by Callie Rose
“None of your fucking business,” I shoot back, putting one foot in front of the other and keeping my gaze fixed ahead.
Part of me wants to sprint back to the house, but I’d never outrun him, and I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.
“Get in the car. I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
I ignore that completely, wrapping my arms more tightly around myself in a protective gesture. I’ve known Lincoln Black for less than three months, but so much happened between us in that time that I fooled myself into thinking I knew him better than I did.
But I don’t.
I’m not sure I know him at all.
And I’m smart enough not to get into a car with a stranger.
I keep walking, shoulders hunched against the cold and the ache in my heart, ignoring the BMW that creeps along beside me. It isn’t the first time Lincoln has tried to talk to me since my mom’s arrest on Saturday, but I don’t want to hear what he has to say.
Ever since I met him, he’s been controlling and domineering—the kind of guy who insists on getting what he wants when he wants it. There was a time when I actually found those qualities somewhat attractive, but right now, they just make me want to slash all four of his tires.
He asked me to trust him. Demanded I trust him, really.
And I did.
I don’t plan on making that mistake again.
“Low.”
His voice floats out of the car window as we near the gated drive that leads to his house. I hate that he knows my nickname, hate that it still sounds so fucking good in his smooth tone.
I don’t answer. I shiver a little as I wait for him to open the gate so he can drive through, which will allow me to slip through too. But instead, he yanks up the parking brake and leaves the car idling as he shoves open the driver’s side door.
He’s already crossing in front of the car when I realize what he’s doing. He cuts me off as I start to dart forward, planting his larger body in front of my smaller one. Amber eyes blaze with concern and anger as our gazes lock for a half-second, and it’s the anger in him that draws out my own.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Lincoln,” I mutter under my breath as I stare past him, working so hard not to scream that my words are barely audible.
“No. Jesus, Low. You shouldn’t be going to the prison on a fucking bus. You should at least—”
“I swear to God, if you tell me not to go visit my mom, I’ll kick you in the balls so hard you’ll be a soprano for the rest of your life.”
He narrows his eyes at that, then shakes his head, dark hair glinting in the sunlight. “I wouldn’t tell you to do that. I know you’re upset. This isn’t what I wanted.”
His tone is sincere, and it cracks my heart.
It might not be what he wanted, but he didn’t do shit to try to stop it. And he was the one who deleted the tiny scraps of evidence we might’ve used to prove my mom’s innocence.
My emotions have always been so all over the place as far as Lincoln Black is concerned that I don’t trust myself around him. I don’t trust myself not to get sucked in by honeyed words and empty promises. I let it happen once before, and everything in my life came crumbling down as a result.
All I can do now is stop listening to the empty words he speaks and judge him solely by his actions.
And his actions have spoken plenty loud.
“It doesn’t matter, Linc.” I step around him, gathering up the pieces of my heart like shards of glass. “It’s not what I wanted either, and it sure as hell isn’t what my mom wanted, but here we all are, aren’t we?”
“Fucking hell. Wait!”
He doesn’t let me get more than two steps before he’s in front of me again, grabbing my arms to stop me this time.
Even through the sleeves of my jacket and light blue sweater, I can feel the heat of his palms, the strength of his grip, and I freeze, trying to control my body’s reaction to his touch. My traitorous brain wants to convince me this is comforting, but it’s not.
It can’t be.
“No.” I keep my voice firm and low, staring at his broad chest because I can’t stand to look into his eyes. “There’s nothing I want to say to you, Lincoln. And nothing I want to hear. We both know the only reason I’m still living here is because I’m too fucking broke to go anywhere else. I owe your dad for that, but I don’t owe you shit. And if you don’t leave me alone, I will find someplace else to go, whether I can afford it or not.”
I can’t see his expression because I won’t let myself look, but his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. His hands release my arms, hovering in the space between us for a moment with fingers splayed.
“Okay, Low. Okay.” His voice is quiet, something like defeat echoing in the heavy words. “You win. Just… don’t go.”
There’s something that sounds like pain in his voice too, and I have to battle against the stupid part of myself that wants to step into the comfort of his embrace, to let him whisper pretty lies and empty promises just so I can feel less terrified and hopeless for a while.
But I don’t say anything, and although his hands stay suspended in the space between us, I don’t touch him again. I just keep my arms folded and wait, and after a long moment of silence, he gets back in his car and triggers the mechanism on the gate, making the heavy black metal swing inward.
He rolls up the curving driveway, and I follow after him, my steps deliberately slow to give him time to pull into one of the garages before I reach the house.
The Black family mansion is huge, two stories tall with a massive basement, a motor court, an actual ballroom, and an attached pool house in the back. It’s so different from the squat, ugly house mom and I lived in back in Bayard that there’s really no comparison. It doesn’t even feel like a house sometimes—more like a museum of opulence.
But it was starting to feel a little like a home, before all of this happened. My mom had a small, self-contained apartment on the northwest end of the second floor, and I was given a spare room around the corner from her—one so big and well-furnished that I was sure it hadn’t originally been intended for staff.
That little corner of the sweeping mansion was ours, and although the rest of the place might be big and cold and filled with some seriously weird vibes from the house’s other occupants, our out-of-the-way nook felt cozy.
But without my mom here, it just feels empty.
By the time I reach the mansion, there’s no sign of Lincoln or his car. I walk around to the service entrance, anxious to avoid running into anyone else before I can slip into my room and lock the door.
I don’t quite know how to exist in this space anymore. I tried to do some cleaning on Monday, since Mom wasn’t here to do any of it and I was crawling out of my skin with worry anyway. But Mr. Black found me dusting in the great room and told me to stop, saying he didn’t feel right having me work with everything that was going on.
Which I appreciate, except—I don’t know what to do. My mom and I were brought to live here so she could be their housekeeper and I could be her assistant. And since neither of those things are true anymore, I don’t quite know what I’m doing here.
It makes me wonder how long it’ll take before the other shoe drops.
Mr. Black was quick to step up and offer to let me stay with them, but my mom is facing murder charges, for fuck’s sake. That’s not something that’s gonna get resolved in a week or two. Her lawyer said she probably won’t even go to trial for several months.
Are Samuel and Audrey Black really going to let me stay here rent-free all that time?
In my limited experience with rich people, they get overexcited about their pet causes sometimes and make big, sweeping gestures because they like being the hero. But their attention spans aren’t great, and once the thrill of playing savior wears off, they move on to the next thing.
How long will it be before Mr. Black gets tired of supporting his maid’s teenage daughter? Especially as word spreads among
his circle of friends about exactly why Mom was arrested.
He’s been weirdly invested in this whole thing—standing up for my mom to Detective Dunagan, helping her find a lawyer, offering me a place to stay. Maybe it’s because the detective made the arrest at Samuel’s house, at his cocktail party. Maybe in some weird way, he’s standing up for his honor and reputation as well as my mom’s.
Whatever the fuck his reasons are though… I appreciate the help, but I know better than to rely on it.
I slip inside the service entrance and walk up to the second floor. When I step through the door in the northwest corner of the house where the hallways that lead to my room and to my mom’s apartment intersect, I see Lincoln leaning against the wall just past my bedroom door.
His arms are crossed, and his too-handsome face is set in a grim mask, his amber eyes bright in the dim light.
For fuck’s sake.
My muscles clench involuntarily as I brace for another confrontation, but he just nods once and presses away from the wall, retreating down the corridor before turning a corner toward his room.
What the hell was that about?
Does he think I’m going to make a run for it? Was he just waiting to make sure I actually came inside the house instead of running for the hills?
I know he’s been watching me—at least, when he’s not at school—but he’s usually more subtle about it than this.
His spicy coriander scent still seems to linger on my clothes, and as I slip inside the bedroom, my skin still tingles from the heat of his hands on my arms.
I’ll have to shower before bed tonight. I don’t want his addicting aroma clinging to me, reminding me of something I thought I had.
Something that was never real.
3
The water cascading over my skin is hot, almost painfully so, and I scrub hard with my loofah, massaging the pomegranate body wash into my skin as if I can erase Lincoln and replace him with a gentle fruity scent.
My skin is pink by the time I turn the handle and step out of the shower, but I feel refreshed. Honestly, it wasn’t just Lincoln’s touch I was trying to scrub away, but the stale air of the prison too, the feeling of failure that clings to me all the time now.
I tug on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a tank top, even though it’s not even five o’clock yet. The Black family will have dinner downstairs—served by Gwen, who cooks pretty much all the meals around here—but I don’t plan on leaving this corner of the house for the rest of the evening.
There’s still food in Mom’s little kitchen, so I’ll go over there to grab a bite later. I don’t like spending more time in her apartment than I have to though, because it just reminds me all over again that she’s gone—that she was dragged away unexpectedly.
The police searched her place the same night they arrested her, tearing through her apartment and dumping clothes, books, and couch cushions on the floor while I watched from the doorway, clinging to the frame to stay upright.
Once they finally left, I put everything back as close to the way it was as possible, but it still doesn’t feel right. There’s something off, like a puzzle that’s been put together out of order.
I hate it.
Before I can grab my book and settle on the bed, the doorbell chimes.
My heart slams in my chest, and I move closer to the bedroom door as if drawn by a magnetic force. I don’t know who it is, but the Black family doesn’t get a lot of unexpected visitors. If someone’s at the house now, there’s a good chance it has to do with my mom.
I slip into the hall, padding on bare feet toward the second level balcony that overlooks the grand foyer on three sides. I reach it just as Samuel Black opens the door, and I watch him greet Detective Dunagan with cool civility.
“Detective. What can I do for you this evening?”
He doesn’t open the door wider, and I notice he also doesn’t invite the man in.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Black,” Dunagan says curtly. “I just have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
Lincoln’s dad shakes his head, irritation clear in his posture even from where I’m standing. “I already answered your questions. I’ve gone along with this sham of an arrest and allowed you to execute your search warrants on my property. I don’t really—”
“Just a few questions, sir. It won’t take much time at all, I promise you.”
“It’s not my time I’m worried about,” the dark-haired man growls, but he sighs and ushers the detective down the stairs of the front stoop, stepping out after him.
Before they go, Dunagan’s gaze flashes upward, landing unerringly on me. I’m so startled that I move back quickly, bumping into the wall and almost taking down a painting that’s hung right behind me.
The detective’s eyes narrow, and he gives me an assessing look that seems tinged with something else too. Pity?
Fuck. I don’t want his sympathy. Especially because it probably means he knows something I don’t.
I don’t know what the police were looking for when they searched Mom’s apartment or her car, but whatever they found in the car was considered important enough to seize the vehicle as evidence. I don’t understand how that’s possible though. If she’s innocent, why is it taking so long to prove that? Why does the detective keep sniffing around her life like a bloodhound on the scent? Like he’s certain that if he keeps poking at things, the ugly truth will pop up like the dead rising from the grave.
All of this might—might—make me question for a second whether everything I thought I knew about my mom was a lie, if I hadn’t seen with my own two eyes the man who did this. And it was a man, I’m sure of that. Even in a black ski mask and dark clothes, the figure was obviously tall and somewhat broad-shouldered. My mom is only slightly taller than me.
The detective’s gaze never leaves me, even as Mr. Black steps outside to join him at the top of the stairs. My mouth opens like I’m about to blurt something out, but before I can say anything, the door closes behind the two men.
I clamp my jaw shut, exhaling sharply through my nostrils. Goddammit. What the hell was I gonna say anyway? I already blabbed everything I know the night he took my mom, and he didn’t believe a word I said.
Who the hell knows what he’s asking Mr. Black? And who the hell knows what Linc’s dad is telling him?
My gut twists around and around itself as I stand with my hands on the balcony railing, staring down at the door.
They arrested my mom based on a “credible tip”, and after searching her car and her apartment, they still haven’t let her go. That means they have something on her—something connecting her to Iris’s murder.
Even though they shouldn’t.
Even though no such thing should exist.
I’m up early on Thursday, and I shower again and throw on a soft green sweater and jeans before grabbing my backpack and heading downstairs.
As far as Lincoln knows, I’m not planning on going to school today, but I still want to minimize my odds of running into him by leaving before he does. And besides, I need to get an earlier start than usual since the bus takes more than twice as long as driving.
My textbooks sit like lead weights in my bag, and I know I’m going to be painfully behind in all my classes. Not only have I not gone to school since last Friday, but I haven’t even done the homework that was due on Monday. And knowing the teachers at Linwood Academy, there’ll be several more assignments that I’ve missed while I was gone too. I’ll have to do some serious begging to get extensions on any of it.
I wonder if any of them have ever heard this excuse before. Not “my dog ate my homework”, but “my mom was arrested on murder charges”.
Tugging out my history book, I try to make the long bus ride productive by reading ahead a little, catching up to where I’m guessing the rest of the class is. I’m a little motion sick when I finally get dropped off on Newfield Avenue and start walking toward campus. Then again, I’ve felt nauseated off an
d on for the past several days, so maybe it’s got nothing to do with reading on the bus.
I join the stream of students walking toward the front doors of the school, trying to take comfort in how normal it all feels. The bus didn’t take quite as long as I thought it would, so I’ve got twenty minutes before first period starts.
Heading toward my locker, I flip my backpack around to dig for a couple of books. But before I can pull them out, a loud shriek cuts over the soft din of conversation in the hallway. My footsteps skid to a halt, and I glance up to see Savannah staring at me from several yards down the corridor. Trent is leaning against a locker near her, and she’s got an entourage of younger cheerleaders around her. They’re all looking at her with wide eyes, awe and fear on their faces. Her focus is solely on me though, and an ugly snarl curves her lips.
“I fucking knew it!”
She forms words instead of an unintelligible screech this time, but her voice is still harsh and high pitched, barely human sounding.
“You think you can show your face around here, Pool Girl? Just go to class like everything’s fine? Like it’s all okay?” Her long red hair is down, and I swear I can see the strands vibrating with her rage.
Ah, fuck.
I’ve been so focused on my mom, and on doing this for her, that I honestly forgot to even consider what other people’s reactions would be to me coming back to Linwood.
And of course Savannah is pissed about it. She never liked me even when Iris was alive—but after the blonde cheerleader died and her on-again, off-again friend decided I had something to do with it, she cranked the knob all the way up to hate.
My stomach still feels like a cement mixer, and my head hurts, and I don’t really want to get into this shit with Savannah before eight a.m. So I shake my head tiredly.
“I’m still enrolled here. That means I can still go to school here. If Mr. Osterhaut wants to do something about my unexcused absences, that’s between me and him. It doesn’t really concern you.”
