Page 42 of Oliver

There is no such thing as pain, only lying, sniveling little bastards who can’t take what they dish out.

Penny

At home, I’m right back where I started. Who took the picture of Maeve and me outside the house? Is it the same person who left the rabbit's feet?

Why would they care about me unless it has something to do with Dixie?

I haven’t heard from the cops since they informed me of Mr. G’s assertion that Oliver killed Dixie. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re pursuing charges, or they ignored it because it doesn’t have merit. No one is telling me shit.

Hate threatened me via someone else. Bone left without speaking to me. Oren blew me off.

I could go back to Charming Charlie, but I suspect that will get me nowhere. Who is the fucker? Because it’s not Mr. G sitting behind bars and awaiting sentencing.

Before everything blew up, Charming Charlie was helping me or so I thought. It can’t be a coincidence that this person was leading me down this path.

What did they want me to discover?

Rolling over on my bed, I pick up my laptop and go to my saved messages. I started messaging the freak two weeks after Dixie died. Maybe I missed something of significance? It doesn't hurt to look back, that’s for sure.

Sweetie:Hey there

Charming Charlie:Hey yourself, cutie. That your real pic? Anybody tell you that you have gorgeous eyes?

Sweetie:A time or two ;)

Charming Charlie:You wanna play sweetheart?

Sweetie:What do you like to play?

Charming Charlie:I like to play with little girls like you

Sweetie:Oh yeah?

That exchange quickly picked up until I was flirting and pushing the conversation along.

Unfortunately, Charming Charlie is not a charmer because he spent the majority of his time saying and suggesting disgusting shit.

Still, eventually I tossed that all out the window and confessed to investigating Dixie’s death. Charlie then softened and tried to help. Why?

I’ve asked myself that a dozen times and now knowing that the moniker matches a supposedly missing jerk, it’s clear there’s more than a gross ass dick trying to take advantage of an underage girl.

So, who the fuck is he and how do I figure it out?

When I was twelve years old, we went on a school trip to the zoo. Maeve disappeared into the back of the bus with her friends while I took a dreaded seat in the front with Mom. Although she volunteered to chaperone, that morning she woke with a blinding headache.

This spiraled into a tense fight between Mom and Maeve where inevitably Maeve devolved into tears. By that age, I felt the distance between Maeve and me like never before. Her incessant need to talk about her feelings, and there were a lot needled under my skin until I stopped listening altogether.

In any case, Mom wasn’t interested in the waterworks and what should have been a stupid day staring at animals trapped in cages became World War 3. Dad, in his usual lackadaisical manner, ignored the tension in the room and left for work with platitudes about relaxing and having fun.

Mom’s deep sigh brought me around and I asked, “Are you okay?”

Her dark hair covered her face, blocking my view as she clenched her hands in her lap. “It’s fine, Ollie.”

“But—“

“It’s fine,” she barked, and I reared back. While I expected this response for Maeve, I had grown used to the way Mom seemed to defer to me. Arrogant, yes, but true, nonetheless.

Shaking her head, she looked out the window and whispered, “Someday you’ll understand, Ollie.”

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