Page 4 of Knight

A burning cold takes over. Just like that morning.

“You need to go. Now,” he coughs through his words, a trail of red flowing to his body. Or from his body. I’m not sure, my body stiffer than a corpse. “Do you hear me? Now, Jo!”

“Jo?”

A shiver bursts through me, my body jumping to attention.

“You wanna be a part of this world? Buck up and pop a Xanax.” Nancy Archibalds’ hushed voice nudges me out of my daze, so does her pointy elbow.

She keeps her shades perched on her straight red nose when she pops open the black clutch in her palm. A little packet of pills sits next to her iPhone, bouncing into each other as she shakes her purse.

Murmurs and mumbles fill my ears again, voices echoing off grey stone walls and high ceilings. Nancy brings me back to reality but contrary to her belief, I don’t want to be a part of it. Don’t want to be a part of this “gathering” either.

“I’m good.” I ignore her suggestion, glancing at Willow to my left, body cold under my jacket.

I’m far from good. I haven’t slept since that morning. As for my appetite? That’s on a permanent vacation. I’m running on fumes, bourbon and pot, and I don’t have to look at my eyes to know they’re dark and sunken.

My little sister scrolls through the feed on her iPhone and I catch a glimpse of the morbid headline. My jaw tenses, my stomach rolling, memories hitting me again. Trying to wipe that morning from my mind is almost as hard as keeping my mind off him. He’s the reason I stayed in this cold town dripping in lies and sin. The reason I’m standing here in the middle of hell. Sure, we’re in a cathedral as lavish as Notre Dame, but it might as well be in Hades.

“Chin up, Jo,” Nancy whispers, annoyance in her voice. “Here come Eric’s investors.”

She reaches in front of me to straighten Willow’s dress. Thank god we’re in black ‘cause I can hurl any minute. Willow’s outfit is as stuffy as mine. Knee-length in expensive fabric, black blazer rolled up to her sleeves. She makes it work but I’ve been dying to get out of this constricting black halter. It’s nowhere as comfortable as my worn-in band tees or my bicycle shorts.

Eric Archibald is just a couple of feet away but his voice sounds distant as he introduces us to two men in black suits. Dale and Bob. Or is it Rob and Dylan? Eric drawls on about a deal or some business bullshit as my gaze wanders around the room. I’m zoning out again, my focus today like yesterday’s. Completely nonexistent.

BANG!

The opening of the large wooden doors makes me jump, my head whipping towards the sound. I let out an exhale, my heartbeat like I’ve run back to The Grove. Not that I haven’t thought about it. A group of women brush droplets off their jackets with black gloves. The rainy weather must have gotten the memo because it matches everyone’s attire. Dark. Black. Gloomy.

“I can’t believe you wore those … things,” Nancy’s whispers as Eric walks away with the two men by his side. “That jacket is bad enough.” She’s referring to my old Doc Martens I paired with my dad’s old leather jacket. “If we’re going to keep our agreement you’re going to have to do better than this—Gwen! Hi!”

She cuts her lecture short, whipping blonde hair over her shoulder as a woman in a black hat reaches for a hug. Like Nancy, she’s in an expensive black dress, dark shades on her face, diamonds hanging from her ear. Even on a day like this, the citizens of Eden show up to show off.

The door swings open again, my head whipping around. A lump forms in my throat when I see who enters next. Two officers shuffle in, shaking off their umbrellas as they gaze around the room. Realizing I’m holding my breath, I let out a long, steady exhale. It’s hard not to fiddle with the gold watch on my wrist as I watch them move into the room. My dad’s watch, another layer of comfort in this frigid place.

Don’t look suspicious.

One is the same officer that showed up at the Archibalds’ after I got arrested. The other I don’t recognize. They’re both in suits. Plain black, white dress shirts. One has a black tie that matches his thick dark stache. The other wears a grey tie, a compliment to his pepper grain pompadour. I can’t tell if they’re here on business or as guests, but when their gaze locks with mine, that lump gets harder to swallow.

They’re making their way over, my hands forming into fists until my nails sink into my palms. Turning to my sister, my back faces them. I’m reaching for a distraction and my shaky voice proves it. “Hey, don’t read too much of that.” I take another breath, pointing my chin towards Willow’s phone. “This day is crazy enough, right?” Giving her a soft nudge with my elbow, she looks up at me with bright brown eyes. They’re round like our dad’s, mine more of an almond shape like Mom.

“I know but …” I can hardly hear her over the crowd growing where we stand. She chews on her lip before she speaks again, leaning in closer, “You’re in a lot of the articles.” My nose wrinkles, knowing what those journalists might have written. “Hey, you have to admit, it’s kinda cool.”

If Willow wasn’t my only hope in getting through this day, I’d bring up the fact that she shouldn’t be shooting for fame in Eden. But I’m happy to have her by my side. She fits into this scene more than I do. Her straightened hair shinier than ever, makeup almost too perfect. She looks beautiful. Not the girl who arrived with a trash bag from The Grove. Mom and Dad would be proud. I know I am.

“Joelle?” A man’s voice comes from behind us, Willow’s eyes moving in his direction.

My eyes grow and Willow’s brows lower before I turn to them. They’re much more intimidating up close. Taller. Wider. The one with the black tie is bulkier than the other, a hand moving through his hair when he looks down at me. His name comes to mind. Branson. The fucking detective.

Either my heart is failing or it’s moving too fast to feel it. Is it too late for Jesus to save me? We’re in a Cathedral after all. Can I seek asylum?

“Really? Now?” Nancy whips her glasses off her face, her thin blonde eyebrows low. When I look at her, those reddened blues move between the two men like sharp daggers. Her watery eyes remind me this day isn’t easy for her either. “Have you all no respect?” Funny coming from her when I can still hear Eric’s business laugh from across the room.

“Mrs. Archibald,” Branson greets, his voice like a sports announcer. “We’re very sorry for your loss but do you mind if we ask your daughter a few questions?”

I cringe at the word “daughter.” Still, that’s the least of my worries since he’s already got a notepad in his hand, eyes landing on me. My body feels like a stack of Legos. Inflexible and ready to topple at any minute.

“Is now an appropriate time?” Nancy’s answer brings relief to my chest, the heaviness inside feeling lighter. “Regardless of what some people here think, I hardly believe a seventeen-year-old is to blame for this.” She waves her hands around in exaggeration.

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