Page 14 of Oliver

She goes to close the door and I put up my hand. Her sigh is loaded with disdain, but I power through, as I say, “He asked for my help on a project.”

Shit. That was the lamest lie possible because everyone knows he’s a fucking genius and I mentally wince when she raises a brow and looks me over.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Um, Penny.”

“Hm,” she says. “I’ll let him know you were here.”

With that, she closes the door in my face, and I stare at the wood, practically brushing my nose.

Perhaps the only time I’ve approached this fucked up situation logically, I chose to leave.

Oliver must not be here, and his mother is a frigid bitch. Is this where his chill comes from?

He’s so fucking ice cold except, well…when we’re fucking. What killed the missing humanity?

Is it the man who hides his disgusting proclivities behind the mask of beloved science teacher at Sterling High? Maybe he’s so fucking popular for a different reason altogether, thoughts of which make my skin crawl.

In every other way, Oliver comes from an average middle-class family, but it’s clear from my own discoveries that what other people see is not always reality.

In any case, Oliver and Maeve were both fucked if these are the parents they were gifted as infants.

Truthfully, it makes my own family situation feel not so pathetic. My mom may be crazy, but I know she loves me, almost to death sometimes.

I’m standing beside my car when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Relieved by the distraction, I pull it out and stare at the message from my mom.

Penny, I just spoke to the detective

Great. Now what? I don’t have time for her hysterics. I’m barely holding my shit together as it is.

What did the detective say?

My heart thumps miserably as I wait for her response and leaning against the car, I rub my aching brow.

The dull throb echoes down my skull and when she doesn’t answer quickly enough, I dial her number.

“Pen?” Mom says, and I nod before saying, “Yeah.”

“Pen, I spoke to the detective. He said the lab results are back. He said Dixie died from drugs.”

Her childlike tone sets my teeth on edge, and I shake my head. Sometimes I wish the fuckers would just leave her alone. How much more can she take before she spirals altogether?

Beyond that, her statement makes no sense and I pull the phone from my ear to stare at it. My sister’s head was cut off. She didn’t die from drugs.

“What do you mean?” I ask, wincing when I hear her hum beneath her breath. I should be used to it by now but I’m not sure there’s a threshold for understanding your mother’s bone deep habits, like humming to drown out the voices in her head.

She’s been fighting her demons since forever and Dixie’s death has only made the affliction worse. What happens if she can’t bring herself out of it this time?

“He said Cocaine, Pen. I don’t understand. Did your sister do drugs?”

Cocaine? Jesus, Dixie.

Her shrill tone assaults my ears and I suppress a sigh, turning in a circle. How the hell do I answer that question?

“I don’t know,” I lie, watching a car pull up. Fuck, I’m going to hell. “Are they saying she wasn’t murdered?”

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