Page 92 of Bound to a Killer
Ruined. Unrepairable.
I can’t hold onto that hope anymore.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says softly, her eyes watering. “I got a call from the police.”
“Did you answer them?” I cut in, panic slipping into my voice. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing, it was just a voicemail,” she confirms.
My lungs expand, relieved. Thank God.
She shifts on her feet, taking a step toward me, but stops when she notices me stiffen. “Aria, I was so worried. They said some really concerning things about you being missing, and you told them you were with me? What was that about?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does. I’m your mother.”
I snap. Everything I’ve shoved down erupts in a boiling surge of disbelief and rage.
“Oh, are you now? Gee, that’s funny, because last I remember, you showed up months ago swearing you had your act together, only to ditch me the very next day.” She flinches at my words, like they hurt her, like she has any right to be hurt by them. “You lost the privilege to be my mom a long time ago.”
I hold out my hand, eyes narrowing into slits as I wait for her to respond.
“Aria—”
“The keys, Mom,” I snap. “My car keys.”
Her chin quivers as she pats her sides. When she finds the keys, she clutches them to her chest, just for a moment, contemplating before she hands them over with a sigh. The sharp clink of cold metal cuts through the silence.
“There’s not enough gas in it,” she says, handing them over. Her eyes are apologetic, almost convincing. But I don’t fall for it. Not this time. I glance away and pocket them.
“Of course there isn’t,” I clip, turning on my heel and walking away without another glance.
I’m not surprised. I’ll fill it up later, maybe after I cash in my next paycheck.
Upstairs, I silence the churn of my thoughts and tug on a pair of stiff new jeans, then a warm amber tee I dig out from the back of my closet, sun-bleached and shriveled from long summers in the yard with my parents. Back when we were still a family, before our home crumbled into a perpetual cemetery of broken dreams and haunted memories of how things were.The hem brushes just above my waistband, giving the shirt a more fitted, accidental kind of trendy appearance.
Before heading out, I pause at my reflection in the dresser mirror, my mouth falling open as I catch sight of myself. The golden tones cast a soft glow across my skin, deepening the luster of unruly waves that, for once, aren’t the usual unsavory kind of frizz I’m used to.
Instead, they fall with an effortless, almost sultry kind of ease, like the girls in commercials who always seem to roll out of bed looking perfect without trying.
I dig through my backpack for my phone, heart thudding harder than it should. No messages from Ledger. Just a blank screen staring back at me. I slide it into the side pouch and head out, the disappointment tightening behind my ribs.
It’s full-on morning now. There’s no way he hasn’t seen it.
Thoughts unravel as I walk. Dark, intrusive ones that keep me questioning and second-guessing every tiny interaction, like how his voice dipped at the end, how distant he suddenly felt, like he’d already made up his mind about something, and I wasn’t privy to what it was.
A simmering heat grows inside of me as I reach the school’s large building, partially from the exertion of the walk and partially from the suggestive nature of the photo I sent.
With the sun blaring down on me, yesterday’s impulsiveness solidifies into humiliation that cuts deeper now that the reckless fog has cleared from my head. I almost wish I could go back and erase it, stop myself from making a fool of myself.
It’s also possible he saw it and just didn’t want to wake me up late at night. Either way, there’s no use driving myself crazy this early. What’s done is done.
I have more urgent things to worry about. Like how I’ll break the news to Clara that I’m bailing on prom last minute. Honestly, I feel sort of relieved. Since I started hanging around Jayce, I haven’t heard a peep about the paint incident. Thewhispers have mostly died down. Probably because of my involvement with him. If anything, that’s the one good thing that’s come out of all of it.
Sometimes I catch girls staring, their expressions twisted into a kind of jealousy that makes me feel sorry for them.
I keep my head low as I shove my bag into my locker, quickly grabbing my textbook and heading to first period, my hands clammy against the cold, glossy cover.
