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I think some people are born with tragedy in their blood. Mixed with the cells, the plasma, and the platelets are deeply hidden secrets they just can’t escape. It’s a part of them, passed down between generations, but it doesn’t define them. It doesn’t mean they’re doomed. Like a smart man once told me, the nastiest fertilizer makes the most beautiful flowers grow.
Haven ran her fingers along the yellowing paper, tracing the handwritten words as she read the paragraph for the second time. She sat in the middle of her couch, legs crossed, with the leather-bound journal on her lap. Kelsey lounged in a chair across the room, her legs kicked over the side, as she flipped through channels, seemingly uninterested in anything on television.
After a moment, the familiar voice of Alex Trebek resounded through the room. “The author of the twentieth-century work The Secret Garden.”
“Frances Hodgson Burnett,” Haven muttered, looking up from the journal at Jeopardy on the screen.
Kelsey glanced at her when she answered, shaking her head as she changed the channel. “You’re such a nerd.”
Haven shrugged. If she meant that as an insult, she didn’t take it as one.
Kelsey flipped through a few more before giving up, turning off the television and tossing the remote down. She grabbed a blue registration folder from the coffee table, eyeing Haven peculiarly as she sat back in the chair. “What are you reading, anyway?”
“Nothing.” Haven closed Maura’s journal. “It’s just a book.”
Kelsey stared at her for a moment, her eyebrow arched. “I gathered that much, Sherlock.”
Haven stood and returned the journal to the bookshelf before grabbing the second registration folder from the table. “Don’t worry about it.”
Rolling her eyes, Kelsey opened her folder and started sorting through the papers. Haven followed her lead, taking out her schedule for the spring semester. School started back up in the morning, giving Haven another fresh start. She hadn’t done too horribly in the fall, failing none of her classes, but some she had just passed by the skin of her teeth.
“So I’ll drop Drawing II and pick up Writing and Literature with you,” Kelsey said, reading over her schedule.
Haven glanced through hers. “I have that at eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Kelsey grimaced. “Ugh, forget about it. How about Survey of World Art?”
“Nine-thirty, same days.”
“Still too early.”
“Sculpture?”
“Gross.”
Haven laughed. “Well, all I have left is Painting II.”
“When’s that?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at noon.”
A smile curved Kelsey’s lips. “Bingo!”
Kelsey scribbled it down on a piece of paper as Haven put her schedule away, placing the registration folder back on the table. She settled back into the couch, crossing her legs once more, when a loud ringing ricocheted through the apartment.
“Phone’s ringing,” Kelsey said, picking a pillow up off the chair and tossing it at Haven. She caught it, tensing as her blood ran cold. Her eyes darted over to the bookcase where the small black cell phone lay, glowing and vibrating as it rang.
Besides Kelsey, there was only one person who had that number.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kelsey asked.
“Uh, yeah.” Haven walked over to the phone, glancing at the caller ID even though it was senseless. Corrado’s name shone brightly on the screen. Her hand shook as she picked it up, but before she could answer it, the ringing stopped.
Thirty seconds, then forty-five, then a minute passed until her phone chimed again, this time with a text message. Haven opened it, reading the simple message:
Call me.
