Page 248 of Disarm
Nothing since.
My heart flips.
There’s an email notification on his lock screen. Subject line: Campus Crisis Resources.
“Caleb,” I call again, louder this time. “Where you at,hermoso?”
I walk down the short hall. The bathroom door is open, light off.Empty.The toothbrushes are where they should be. The cabinet’s ajar.
Peeking my head around the door, I notice our bedroom door is closed. That’s… not unusual.
Why is the door closed?
Caleb doesn’t like closed doors.
An electric buzzing starts in my ears.
I put my hand on the knob and turn.
It stops halfway.
Locked.
We don’t lock it. Not from the inside. Not unless… unless we’re doing very specific things that definitely aren’t happening right now. My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Caleb?” My voice comes out sharp. “Hey. Open the door.”
Nothing.
I knock, hard enough to rattle the cheap wood, my thoughts going from zero to sixty. “Caleb. Open the fucking door or I’m putting my shoulder through it.”
Silence.
Not even the rustle of the sheet or the pissed-off grumble he’d give me if I woke him up.
The buzzing in my ears turns into a roar.
“Okay,” I tell myself, very calmly, like if I use my job voice, the rest will follow. “We’ll check. That’s all. We’re just… checking.” I take two steps back, plant my feet like I’m about to tackle somebody on the field, and slam my shoulder into the door right by the latch.
Pain explodes through my arm, but the frame splinters with a crack. The door bounces, then gives all at once, swinging inward.
For a second, everything slows down, and the room comes into focus.
The blinds are half-open, letting in a smear of dying light. The room smells wrong, sweat and something sharp underneath, like metal. Caleb is on the bed, sideways across it, one arm flung out, the sheet twisted under him.
There’s a dark stain on the duvet near his hand, spreading like a flower.
“Caleb.”
My voice shreds itself on his name as I lunge forward.
He doesn’t move.
Caleb’s lying on his side and his eyes are half-closed, lashes clumped. His skin looks… off. Too pale around the mouth, a weird gray-green tinge under the tan. His lips are parted just enough for a shallow, rattly breath.
His left wrist—oh God.
There’s blood. Enough. A smear on the sheet. A slow, steady ooze from a line across old scars. Next to his hip, a razor blade glints on the duvet like punctuation. On the nightstand, an orange pill bottle lies on its side, cap off, with a few tablets scattered.
