EPILOGUE
One year later
“Hi, Charlotte,” I say with a small wave as I pass her in the hallway.
She favors me with her dazzling smile and a wink.
“Ahem.” Ashley, my girlfriend for the past four months, pokes me playfully in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
I laugh and take her hand in mine. As I do, I sneak a look at the ragged scar running up the inside of my arm. I still see a therapist every other week. When everyone thinks you tried to commit suicide, you can’t avoid extended professional help. Becky even went for a few sessions. She was the one who found me in the attic that day, bravely overcoming her fears to climb the steps when she heard me cry out for help. The doctors said I lost close to four pints of blood, a Class 3 hemorrhage. If Becky hadn’t shown up when she did, the windo
