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“F that. It was Johnny, wasn’t it? I’m going to sue his arse. I’m dragging that dictator into court.”
“It wasn’t him.”
She narrows her eyes, slowly approaching me. “Are you protecting him or something?”
“Why would I do that? Now, come here. I missed you.”
She practically jogs my way, then engulfs me in a hug. It’s the first time Layla has ever initiated a hug and I know not to take it lightly.
“I was so worried about you,” she speaks into my neck. “I was legit planning to stab Johnny in the throat so I could see you.”
I already did that.
My heart falls at the reminder of blood and the cut and everything. Circling my arms around her slender back, I hug her and we remain like that for a while as I fight the tears trying to break loose.
I sniffle, and Layla pulls away. “Hey…what’s wrong?”
“Everything?”
“It’s that piece of S, Johnny, isn’t it? I’m totally kicking him in the nose.”
“Stop it, Lay.”
“What do you mean by stop it? He locked you up!”
“No, I mean, yeah, but it was complicated. I need to ask you about something.”
“There’s nothing complicated about locking someone up. That shit is no bueno, mate. And then the arsehole forbids me from coming here? Yeah, not going to happen. Not in this life.”
“Lay, focus.”
“What?”
“When I first moved in with Jonathan, did I tell you about the packages with no sender I used to receive at my old flat’s address?”
“I think you said something about changing your mailing address because it was annoying to go back and forth.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Did I mention a flash drive and Alicia’s messages? I said I agreed to Jonathan’s deal because I wanted to know the truth behind her death.”
“You did, totally, and I said, don’t do it, but you went on with it anyway. No one listens to Layla.”
“You remember the messages.” My voice is so full of hope, it’s pathetic.
“I have no clue about any messages. You said you hold a grudge against Johnny because you think your sister died because of him.”
“I never mentioned the voice messages I received?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“What voices messages?” she whispers, as if this is a conspiracy theory.
“N-nothing.” I don’t want Lay to also think I’m crazy.
Am I? I’m not, right?
She fixes me with that overdramatic scrutinising look she learnt from detective shows. “What are you hiding from me? Spill.”
