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He captures another screenshot and shoots it off.
“What was her name?” he asks himself. “Kate, Kerry, Katherine…”
“Kimberly,” I say, suddenly struck with some inspiration.
“Yes. Kimberly,” he says, snatching the staff list from my hand. “It’s not on here.”
“And you’re surprised they’ve not listed them with their real names?” I deadpan.
“Do you have to be such a smartass? Fuck,” he barks, throwing the papers down on his desk. They scatter everywhere, a couple gracefully floating toward the floor.
He opens a new email. “I need her surname. They’re not going to be able to trace a random Kimberly from Harrow Creek. Was she even in our year?”
“I don’t know,” I confess, desperately trying to think back. “I don’t think I fucked her.”
“Have you still got your yearbooks?” he asks, aware that I kept them while he avoided anything that reminded him of our time in education.
“In a box somewhere, yeah.”
“Well, go and fucking find them.”
With a sigh, I push from the chair and make my way upstairs, trying to be as quiet as possible and miss all the creaky steps so I don’t wake sleeping beauty and her prince.
I haven’t thought much about it since we returned, but the second I step into my room and my eyes land on my bed, the image of me sitting on the edge with blood oozing from my wrists slams into me out of nowhere.
I’ve no idea if it’s the thought of diving back into the past with my yearbooks that triggers it, but suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe as the weight of what I did here wraps around my chest.
I almost died.
I almost left Reid behind.
Left Alana.
“Fuck.” I gasp.
The reaction isn’t as bad as it could be. I’ve been taking my meds religiously—as per Alana’s instruction—since Doc brought me back to life so I’ve got a decent amount in my system now. But I still feel the distant, familiar tingle of my fingertips.
Forcing it all inside the lockbox it belongs in, I walk toward my closet and try to brace myself for the possibility of seeing Maya’s resting bitch face. I’d love to say that she was smiling in her photo but that would be a lie.
She tried to convince me to skip photo day that year. But I refused. Those yearbooks were the only photographic evidence I had of my past—of my family. It might have been fucked up, but I wanted something to be able to show my kids one day.
I wanted them to know that I had a past that I cared about. It didn’t matter that my parents didn’t give a shit about me. I gave a shit about myself and my future.
I tried… mostly.
Okay, so I could have done worse.
Shifting things around, I search through the boxes, trying to find my stash of yearbooks from my time at school here in Harrow Creek.
“Ah ha,” I hiss when I finally find the right box.
Pulling the top book out, I find that it’s the one I probably shouldn’t start with.
My hands tremble at the thought of seeing her after so long.
Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath and find some strength.
I could be a pussy and reach for another, but something tells me that this is the one I want.
