Page 78 of Bound to a Killer
“Yeah, well, neither do you,” I bite out, despising the faint quiver that comes through in my voice.
She winces, a small, subtle movement, but it’s enough to send guilt coursing through me again. We both know whose fault that was.
Licking her lips, she says, “Because you don’t tell me anything.”
Her voice carries a twinge of sadness I can’t bear, so I quickly avert my eyes back to the bathroom door, pressing into it so I can slip inside and avoid the discomfort of the conversation.
I try to rein in my emotion when a cold, thick bucket of fluid splatters across my face. It shocks a garbled scream from my throat as my mouth pops open, filling the inside of my mouth with a foreign substance.
“Oh, my God!” I shout, panicked.
Laughter erupts around me as I frantically wipe at my eyes, trying not to gag in the process. My eyes burn from the intrusion. I can’t see anything.
“What is this?” I gasp between each wipe, but it clings to my skin.
The scent is pungent, invasive, like the cruelty in the laughs echoing around me.
More of it slips into my mouth. The taste is sharp, thick, andplasticky on my tongue, like rusted pennies morphed with a syrupy latex.
“Hey!” Clara shouts over the click of phone cameras and sharp, scattered laughter. “All of you, get the hell out before Principal Allen gets here.”
My lashes clump together, slick with paint—or, at least, that’s what I think it is, based on the scent and consistency.
I feel bodies brush past me, each one snickering as they exit. A metal bucket clunks at my feet before the air falls silent.
I swallow thickly, trying to figure out how to reach one of the sinks to wash this stuff off of me before I go blind.
“Aria, are you okay?” Clara’s voice is closer now, tight with worry. “Hold on, let me help you.”
Her hand presses to my lower back, guiding me toward the sink. I hear her turn the faucet on, grab wads of paper towels, and wet them under the running water. I just stand there, quietly. My throat clenched shut.
She starts on my face, gently wiping. Eventually I push through the tightness in my throat and murmur, “I’m sorry about earlier. I was a bitch to you. I probably deserved this.”
“No. Nobody deserves this,” she says softly, swiping my eyelids with another wet towel.
“I never wanted to start a fight with you.” The stubborn lump in my throat lingers, growing. Her hand moves away from my face.
“Me neither,” she admits. “I don’t know why things snowballed like they did, but I never wanted to fight, either. Go ahead, try opening your eyes now.”
I hesitate, then slowly flutter my eyes open. My vision is still hazy and irritated. Extending an arm into the running stream of water, I rinse out my eyes a couple more times before the burn begins to fade and my vision clears.
Thankfully, I’m not blind, but my face is a mess. Some spots areblotchy and stained. Others still caked with partially dried paint. “I can’t go back out there looking like this.” It’s in my hairline, sweatshirt, and my new leggings. The ivory top will stain for sure.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” she asks, worrying her bottom lip as she peers at me. “If you want to, with me, I mean.”
I can’t help the small stretch of smile that lifts my face as I nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice slightly above a whisper. The lump in my throat sinks into my chest, where it grows wings and flutters. “Let’s get out of here.”
It’s not like my attendance matters much to me anymore. That ship sailed a while ago. Nothing else matters more than this, because having my best friend speak to me again adds the smallest sliver of light into the sea of despair I’ve been drifting in for the past few weeks.
I just don’t know if it’s enough to keep me from sinking.
22
LEDGER
Outside, the dimming sky swallows the treetops, shadows stretching long enough to bury me in plain sight.
I traced the edges of her neighborhood until every street was etched into my mind. Studied her movements—how she always takes the same route home, sometimes stopping at the little café near her school where she works. She should’ve been home by now.
