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23
Sky
After Dylan leaves,I doze, comfortable enough to allow myself to give in to the exhaustion of the night before and sleep. Maybe Christmas won’t be as bad as I expected. Groaning that I’ve slept in until 11A.M., I pull on my discarded shirt and wander to the kitchen to make toast. Dylan hasn’t called—whatever happened to Jem must be complicated.
The luxury of Dylan’s penthouse contrasts vividly with my flat and I’m pulled back there in my mind. I don’t want to think about my place, or my life there. Pushing the thoughts from my mind, and replacing them with much more satisfying images of last night, I plonk myself on the brown leather sofa with my toast and a mug of tea.
I don’t know why, but picking up the remote and switching on the TV automatically happens when I sit on the sofa with food, as if eating is impossible without flicking TV channels. Dylan’s TV has a lot more channels available than mine, and as I absentmindedly click, an image arrests me.
A breaking news programme scrolls details below about the heiress, Olivia De Steele, and Blue Phoenix’s involvement in her death.
Death.
My mouth dries around the toast as I stare at the words, recalling Dylan’s phone conversation this morning. The details are sketchy but she died in a hotel room and they think Jem was with her at the time. Jem has disappeared — did Dylan go to him? Where is Dylan? Footage of him accompanied to a waiting car carves fear along my spine. The smartly dressed woman with him holds her hand up to indicate the press should back off. This isn’t Tina. I swallow. The police.
Have they arrested Dylan?
How can her death be anything to do with him?
I search the flat for my phone and call Dylan. Straight to voicemail. Several attempts later, I swear and throw the phone on the sofa. I’m lost. What do I do? I don’t have Steve’s number or any clue who to contact.
Numbly, I shower as I debate what to do. If I can’t contact Dylan do I wait for him to contact me, or leave? When I return to the TV, the news channel continues to loop the same images as earlier—Dylan and the police. In vain, I try his phone again. No answer.
Movement at the opposite end of the house alerts me. How old are the news stories—perhaps Dylan returned home? The recent break-in at mine contradicts the possible relief I head along the carpeted hallway toward the front of the apartment and come face to face with a wild-eyed Jem.
Shit. He regards me with equal surprise as he puts a hand on the wall, steadying himself. Dressed in tight black jeans and a loose black T-shirt, he appears the same as every other time I’ve met him, including the fog of alcohol surrounding him, but the cocky retort I expect doesn’t come.
“Why are you here?” I ask him.
He leans against the wall, pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket with trembling fingers, and lights one.
“Dylan looked for you and now I think he’s been arrested,” I say coldly. “You do know about Liv?”
He straightens and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Yeah. And I didn’t ask him to.”
“Why did you leave? You make yourself look guilty.”
Jem’s mouth pulls straight. “I didn’t do anything; I wasn’t there when… it happened. Fuck.”
“They’ll find you,” I say as he pushes past me toward the kitchen area.
The clinking sound of glasses and bottles shouldn’t surprise me.
“Jem, phone the police. Talk to them.” I follow him into the kitchen and hover in the doorway, unsure of his mood.
“Life’s fucking weird, right?” he asks as he knocks back half a glass of brown liquid. “Look what can happen.”
“What happened?”
“Y’know what’s really bad?” he ignores my questions and pours another glass. I fight the desire to say ‘a dead girl’ but because I don’t know what happened, or if he was involved, I choose to stay quiet. “This one. Liv. You know what? I think I loved her and didn’t realise.” Jem snorts softly to himself and his distant eyes step further away. “When I found her I felt something and not fear or guilt. Like something good had died with her.”
I'm unsure what to say or do. Jem is only half in the room with me and his rambling disturbs me, speaking about a dead girl as if all she’s done is split up with him. “I think you need to tell the police what happened, Jem.”
He drags on the cigarette. “I think I need to leave the fucking country!”
“If Liv meant something, like you say, then you’re doing wrong by her. Show the world how you feel.”
Jem laughs, mouth curling. “How I fucking feel? I don’t feel, summer Sky.”
