Page 38 of This Stays Between Us
Claire’s dark eyes are filled with concern. And I realize she’s the only person who cares about me—reallycares about me. And as pathetic as it sounds, maybe she’s the only person that ever has.
I sigh, preparing myself to finally release the words that have lain stagnant in my chest for years. “I had a…rough childhood, I guess. There was someone who didn’t treat me well. He used to say things to me. Horrible things. He did things as well, things I don’t want to talk about.” I focus my gaze on the drink in front of me, unable to look her in the face as I confess. If I see the compassion in her eyes, I won’t make it through. “So I did something to stop it.”
I hear her inhale sharply. “What did you do?”
The question is quiet, hesitant.
“I—”
“You ladies all set here?” The waitress’s bubbly voice makes me jump. I was so absorbed in my confession, I didn’t even notice her approach our table.
“We’re fine, thank you.”
As Claire answers, I look at her. The innocence, the goodness she wears like a shield. She would never understand. If I told her the truth, she’d never look at me the same again. And how could she? She’d become just like everyone else, all those people who jumped so quickly to judgment, never able to understand. She’d think I’m a monster.
And in that second, I decide.
“So, what did you do?” she asks tentatively once the waitress has left.
“He’d sent me a naked photo. I printed it out and hung it up all over the lockers at our high school.” The lie rushes from my lips.
After a second, she laughs. “Well, it sounds like he deserved it.”
I force myself to laugh as well, propelling air through the tightness in my chest.
“He did.”
17
Claire
Now
I try to scream, but I hear nothing. I can’t tell if it lodged in my throat or if the dull blackness of the mine has swallowed it up.
Fear like nothing I’ve ever experienced courses through me. But beneath that there’s a flicker of understanding. I deserve this. To die the same way Phoebe did, buried alive in this discarded mine.
I can’t ignore this dark logic, but then I think of what Villanueva mentioned the other day: the scratches and nail polish remnants the police had found on the inner door to the mine.
Phoebe didn’t give up without a fight, and I won’t either.
I scramble up the steps with my hands out, the fear eradicating the pain I should feel in every bone of my body from my earlier topple down the stairs.
My breath comes quick, shallow. I imagine the lack of oxygen, the chemicals from decades of disuse that must be lodging in my lungs.Everything feels claustrophobic, the already narrow walls crowding in on me even further.
Until my hands hit something hard, solid. The door.
The metal is heavy beneath my hands, and I brace my body for impact, prepare myself to throw my full force against it.
But the door gives way beneath my palms, and the next thing I know, I’m stumbling outside, my knees dropping into the dirt, chest heaving.
Whoever pushed me down hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind them.
I was only in there for a few seconds, but tears stream down my face as I think of what could have been. How close I’d come to Phoebe’s fate.
I blink hard, the sunlight burning my corneas after the darkness of the mine. And that’s when I see it.
A figure, barely visible over the ridge of the construction area in the direction of the Inn. His back is towards me, that much I can tell, but I squint, trying to make out any defining characteristics.
