Page 31 of Restitution
Stupid bitch.
She’s at a meeting with some group from the underworld – she pissed off the wrong people and now she’s trying to fix it while Archie stands by her side like a shadow.
StaceyNew: Where?
Sighing, and a little nervous, I call her, holding the phone to my ear and listening to each ring as I make my way to my bedroom. When she doesn’t pick up, I toss my phone on the bed and rake my hand through my hair. It badly needs cut – the black waves are tickling my neck and nearly covering my eyes.
What’s the point?
Sitting on the foot of the bed, I lean on my thighs and wait for her to call back.
I wait. And wait. And wait some more.
I eventually accept she’s not going to call back and decide to grab a shower. The water is too hot, scalding my skin as I step under the spray, instantly drenching my hair.
My forehead stays against the tiles as I close my eyes, trying to rid the image of her through the scope from my mind. The terror. The betrayal. The sound of her scream after I pulled the trigger.
Fuck. I shot at Stacey.
Regardless of the reasons, I shot at her.
It takes me nearly an hour to leave the shower, and I dry my hair with a towel after wrapping another around my slim waist. The weight I’ve lost has me looking like I did when I was eighteen, when I first started working out properly and getting into shape.
I pull open my dresser drawer to get a pair of shorts, pausing when I see the box I shoved in there when I first bought this place years ago. I didn’t want it in the manor, and I barely stayed here, so it seemed best to keep it here.
Settling back on the bed, I place the box down beside me. A shaky hand lifts the lid to reveal the pair of pink booties and a drawing of Stacey, and I quickly slam the lid back down, screwing my eyes shut.
My heart races so fucking fast, and the idiotic part of me opens my eyes as I lift the lid once more, letting it drop to the floor.
I gulp, reaching for one of the ultrasound photos. The first time seeing one of these, Stacey’s first scan, feels like a lifetime ago. The delicate paper between my fingers holds the image of the daughter that was taken from me – murdered.
Something cracks within me then. Something harsh and painful that has me shaking as I run my thumb over the distorted image.
A nearly four-year-old should be cuddling up to me and Stacey in bed right now while we read her a bedtime story. She’d fall asleep on my chest, and I’d carry her to her own bed, only for her to sneak back in when me and her mother are sleeping.
I let go of the picture and the box, launching it across the room, the contents smashing into the wall and cracking the mirror hanging there. I tip the dresser over in a fit of rage and grab thelamp, throwing it, destroying anything I can get my hands on as I blindly lose my shit.
Staring at myself in the cracked mirror, I’m disgusted with who I’ve become. A murderer. A sex slave. A scarred, sick, mentally deranged motherfucker who can’t go a day without drugs.
When I reach for my gun, I don’t stop to think before putting the barrel to my head and pulling the trigger.
Click.
My back hits the wall, and I slide down it until I’m on my ass. I let the gun fall from my hand, and my body goes limp as a tear slips down my cheek.
My heartbeats are all I can hear. They’re strong. Hard. Fast. Proof that I’m somehow alive after my loaded gun failed to fire.
Proof that I’m not ready to die.
I glance down at the material under my hand – the pink princess dress I bought years ago still has the tags on it; it’s still unworn, still fresh. I grasp the fabric in a fist and lift it my chest, hugging it as more tears fall.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the two words broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
How different our lives would be if she’d survived. She would have been so loved by everyone. She’d be spoiled and adored and wild like her mother.
My phone rings from the bed – somehow it survived the rage-induced spiral of destruction my room suffered. I lean forward, not daring to let go of the dress, and grab my phone to see Stacey is calling me back.
I answer but don’t say a word as I shift and lie on the floor, the dress still clasped to my chest.
