This Is How It Happened Read online

  DEDICATION

  In memory of Dallas

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Paula Stokes

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  THE ST. LOUIS TIMES

  Local YouTube Sensation and Fusion Recording Artist Killed in Car Accident

  BY OLIVIA AHN, May 13, 6:00 a.m.

  Early this morning, at approximately 1:15 a.m., seventeen-year-old Fusion Records recording artist and Ridgehaven Academy senior Dallas Kade was killed in a head-on collision on Highway Z in Wentzville. Kade was a passenger in his own car, which was being driven by his girlfriend, Genevieve Grace, another Ridgehaven Academy senior.

  The two were returning home from a release party for Kade’s debut album, Try This at Home. The first single, “Younity,” a rock/rap anthem featuring Kade’s label-mate Tyrell James, hit airwaves four weeks ago and is already racing up the Billboard charts.

  Kade and Grace were hit by Bradley Freeman, 38, a former St. Charles County paramedic who now works as a cook at the Eight Ball Bar & Grill in New Melle. Freeman resigned from EMS duty two years ago after pleading guilty to a DWI charge. A Wentzville Police Department officer who was one of the first on the scene said he “smelled alcohol” on Freeman, but officials are awaiting the results of blood tests to determine if Freeman was indeed driving under the influence at the time of the accident.

  Kade was pronounced dead upon arrival at Lake St. Louis Medical Center. Grace and Freeman remain in critical condition. More on this story as events unfold.

  Comments 1–10 of 2,401

  Kadet4Ever: This is a joke, right? Some sort of publicity stunt because the album just went on sale? Someone please tell me it’s a joke.

  Lila Ferrier: I think it’s true. They’re running the same article over at MTV and Tyrell James just tweeted condolences to the entire KadetKorps.

  KickassKadet: OMG. I’m dying right now.

  pxs1228: You know who should be dying? The guy who hit him. I hope that drunk SOB never wakes up. Brad Freeman is white trash garbage. Human waste.

  fullgrownkademaniac: No way. He needs to take responsibility for what he did. The Scoop is reporting that a radar detector was found in the wreckage of Freeman’s truck. You don’t have one of those unless you’re a habitual speeder or drunk driver. I hope he wakes up and then goes to jail for the rest of his life. Which is long. And painful.

  pxs1228: Good point. I hope he gets sued for every penny he owns along the way. Can you imagine how much money Dallas Kade might have earned in a lifetime?

  fullgrownkademaniac: #JusticeForDallas

  Kadet4Ever: #Justice4Dallas And don’t forget to #Pray4Genevieve too. Can you imagine how grief-stricken she’s going to be when she wakes up and realizes Dallas is gone forever? I can’t even!

  fullgrownkademaniac: IF she wakes up :(

  pxs1228: Freeman better hope she wakes up, or else that’ll be two people he killed.

  CHAPTER 1

  MAY 18

  When I open my eyes, my first thought is that I’m underwater. Everything is bright and out of focus. My instincts tell me I need to breathe, but I’m afraid that if I try to inhale the water will rush into my throat and I’ll drown. As I push for the surface, I exhale a tiny breath of air and my teeth press hard against something plastic. Reaching my hand up to my mouth, I realize there’s a tube in my throat. I gag violently as I pull on it. Some sort of machine starts beeping.

  “No, no,” a female voice says sharply. A strong hand grips my wrist and moves it away from my face. I blink hard. The whole world is still blurry. I try to ask what’s happening but no words come out.

  “Well, don’t yell at her. I can only imagine how scary it is to wake up on a ventilator,” a male voice says. “Page Derby and see if we can extubate.” Someone places my hand down next to my hip. “Genevieve. You were in an accident,” the male voice continues. “The tube in your throat is helping you breathe. If you pull it out, you could damage your larynx.”

  Ventilator. Extubate. Accident. I’m in the hospital, but that’s as far as I get. The rest of the guy’s words fall through the grates of my brain, lost in a current of blood. What if I have brain damage? I lift my hand again to make sure my skull is still intact, but my fingers get distracted by a bandage wrapped around my head.

  My hand is quickly pinned against the soft mattress and held there. “Don’t mess with your dressing, okay? Try to stay calm.”

  “He’s coming.” The female voice is back. “I brought you a warm blanket.” Something cozy unfolds over my whole body, like slipping into pajamas fresh from the dryer. A soft cloth wipes across my eyes and suddenly I can see again. The forms are a little fuzzy, but I can make out a tall black guy and a shorter redheaded woman, both dressed in navy blue nursing scrubs.

  A man in a white coat strides into the room. “Well, hello, young lady,” he says in a booming voice. “I’m Dr. Derby from Neurosurgery. Let’s see if you’re ready to breathe on your own again.” He shines a tiny flashlight into each of my eyes and then has me squeeze both of his hands. He hands me a whiteboard and a marker. “Can you write your name for me?”

  My whole body aches and the marker feels awkward in my hand, like I’m back in preschool, learning how to write for the first time. And just like my four-year-old self probably did, I curse internally at how long my name is. It takes about three lifetimes, but I finally manage to scrawl out the letters

  G E N E V I E V E G R A C E. At least I dropped one letter when I changed my last name from Larsen to Grace after my parents divorced.

  Next, Dr. Derby asks me where I am, and what day it is. I take to the whiteboard again. When I apparently flub the date, he gives me a follow-up question of what year it is. Thankfully I get that one right.

  The doctor turns to a computer and flicks through a few screens. Then he goes to the big ventilator machine parked next to my bed. The machine chirps in response as he presses a few keys. “I think we can extubate,” he says. “Page Respiratory and put her on q fifteen-minute neuro checks for the first two hours. Call me for anything out of range. Oh, and put her on clear fluids until tomorrow night.”

  The redheaded nurse grabs a phone from the pocket of her scrubs and steps outside the room. The male nurse smiles at me. “Welcome back,” he says. “The respiratory tech will be here soon. Just hang in there.”

  Like I have any other choice. I inhale deeply and the ventilator chirps again.

  A couple of minutes later, an Indi
an girl who doesn’t look much older than me pushes a cart into the room. “I’m Priya from the Respiratory department,” she says. “It’s lovely to see you awake, Miss Grace. I’m going to take that tube out of your throat.” She starts to loosen the tape around my mouth.

  And then I hear another voice, as sharp as a scalpel—my mother’s.

  “What’s going on in here?” Her high heels rat-a-tat-tat across the tile floor like machine-gun fire. Everyone in the room looks like they want to take cover. “Why didn’t you page me that she was awake?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Grace. She literally just woke up,” the male nurse says.

  My mom pushes past him without replying. “Genevieve, honey. I was so worried about you.”

  I try to squeeze out a “Hi, Mom,” which is probably inadequate, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t talk with the tube in my throat.

  My mom glances around the room. “What are you waiting for? Extubate her.”

  Priya bends low with an empty syringe. She does something I can’t see and then slowly pulls the tube out of my throat. For a second, I feel like someone is choking me, but then I gasp in relief. My mother hands me a tissue.

  I wipe some crusty stuff from the corners of my mouth. “Hey,” I manage. One word. Soft. Hoarse.

  “Hey,” my mom says. Her eyes start to water.

  Wow, she must have been seriously frightened. My mom is one of those people who thinks crying is a sign of weakness and that signs of weakness are unacceptable. It’s probably a good combination for a pediatric cardiac surgeon. Less so for a mom, or a wife. It’s a miracle she and my dad stayed married as long as they did.

  As if reading my mind, she says, “Your father is in the waiting area.” She gestures around the room. “A lot of your friends stopped by while you were . . . sleeping.”

  I wrap my arm around one of my bed rails and pull myself to a seated position. The room is full of colorful cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. Like completely full. What the hell? There must be stuff from fifty people here, which would be nice, except I only have two close friends. Maybe it’s all from my mom’s coworkers, or maybe Dallas’s music industry friends sent a ton of crap.

  I furrow my brow as I look past my mom, through the glass door of my room. A nurse in navy blue hurries by, the pocket of her scrubs bulging with syringes and other medical stuff. Behind her, doctors in white coats are clustered around a bank of computers.

  “Where’s Dallas?” I ask. He should be here right now.

  Mom starts talking about the accident, but her words fade out, because suddenly I start to remember what happened.

  CHAPTER 2

  MAY 12

  Dallas stood on the porch wearing ripped jeans and a designer T-shirt, his blond hair artfully arranged in soft spikes. He was clutching a bouquet of coral-colored roses and a plastic soda bottle of bright yellow fluid.

  “Look at you,” I said with a grin. “So smooth. Remember when we were both nerds?” I held open the door for him.

  “You were never a nerd, Genna.” He stepped into the foyer. “Lucky for me you just liked engaging in nerd pastimes.”

  I laughed. We met as freshmen in Premed Club, an after-school activity for kids who want to be doctors. We were still in that club, but finally we were seniors, which made us the automatic cool kids. Not that Dallas needed extra cool points. In the past three years he’d gone from “I started a YouTube channel to teach people how to play their favorite songs on the piano” to “I just released my first album.” Dallas had close to a million Twitter followers. I had seventy-eight.

  My mom materialized in the living room as if summoned by the scent of roses. “How thoughtful of you, Dallas,” she said. “But tonight is your special night. You didn’t need to bring flowers for Genevieve.”

  “Oh, these are for you, Dr. Grace.” He thrust the roses in my mom’s direction. “I appreciate how supportive you’ve been, working around my music schedule and allowing me to pick up occasional shifts in your lab. I’m still planning on declaring premed, so that experience is really important to me.”

  My mom puffed up with pride as she accepted the bouquet, adding another inch to her already imposing five-foot-nine-inch frame. (I’m five foot three—not sure what happened there.) “If anyone can break records in the performing arts and medical fields both, I have no doubt that it’s you,” she said.

  “Hey, what about me?” I said with pretend hurt. I actually have no interest in performing, unless acing my MCATs in a few years counts.

  “Stick with medicine. We can’t all be entertainers,” Mom advised. “I’d better go see if I can find a vase. It’s been a while since a man brought me flowers.” She spun on her heel and headed toward the kitchen.

  “I guess I could’ve brought her a vase too.” Dallas fiddled with the rubber bracelet he always wore. It was black and white, like a set of piano keys wrapping around his wrist.

  “No need. Not counting the one I broke when I was seven, I’m guessing she has about fifty.” There was a point in my parents’ marriage when my dad tried really, really hard.

  “Cool.” Dallas lowered his voice. “By the way, I find you plenty entertaining.”

  I gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Good to know.”

  He handed me the bottle of yellow fluid. “I know you don’t like flowers, so this is for you.”

  I held the container up to eye level and sloshed the liquid back and forth. It resembled an unlabeled bottle of Mountain Dew, or maybe antifreeze. “You brought me a urine sample?” I joked.

  “Yeah . . . no. Tyrell sent me a test batch of his energy drink to hand out to my friends. That’s called Barely Legal, and apparently it’s got enough caffeine and B-vitamins to keep you going for twelve hours straight. You’re still getting up at five to go running every day, right? Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep during your finals.”

  I had to swallow back a yawn at the mere mention of the word “sleep.” “Barely Legal? Someone thought that was a good name? And you actually want me to drink this?” I unscrewed the cover and gave the fizzy liquid a sniff. “Are you sure it’s not a urine sample?”

  “Don’t be a smartass,” Dallas said. “Tyrell thinks that’s going to compete with Red Bull. He and his brother are planning to go into production by midsummer to be able to market to kids by fall finals.”

  “Well. He’s nothing if not confident,” I replied. Tyrell James is featured in two songs on Dallas’s album. I found it weird at first, the way a twenty-eight-year-old rapper from the north side of St. Louis wanted to collaborate with a teenage singer from what people who live in the city have been known to call “the sticks.” But apparently they had the same producer or manager or something—I couldn’t keep track of all the music industry jargon—and their sounds blended really well together. Plus, they both helped extend each other’s fan base.

  “He says ninety-five percent of success is confidence.”

  “What’s the other five percent?” I asked. “Actual talent?”

  “Energy drinks, I think,” Dallas said with a grin. “You ready to go?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I set the sample of Barely Legal on the coffee table and turned to follow Dallas out to his car. Like everything else about him, it was slick, shiny, and new. He swore he wasn’t going to go crazy buying stuff, but it was probably impossible not to splurge a little when he signed his recording contract and suddenly felt rich.

  We buckled up and Dallas backed slowly down the long driveway. He navigated the twisting back roads of my Lake St. Louis neighborhood like he’d been driving the car for years. We wound our way through an area of dense trees and then merged onto Highway 40 and headed for the city.

  Dallas reached over and wrapped one of his hands around mine. “Thanks for coming with.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Dallas knew I felt uncomfortable going to parties with him. I liked his songs but I wasn’t a huge music person in general, so a lot of the industry
conversation was lost on me. Not to mention I’m kind of introverted, so I usually killed time in some quiet corner, texting my best friend, Shannon, or pretending to be responding to urgent emails while everyone else danced and mingled. When I was lucky enough that the parties were at private residences, I sometimes ended up on the floor somewhere playing with a dog or cat, or once a frisky pair of ferrets.

  This particular party was at Tyrell James’s house, which is in the ritzy Central West End neighborhood, between downtown St. Louis and Washington University. Dallas and I had both been accepted to Wash U for the fall. I had no idea how he thought he was going to manage our rigorous premed coursework with his new record label obligations, but my mom was right—if anyone could do it, he could.

  The drive took us a little over an hour. Tyrell’s assistant, Tricia, answered the door and ushered us into the great room, where most of the guests were hanging out. The room was a mix of old architecture and slick modern furnishings, the vaulted ceilings and crown molding blending surprisingly well with the black leather sofas and glass fireplace.

  Tyrell sauntered over and greeted both of us. “What’s up?” he asked.

  Dallas gestured around at the crowd. “Pretty epic scene you’ve got going on here.”

  Tyrell laughed. “This is all you.” He held out his fist.

  As I watched Dallas execute an awkward fist bump, his pale freckled knuckles colliding with Tyrell’s dark skin, I smiled at the idea that two musicians who were so different had created a song loved by so many people. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.

  The two of them made the rounds along a string of strangers who pumped Dallas’s hand and pressed business cards into his palm. Shaking my head at a couple of servers handing out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne, I wandered toward the back of the house, where a set of stairs led down into the basement. I figured Tyrell had probably locked up his surprisingly lovable Rottweiler, Sable, in the laundry room as usual. I glanced back over my shoulder. My boyfriend was smiling his professional entertainer smile and nodding as a silver-haired guy showed him something on an iPhone. I opened the door to the basement with a creak and closed it behind me. Dallas would text me if he needed me.