After she stabbed him at least a dozen times.
I pause to catch my breath there, running my hand over my face. I know I look like shit by now. I know I don’t look a damn thing like the little Noah Anders Rue befriended all those years ago. Sure, I was already fucked up.
But not like this.
I don’t know if I’m coming or going anymore. My prison therapist says it’s the trauma. My mother says it’s a few screws loose. Personally, I just think this is just what happens when life royally fucks you in the ass over and over.
But what do I know?
I zone out on the dark, murky waters of the lake, trying to picture a time when I didn’t think the whole thing was treacherous. Maybe I found safety in it when Rue and I used to run in the woods, playing make believe.
“You can come here any time you need to,”her father’s voice echoes in my brain as I slip back into the trees.“We don’t have to talk about what happens at home, but I just want you to know we’re here for you.”
And then seven years later, the man made sure every fucking nail was put in my coffin.
Fuck all the Iversons.
As I pick through the trees, heading to the trusty ravine I slept in yesterday, I hear the wail of sirens in the distance.
Uh oh.I stop moving, listening to the scream that used to give me an adrenaline rush. But that was in my misdemeanor days. Now, I’m a whole ass murderer apparently.
The sound of the cops grows, but I’m only able to count one car—not that I can be totally sure. My fingertips brush my full-blown beard, now about five inches long. I need to shave it off. When I busted out, I wasn’t clean shaven. I need a fucking razor.
I could’ve taken one of those off Mrs. Wilson.
I doubt she’s worried about shaving anything these days. I nearly chuckle at that thought and keep moving. I can follow the inner lake trails almost all the way to town, and probably slip into the small little Grab n’ Go without anyone thinking twice about it.
Except I have no cash.
I’ll just have to figure it out when I get there. Then, after a good shave, and I ensure the cops aren’t making a big scene, I’ll find Rue again.
Maybe I’ll get some answers.
And try not to become the murderer everyone thinks I am.
7
Zen Coffee House.
I stare at the sign. I should feel like an absolute piece of scum for getting a coffee from Matthew’s sister’s coffee shop.
But I’m supporting their business?It seems like a good enough reason, and there is literally nowhere else in Moccasin Cove to get the kind of caffeine I need. I push the door of my Pathfinder open, and slide out, my converse hitting the asphalt of Main Street.
My stomach lurches at the familiarity of the small, quaint town. It’s the kind of place that lives for Friday night lights and small-town festivals. It’s the typical setting of a true crime documentary that begins with, ‘Nothing ever happens here.’
I push the thought away. I don’t watch those documentaries anymore, and I damn sure stay away fromanythingthat covers Matthew’s case. Even though my father’s in the grave, I still follow his advice.
Don’t go digging, Rue. You’ll dig your own grave.
“Nope, I just dug yours instead,” I mumble under my breath, letting out a long sigh. I slam the driver’s side door andignore the way a couple of older ladies stop mid conversation underneath the patio outside of the café.
Fuck ‘em and what they think.
I step up onto the sidewalk, my fists shoved in my front pockets. I grab the door handle,tug it open, and am met with the deep, comforting scent of lattes. As soon as I enter, I force my eyes up, bracing for the worst.
But I don’t recognize the young woman behind the counter.
“Hi!” She flips her blonde hair and gives me a lip gloss coated smile. “How’s your morning going?”
