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The phone is in the spare room that was once mine.
“Elliot!” Mother’s shrill, surprised yell follows me up the stairs. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Barging into my house that way!”
“I’m getting my shit, then I’ll be gone!” I yell back. Jordan’s boots pound on the hardwood stairs behind me, then follow me down the hallway.
“Wow, your mom is a bitch,” she says as I open the bedroom door and stop. It hasn’t been cleaned. There’s broken glass all over the floor, and I am barefoot.
“Oh shit.” Jordan stops short, barely bumping into me. “What are we looking for, and where should it be?”
“My phone should be by the bed.” I point to the side I slept on and the overturned nightstand. She squeezes past me and squats next to the bed to look under it.
“Found it.” She reaches under and pulls out my phone that I’m sure is dead. “Anything else?”
“Is there luggage in the closet?” She pockets the phone and opens the closet door to find it empty. “Fuck!”
I need that necklace and my knife back. It would kill me to lose the camera too.
Jordan comes out of the room as Mom is storming around the corner.
“You have a lot of nerve—” she spits.
“Where’s my bag?” I demand, cutting her off. “I want my stuff.”
“I don’t care what you want. Nothing in here is yours. I paid for all of it, so I’m keeping it.” She folds her arms over her chest and squares her shoulders.
“No, you didn’t!” I yell back. “There were things in that bag that were given to me, and I want them back! Now!”
She steps forward and cracks me across the cheek with her hand. The sound reverberating in the hallway as the sting steals my breath. My skin hot and sensitive when I put a protective hand over the abused flesh.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jordan steps in front of me and shoves Mom back. “Don’t lay a hand on him again, or I’ll show you exactly what kind of person I was raised to be.” Every muscle of Jordan’s body is tense, and Mom withers under her stare.
“Where’s my stuff?” I demand again.
When she doesn’t answer, I go around her toward her room. Glancing around, I don’t see it laying around, so I check her closet. Shoved in a back corner is my suitcase. I pull it out and unzip it, digging through it, but I don’t find the knife or the necklace.
“Elliot Martin!” Mom shrieks. “Get out of my room! Get out of my house!”
She’s coming into the closet now with clenched fists and Jordan right behind her.
Standing up, I face her with my own anger.
“Where’s the necklace?” I demand, finding my keys and shoving them in my pocket.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t even opened that suitcase.”
“There was a pearl necklace in a satin bag. I want it back.”
She looks legitimately confused, and the fear of losing the necklace has me starting to pant. I can’t have lost it. I can’t. I have to find it.
Rushing toward her jewelry, I pull open all the drawers, but can’t find it.
There’s a band around my ribs tightening until I can’t breathe. What little air I can manage comes in gasps between despair and guilt. Jordan wraps her arms around me, and for once, I collapse into her comfort, too weak to resist.
“Get out of my house!” Mother demands again, and I recoil like she hit me. She doesn’t care. She has never cared about anything that didn’t revolve around her.
Jordan moves us to the suitcase and shoves my stuff back inside that spilled out in my frenzied search. Tears are running down my face, and I can barely see through them. Jordan grabs the handle of my bag and wraps an arm around my waist before stopping in front of the woman who gave birth to me.
“You are the worst kind of mother. You pretend to care about your children, but you use them to get sympathy to try to get ahead. To the world, you put on this mask and let everyone think you’re this caring, sweet human when really, you’re a selfish, coldhearted bitch who uses the bodies of people under you to lift yourself higher, sacrificing your children for your own fame.” Jordan shakes her head like she’s disappointed but walks us past her down the hall and toward the front door.
