Page 74 of You Might Be Bad for Me

“No,” she says and shakes her head, denying it, the puzzle pieces firmly falling into place for her.I asked for it.Her head shakes as I continue my story. She can say those words now like she did back then. It’ll be true this time.

“I wanted the world to see him for the person he was. I wanted them to know she wasn’t lying.” My words get louder as I speak. More frantic, more saddened. “She deserved some kind of justice. I came here and I sought him out on purpose.”

Her cries are all that stop me from telling her more. She covers her mouth with both hands and shakes her head.

I won’t deny it. I won’t pretend things aren’t as they seem.

“I knew what I was doing, Mom. I wanted him to hurt me. Because if he did it to me, he’d be punished. Sam would finally have some sort of justice. It wouldn’t make it right, but she’d have something.” I croak out the last word, the tears slipping down my face to my chin and falling hard on the floor beneath me. Each one feeling heavier than the last.

I walked away six years ago, perfectly fine on the outside. Nothing happened to me. I was saved by circumstance. But what happened to Sam, not only that night but the weeks after, forever changed whatever it is that makes a person a person.

Death changes people.

So does hate.

That’s all I’ve been since Sam died. Hateful.

I know my hate came from fear, it came from regret. It was bred from sadness.

In six years, all I’ve been doing is suffering.Until I met Dean.It hurts. Whatever heaviness was lifted from my shoulders by my confession comes crashing back down tenfold.

“You can’t tell anyone, Allison,” my mother speaks with tears brimming in her eyes. She cups her hands around the sides of my face like a mother does and pleads with me. “They can’t know. Don’t tell them. Don’t give them a reason to blame you.”

“But Dean,” I start, and my voice is tight. The second I say his name, my phone rings.

DEAN

Exhausted isn’t even close to the right word. Terrified doesn’t do it justice either. Both are nothing compared to the concoction that flows through my veins as I sit here. Still, I don’t feel either. All I feel is the pain for my Allie Cat, sitting on the other side of the plexiglass wall.

“You only have ten minutes,” the guard reminds me before stalking off. I don’t turn to look at him. Instead I take in Allison, the darkness under her eyes and the dress that hangs delicately on her slender frame. Her hair’s brushed back and falls around her shoulders. She tried to look good for me. Although her mascara doesn’t stay in place when she wipes under her eyes before desperately reaching for the phone. One on her side, one on mine. There are eight other stations like this. Only two others are being used, though.

I don’t make her wait long before picking up the phone and breathing her name.

“Are you okay?” she asks but her voice is strained, and then she lowers her gaze, closing her eyes tight.Don’t look away. Please.

My hand against the glass brings her attention back to me and she’s quick to put her hand on the other side. As if magically the barrier between us would vanish at her touch.

She swallows thickly and tells me, “I know you’re not. I’m so sorry, Dean. I—”

“I’m all right,” I say, cutting her off and remind her, “I’ve done this before, you know.”

“It isn’t the same.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry,” she cries even though I shush her. She keeps saying it as she unravels in front of me.

Even on the phone, the sound of her swallowing thickly is audible. “Dean, I have to tell you something,” she says and her voice begs for mercy she doesn’t think she deserves.

“Is it about the case?”

“Yes and—”

“Don’t say a word.”

“I have to—”

“No.” My voice is sharp and her eyes strike me with both surprise and pain. As if the single word was venomous too.

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