by Bella Jewel
I stare at him. I’m not sure if he’s asking me on a date, or if he just feels sorry for me and wants to help. I don’t know. I just don’t know with Ethan. Sometimes he looks at me like he feels a whole lot more than friendship, and other times he just looks like a man wanting to help a friend.
“It’s not a date, Callie,” he murmurs, clearly seeing my confused expression. “Just helping you out.”
Right.
Awkward.
“Yeah, of course. I’d love to come, thanks.”
“Good,” he says, slapping his knees and standing. “Let’s keep going.”
“Ethan, no!” I whine as he gets up and starts running. I force myself to my feet and follow him. Damn him. This sucks.
But I have to admit, having Ethan on my side? It feels nice. It’s nice to know you’re not completely alone in a world you were so sure had given up on you.
We return to my apartment, and I’m doubled over and puffing. I’m so focused on trying not to die on the sidewalk that I don’t notice Ethan has gone completely still beside me. In fact, I don’t even notice that he’s not answering me when I whine or talk or complain about how breathless I am. Narrowing my eyes, I stand upright and stare at him. He’s staring at my car on the sidewalk.
My eyes move to it.
My blood runs cold.
Everything in my body seems to freeze, and my whole world stops, as if time is standing still. I stare at the bright red dripping paint on the silver car Joanne loaned me, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Spray painted along the entire side of the car is ‘Killer.’
Killer.
I want to curl up and die.
I want to scream and run.
I want to do anything but stare at that word right now, a word that feels like it’s ripping into my soul.
My skin prickles, and I whisper, “Ethan.”
My voice is pained, and broken, and scared. Someone knows this is my car. Someone knows I am Celia’s killer. Someone knows I live here. Someone doesn’t like me. Someone is letting me know that I’m not safe. Someone.
Fucking someone.
“It’s okay,” Ethan says, his hand going to my shoulder and squeezing. “I’m sure it’s just a prank. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay.
It’s also not just a prank.
I don’t understand. I don’t get it. How does anyone know I live here? Is it someone seeking revenge? Is it someone just wanting to make me suffer? I don’t understand. Goddammit, I don’t get it. I thought I was free of this, the judgement and the horror, but it turns out I’m not free of anything.
“Someone has been watching me,” I say, my voice low and shaky. “Someone knows that’s the car I’ve been driving. They know I live here, and they know what I did. Ethan, someone is giving me a message.”
“Don’t overthink this. It could be anyone. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. I’ll call the police, and we’ll get some extra security on your house outside of normal locks and screens. Try not to panic. Let’s go inside.”
He practically drags me inside the house, and when we get in, Joanne is just coming out of her room. She worked late last night, so she was sleeping when we left for our run. With ruffled hair and eyes still half closed, she croaks, “Hey, how was your run?”
I just stare at her, wondering how I’m going to tell her that someone knows I live here, and that someone spray painted her car—something that will no doubt be incredibly expensive to fix.
“Is everything okay?” she asks me.
“Someone spray painted your car,” Ethan tells her. “A message meant for Callie.”
Joanne rubs her eyes, and murmurs, “What? What do you mean?”
“Someone knows I’m here,” I tell her, my voice still shaky and low. “They spray painted ‘killer’ on your car, Jo. I’m so sorry. I’ll get it fixed and—”
“Whoa!” Jo cuts me off. “What?”
“We just saw it when we came back from our run. Wasn’t there when we left. Someone must have done it as soon as we left the house,” Ethan tells her. “I’m calling the cops.”
He disappears out of the room with his phone, and I turn to Jo, who is walking over to me. She places her hands on my shoulders and says, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say, exhaling and then inhaling deeply to try and get my calm back. “I don’t know why someone would do that. I don’t even know who would do that. How does someone know I’m here? Has there been someone following me since I left prison? I just don’t understand.”
“It could be a friend of Celia’s,” Jo says. “Or her boyfriend, a family member—someone who is looking for justice for her death. It could be anyone. The best thing we can do is call the police. They’ll sort this out. I’m sure it’s just a threat.”
Maybe it is.
Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, I thought my nightmare was finally over.
Seems like it’s only just beginning.
11
THEN – CALLIE
“Are you okay, Callie?” my father says, staring at me across the table.
He came to visit. How very noble of him. Outside of when I was in the hospital, and through some of the legal proceedings, my father hasn’t been there for me like he should have. He has made a point of avoiding me. I don’t know if it’s him or his new wife, but I know that it’s like the man I once adored has gone, and in his place is a man who is no longer proud of me.
He’s embarrassed to call me his daughter. His new wife doesn’t want me in her precious daughters’ worlds.
I’m the newest monster in their closet.
“No,” I say, my voice low and shaky. “I have two broken fingers.”
I noticed he looked at my hand when he came in, but he didn’t ask what happened; he just acted like he didn’t see it. Like it didn’t matter.
I don’t even know why he’s here. I don’t care.
“What’s going on?” he asks, staring down at my hand. “Did someone hurt you?”
“What do you think, Dad? It’s a detention center. It’s not a walk in the park.”
He exhales. “Callie, I know you’re having a hard time. I wish there was something I could do . . .”
“You could believe me,” I say. “You could have helped. I could have taken that plea deal if you fought Mom, but you were too scared to face her so you let her call the shots. So now, instead of three years, I’m in here for six. Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you have any idea what it’s like?”
He has the common decency to at least look a little guilty. “I tried to talk to your mother; she didn’t want my help. I’m sorry. She still hates me. There was nothing I could do . . .”
I shake my head, horrified. “There is always something you can do. You chose not to have my back. I didn’t do anything intentionally; nobody believed me. Not even you.”
“Callie . . .”
“Don’t bother, Dad. I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t know why you’re bothering to visit, to be honest.”
“Because you’re my daughter,” he argues. “And I love you.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You don’t love me. If you loved me, you would have fought for me. You know what? Don’t bother coming back. I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you.” I stand and turn to the guard. “I’m ready to leave now.”
He nods and asks someone to escort my father out.
“Callie!” my dad cries as they usher him out the door.
I don’t look at him as he leaves. Why should I? I have nothing further to say. He let me down, more than he’ll ever know.
I’m taken back to my room and once the door is closed, I turn and face Madeline, who is sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at me. “How did it go?” she asks.
“My father couldn’t give a crap about me. I don’t know why he came.”
Madeline nods. “Been there, done that. You’ll learn to have your own back soon. You don’t need anyone else.”
She’s right about that. I don’t.
“Have you seen Trisha since the incident?” she continues.
I shake my head. “No. I got a few days break because of my fingers, but I’m going back tonight to help in the kitchen. I can only hope she isn’t anywhere close by.”
“I wish you had listened to me,” Madeline sighs.
“I didn’t tell them about my fingers.”
“No, but it’s too late. You already got her back up, and she isn’t the sort to just back down. She has a thing against you now.”
I nod, sitting on the bed. “So what do I do? I can’t avoid her forever.”
“You keep your head down, and try to stay out of her way. Until she’s bored with you, she’s not going to go anywhere. You can only hope she finds some new meat to play with soon.”
Great. Just perfect.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Chin up. At least you got out of the yardwork.”
At what cost? My fingers—that was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Officer Corel isn’t back until tomorrow, or possibly even the next day. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. My hand is in a bad way, and I’m alone.
I’m fucked. Truly fucked.
I just want to go home.
I’d do anything, anything in the world, to take back what happened.
That’s the worst feeling to have—wanting so desperately to go back and change things, and knowing you can’t.
No matter what you do, no matter how many tears you shed, you can’t change it.
You can’t go back.
“PUT THESE PLATES AWAY,” the chef orders me, and I do as she says, taking the stack of clean plates, balancing as best I can with my casted hand, and put them away.
There is one guard on duty in the kitchen with us today, and there are five of us working in here, helping with the dishes and cleaning up. Of course we’re not allowed anywhere near knives or sharp objects; those are kept over the other side of the room, but we do help with washing, putting away, and filling the food trays when needed.
Nobody gets away with not working around here.
I’m glad, though, because I’d rather be busy than doing nothing at all. Time seems to go a little faster when I’m busy.
“Alana,” someone calls from the other side of the kitchen. “Got another one for you. She’s causin’ problems out here.”
I turn around to see a guard bringing Trisha into the kitchen. My heart sinks, my stomach twists, and my skin prickles. I don’t want her in here. I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d get away from her until Officer Corel came back. Instead, she’s here, her eyes moving straight to me. Alana, the guard on duty, nods and says, “Help put these dishes away.”
No.
No.
I turn to Alana and say, “Can I work with someone else?”
Alana, angry woman that she is, growls and snaps, “Does this look like a fun ride to you? You’ll do whatever the hell I tell you to do.”
“I understand; it’s just that . . .”
“You better watch your mouth, girly, or you’ll find yourself in a lot of trouble.”
I clamp my mouth shut and watch the smile spread across Trisha’s face as she walks over and stops beside me. The evil in her eyes is unnerving. She grabs a stack of plates, and with a slow grin, starts putting them away. Alana glares at me for about five minutes before moving to the other side of the room to help the other girls.
I’m alone with Trisha.
Not entirely alone, but alone enough that she could do something if she wanted to.
“No amount of begging will get you away from me,” Trisha sneers, as she grabs a stack of plates off the counter.
“Please,” I say, my voice frustrated and scared, and a whole lot of different things all at once. “Just leave me alone. You’ve made your point.”
Trisha grins. “Oh, I haven’t even begun to make my point.”
“What is it you want?” I snap. “To have me know that you’re number one around here, that nobody messes with you, that you’re the boss? I get it. You’ve got my attention. I’ll respect your place. Now, leave me the hell alone.”
Trisha’s eyes flash, and she growls, “Little bitches like you are the reason I’m even in here to begin with.”
“So you’ve got a vendetta against girls like me? Because of something I have nothing to do with? Maybe you should look at your attitude as being the reason why you’re in here,” I mutter.
“What did you just say to me, you little white bitch?”
Calling me a white bitch is hilarious, considering she’s a white bitch herself. Trisha thinks everyone in here owes her something, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of her and her bullying.
“I said,” I step closer, “your attitude is the reason you’re in here. Don’t blame girls like me. Girls like you need to attack girls like me so you can make yourself feel better. You’re scum. You’re lower than scum. You just haven’t admitted that to yourself yet.”
I know the moment those words leave my lips that they are the worst thing I could have ever said to her. Her eyes grow cold, and she grins, slowly, and whispers, “You just made a huge mistake, little girl.”
The stack of plates in her hands drops, and the moment they hit the ground, they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces. My eyes widen, and I quickly lean down to start picking them up. Trisha leans down too, but I don’t see the sharp piece she has picked up in her hand. She moves closer as I hear Alana yell, “What the hell?” and Trisha drives the piece of glass into my side.
Pain explodes through my body, and my mouth opens on a silent scream. She pulls the sharp piece out, and then drives it in again. The plate is so sharp, it goes through my clothes with ease.
Alana rounds the corner, and Trisha quickly throws the piece of glass into the mix of hundreds and pushes to her feet, looking to Alana. “I’ve cut my hand. That idiot dropped all of these plates. I need a nurse.”
Alana starts yelling, and other guards come in, but I can’t move. I can’t think. The pain in my side is unbearable. I’m being hauled to my feet before I know it, and no amount of pained protest has anyone listening to me. I’m dragged back to my room with the promise of great punishment for an act like this.
I can hardly hear.
Warm blood is running down my side, and I am in so much agony I feel like I could curl up and die. My already broken hand is nothing on the pain in my body right now.
I’m thrown into my room, and the door is slammed closed. Madeline isn’t in here, and I fall onto the bed, too scared to look, too scared to do anything. Tears burst forth and flow down my cheeks, and my body starts to shake. I clutch my side, praying for the pain to go away, but it doesn’t—it gets so much worse.
I take hold of a spare uniform and press it against the wound, and I let darkness take hold of me, slowly dragging me down until I pass out.
This isn’t how my life was supposed to go.
I can’t live like this anymore.
I just can’t.
12
NOW – CALLIE
“You’ll do fine here. It’s easy, and the people are great,” Andrea tells me.
Andrea is Tanner’s older sister, and the owner of the café I now work at. It’s a great little place in the heart of town, with an incredible menu and a great atmosphere. The few times I’ve come in here before starting, it has always been busy, people everywhere, coffee machine purring constantly. It’s a good job, from what I can see so far, and it’s good pay.
“Thank you for this,” I tell her, mostly thankful that she didn’t ask for a criminal check because her brother recommended me. If she had, I wouldn’t be here. “I really appreciate it and I’ll work hard.”
Andrea smiles. When she smiles, she kind of looks like Tanner. She has the same dark hair, but her eyes are more hazel then brown. She’s tall, she’s lean, and she’s really pretty. “You’re welcome. If you want to take the orders for those three tables today,” s
he points to a few tables, “we’ll work you up from there.”
I nod, and get right to it. I take orders, I clean up without being asked, and I make sure I leave the best impression on Andrea and the people in her café. There are three other girls working today, too—one on the coffee machine, one in the kitchen, and the other on the floor with me. Meals fly in and out all day from the kitchen, and they look incredible. The whole place is fantastic .
My mind constantly goes to the message spray painted on Joanne’s car. We called the police and I gave a statement, but when asked who I thought would do something like that, I didn’t have an answer. I don’t know anything about Celia’s family, or her friends, or anyone else in her life. How can I honestly say who I think would do something like that to me?
I’ve never met anyone on her side.
The officer told me they’d look into it, but without any evidence they can only ask questions, and I was told to simply keep an eye out and let the police know if anything else happened.
They’re not on my side, and why would they be? In this situation, I’m the bad guy, aren’t I? I’m the girl who got into trouble. I’m the girl who went to prison. They have little to no sympathy for me.
I told Joanne I’d pay her back for the car, which she refused, saying insurance would cover it. She didn’t tell Patrick, which I’m super grateful for, because I don’t want him to have another reason to dislike me.
This will be the week I start my journey to clearing my name. At least, clearing some of my name.
I’m not going to start with her family. If they know I’m out of jail, and have any idea where I am or if they had any involvement in the vandalization, I can’t risk making it worse. I need to be subtle about my search. I’ll start with the school she went to. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something. My face wasn’t all over the news after the accident, because I was underage and my mother demanded privacy.
My name might be well known, but my face shouldn’t be.
I’m hoping that’s the case, anyway.
“You’re doing amazing,” Andrea says just after my lunch break. “You’re quick on your feet and efficient. How are you enjoying your first day?”
