Page 62 of Circle of Strangers
She answers on the first ring. “Camille, hey—”
“Listen,” I cut her off, keeping my voice steady but firm. “You are theworstkind of person. I want nothing to do with you from here on out.”
She’s quiet on the other end, the silence stretching thick and heavy between us.
“Where is this coming from?” Her voice is laced with confusion, but whether or not it’s genuine is impossible to tell. “Camille, I don’t understand ... did you talk to Mara? What did she say?”
The fact that she instantly blames Mara tells me everything I need to know.
“I’m done with you,” I reiterate, my voice low. “Don’t come near me or my family again. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t watch me. Don’t so much as breathe in our direction. If you do, I’ll make damn sure you wish you didn’t.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, like she’s about to respond, but I don’t give her the chance. I end the call and immediately type out a follow-up text.
Me:So we’re clear and so this is in writing: don’t come near me or my family again. Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t so much as breathe in our direction. You’re dead to us.
I hit send on my cruel but necessary text and stare at the screen, waiting for those three dots to appear again, certain she’ll protest.
But she doesn’t.
Satisfaction marinates in my bones.
I’ll throw her away like the trash she is, and I won’t think about her again.
She’s a pest, a nuisance, and once starved of the attention she so desperately seeks, and like all pests, she’ll buzz off if she wants to survive.
48
I pull into the garage after school pickup, the steady drone of my engine cutting out as I press the start/stop button. The kids are in the back seat, bickering about which cartoon we’ll put on when we get inside, but I’m too exhausted to care. It’s Will’s late night, too. He’s been at school all day and he’ll be teaching a night class. I’ll be lucky if he rolls in before 10:00 PM.
My head is buzzing, a constant low thrum of stress that hasn’t left me since my most recent conversation with Sozi.
That’s when I see it.
Something dark in the corner of the garage, in the third stall, the one we use for bicycles and wagons and the various yard toys we’ve accumulated over the years.
I squint, attempting to make out the shape, but it’s just out of the light’s reach. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong here. It wasn’t here when I left a couple of hours ago.
“Come on, guys,” I say, forcing my voice to stay light. “Let’s get inside.”
Jackson and Georgie scramble out of the car, still squabbling, oblivious to the weight settling over me and the cool sweat collecting over my brow. I usher them inside as quickly as possible, locking the door behind us with an almost frantic twist of my wrist.
“How about some Disney Channel and chocolate chip cookies?” I offer a cheerful distraction. I rarely give them cookies as an after-school snack, but neither of them dare question it.
The two of them perk up almost instantly, their earlier argument forgotten, and I set them up in front of the TV with a bowl of Chips Ahoy! I hid for myself in the back of the pantry a few weeks ago. Within seconds, the bright colors of the cartoon flicker across their faces, and their little eyes are glued to the screen.
I linger long enough to ensure they’re captivated by the TV before slipping back through the door into the garage. The cold cement floor sends a chill up my legs as I flip on the overhead light. The bulb hums to life, casting harsh, artificial light across everything.
Approaching the corner with slow, careful movements, my heart hammers in my throat.
And then I see her.
Sozi.
Her lifeless body lies crumpled against the floor near the corner, her dark hair slicked with blood, her bronzed face an abnormal shade of pale. Her white top is soaked with crimson and her jeans are stained with uneven patches of blood—there are so many stab wounds I can’t begin to count them. Beside her rests a butcher knife, the blade stained with dried smears of black-red gore.
A metallic scent fills my nostrils, sharp and nauseating.
Frozen, I study the mess of Sozi’s remains, waiting for some kind of reaction to wash over me.
