your brother in a lot of trouble?”
    “I think so.”
    She nods, and now her eyes are shining in the sunlight, clear and glittering. “Boys,” she whispers, looking at the ground. “They’re just so dumb sometimes.” Then she reaches into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulls out a battered cell phone, clattering with plastic charms. “Do you have anything to write with?”
    When I offer her a subway map and a ballpoint pen, she takes them. Pen in hand, she leans forward, copying something out of the cell phone, scribbling against the top of her thigh.
    “Dio’s,” she says, handing the map back to me. A street address is printed in the margin and she’s drawn a sloppy circle around a pair of cross streets. “It’s pretty far. But I guess that’s kind of the point. To be far, I mean, to just . . . get out .”
    She trails off, waving the phone halfheartedly, watching as I study the map. Her expression is complicated and something about the sweetness and the sadness of it makes me think of Petra.
    And I hold out my hand because she shouldn’t be here. She’s so much cleaner than this place. “You could come with me.”
    She looks up at me like she might be considering it, eyes fixed on my face. Then she reaches out and carefully takes my hand.
    “I can’t,” she says. Her touch is light and warm and she digs her fingers into my palm. “It doesn’t work like that.”
    I understand what she means. I might be a long way from Pandemonium, but home is still with me, a pair of eyes that follows along, measuring my progress, waiting to see if I’ll fail. I nod and let Alexa go, even though it feels like the wrong thing to do.
    I turn back in the direction of the train, studying the address on the map, but as I start to walk away, she catches me by the sleeve. “Hey, if you see Tru, tell him—just tell him to be careful.”
    “I will,” I say.
    I’m almost across the street when she calls after me again.
    “Hey,” she yells, standing forlornly on the front steps of the Avalon Apartments. “Hey, I hope you find your brother.”
    I raise a hand to show I’ve heard and that I thank her for her concern.
    That I hope I find him too.

MARCH 7
    3 DAYS 7 HOURS 53 MINUTES
    D io’s kitchen was small but bright, with green formica countertops and brand new linoleum. It was refreshingly far from Cicero and the Avalon apartment complex.
    Truman was at the table. He was drinking Dio’s bad, cheap bourbon, and had been for awhile. His head felt numb and heavy. Most of the party was out in the living room.
    Across from him, Johnny Atwell sang along with the stereo, drumming his hands on the tabletop. “On course to get wrecked, or what?”
    Truman nodded, but he was thinking of the voice from the closet, thinking that he’d settle for feeling like he wasn’t losing his mind. Somewhere behind him, a girl was laughing, a high, taut sound. It made his skin hurt.
    Johnny poured him another shot and Truman drank it, closing his eyes as the familiar heat bloomed in his throat. Everything seemed to be rushing toward him, the whole world