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The sky wept that day.
Thick clouds blanketed the world in gray as rain soaked the black umbrellas that dotted the cemetery. The only color in the sea of mourners came from the white lilies clutched in trembling hands — the flowers of mourning, of purity, of final goodbyes.
Maya Lane stood silently, her hands buried deep in the sleeves of her oversized black cardigan. Her long, wavy hair stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks as the wind tossed it wildly, but she didn't flinch. Her body swayed as if she were a fragile leaf barely holding onto its branch. Her soft curves were hidden beneath the shapeless clothes she wore, as if she were trying to disappear.
In the glossy coffin just a few feet in front of her lay her identical twin sister, Mira.
But no one looked at Maya with sympathy.
They whispered.
"It should've been her."
"Why did Mira die and not Maya?"
"She was driving that night, wasn't she?"
And behind the crowd, standing in the rain without an umbrella, his school uniform drenched and clinging to his tall, broad frame, was Elias Cross.
Eyes like frozen obsidian locked onto Maya with nothing but loathing.
He didn't blink.
Didn't cry.
Didn't move — except to tighten his jaw when her eyes finally met his.
The chill that shot down her spine wasn't from the cold.
It was from him.
The boy Mira had secretly loved.
The boy Maya had accidentally killed.
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