I stood in the driveway, my heart a frantic bird trapped in my chest. Jace hadn't moved. He was still standing by his car, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the streetlamps. He didn't look like the boy who had walked me to class; he looked like a soldier standing on a landmine.
"Cass," he said, his voice low. "Don't listen to what Zayelle says. She only knows half the story. She saw what happened from a window, she didn't hear the conversations."
"Jace, move," I said, my voice finally finding its strength. I didn't want his explanations. Not yet. I needed to hear it from the girl who lived under my roof.
I pushed past him and ran into the house. My mom was in the kitchen, the smell of roasted chicken filling the air—a normal, domestic smell that felt like a lie. She looked up, star
