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“There was a pair of sewing scissors on the desk, the kind that are really sharp on the end. I don’t remember making the decision to grab them, but the next thing I knew I was stabbing him. Over and over again. His screaming was loud enough to wake up the housekeeper.”
“Please tell me that this pedophile asshole got arrested,” Rhonda says.
“My parents came home and wanted to know what happened. But my sister…I think she was in shock or something. She wouldn’t tell them what happened. She wouldn’t tell them anything. By the time the police came, it was just my word against Gary’s. He was the one bleeding all over the carpet, so they took me away.”
Olivia and I never talked about that night again, even after I came back from that first stint in juvie. She seemed as wary of me as my parents did, and things were never the same between us. Part of me wonders if she suppressed the memories from that night. Trauma can do strange things to your mind. I don’t know because I never asked her.
And now I’ll never have the chance.
“Life’s a bitch.” Rhonda tosses a still unopened bag of chips onto my lap.
“Then you die,” I finish, tearing open the bag of chips even though my appetite has fled. “But you can always find another bitch who has it worse.”
“That’s a toast if I ever heard one,” Tiffany says, raising her glass as everyone drinks.
I’m surprised that my confession doesn’t entirely kill the mood and the conversation turns to lighter subjects, like which of the girls not invited in for drinks got caught rifling through someone else’s purse the other day.
These women are both harder and softer than I would have thought they’d be. Their lives are more difficult than mine has ever been. But once they start talking, I feel like I’m back at St. Bart’s, hanging out with Anya and Felicia.
Tiffany offers to walk me back to my room, but I turn her down. If I can’t make it down one dark hallway safely, then I might as well give up right now.
But once the heavy door closes behind me and I’m halfway down the breezeway, a healthy dose of fear sets in. I can hear the sound of cars passing, but the road is obscured from this angle so I’m entirely hidden from view.
My own footsteps echo off the concrete archway as I pass the stairwell. For a second, I think I hear a second set of steps. I pause, but hear only silence.
Wind blows hard, sending gravel skittering along the pavement. Prickles of awareness shoot down my spine.
I suddenly can’t fight the idea that I’m being watched.
It has to be my imagination. There isn’t anybody out here.
But I break out into a jog when I realize I’m still several doors away from my room. My hand fumbles for the keycard in my pocket as I approach, so I can unlock the door as quickly as possible.
I slide the card and a red light flashes on the lock.
“Fuck,” I whisper as my anxiety kicks higher.
I try it one more time and the light flashes red again, like the card has already been deactivated.
Then I realize that I’ve got the card turned the wrong way, so the magnetic strip isn’t on the same side as the card reader. I try it again and the little light turns green.
Finally, the lock clicks and I push open the door with a sigh of relief. At this point, I don’t even care about going to bed hungry. I’m more focused on surviving the night.
My hand fumbles for the light switch as I step into the room because it’s too dark for me to see it. Just before the door latches closed, something pushes it open from the other side. A man-shaped figure, nearly made of shadows in the darkness, comes through the opening.
I scream and a hand covers my mouth as I’m shoved into the room.
* * *
I bite down hard on the hand that covers my mouth, the salty tang of blood bursting on my tongue.
“Jesus, relax!”
His voice is recognizable enough that I stop fighting long enough for him to flip on the light.
Drake glares down at me as he nurses his injured hand. “What the hell was that?”
“I thought you were an axe murderer,” I snap. “Why are you chasing after me in the dark?”
