The moment we come out of the pantry, I see the damage: flames are licking at the counters, the tables, and the walls. Alex Crowley, Justin’s best friend and Freya’s boyfriend, is trying to stop the spread with what appears to be wet kitchen towels.
Don’t we own a fire extinguisher?I glance to where it’s supposed to be, and the spot is empty. Huh. Whoever decided to make my day friggin’ suck was damn thorough about it.
Outside, Justin sets me on the ground and pulls a pocketknife from his… well, pocket. He not-so-gently spins me around and cuts the ties. Blood instantly rushes to my hands, followed by a painful tingling—I must have been bound for longer than I thought. I bring my hands to my chest and begin rubbing my wrists, chafed red and raw from the tight ties.
“You okay?” Alex asks me, his words slurring a little. Is he close to a PTSD episode? Did the fire trigger something? I meet his gaze. There’s no panic in his eyes. I relax a little. At least he’s alright. Seeing my nod, he turns to Justin, who’s sitting next to me on the asphalt and surveying the side of my head, wet with blood. “I have to go, Jus.”
Justin nods. “Yeah, go. Make sure she’s okay.”
“Who?” Unease settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Freya got attacked by her ex.”
“What?” I whip my head around, which causes another ripple of nausea to rise up my throat—not like the previous time when it was just a slight possibility, but a real close-to-vomiting wave. I choke it down, wincing at the acidic burn. “Is she alright?”
“She will be,” he says confidently, but I know better. He cares about Freya deeply, and not in a ‘want-her-between-the-sheets’ way, which is new for him. He cares for her because she’s his friend. The one woman who somehow managed to draw him, the resident hermit of Little Hope, out of his shell.
It can’t be a coincidence, the attack on me and the one on Freya coinciding. My attack must be connected to Erik, Freya’s abusive ex, too.
That hissed sentence comes to mind:“she’ll know what it feels like to lose everything.”It was him for sure, thinking that I mean a lot to her. I know she means a lot to me.
“Is she hurt?” I whisper.
“No, I don’t think so. Just shaken up.” After a pause, he adds: “The piece of shit is dead.” He squats next to me and begins timidly sifting through the hair covering the cut on my head. “Hold still, I need to check the wound.”
“Oh,” is all I say. I know I shouldn’t feel relief hearing that somebody’s dead, but I still do. For Freya. She’s free now. It’s the first time I truly take a deep breath since I woke up bound and alone inside the pantry.
Despite all the shock I have experienced in the past hour, I’m also going through another one: Justin’s doing something with my head. Physically and mentally.Screwing hard(I wish), I would say. He is…toogentle.Toocaring. Just this morning, he threw me the usual “get the fuck out of the way” when we passed each other on the sidewalk. And now he’s… doing what, exactly?
The sound of sirens knocks me out of my haze. I glance up and see Justin watching me in silence, but I can’t read his face. The ever-permanent scowl he wears whenever he’s around me is present, but there’s no malice in his baby-blue eyes this time. Instead, they’re hooded and filled with concern, a shade darker than usual.
“Justin…” I try to sound soft, not prickly as I usually do when I talk to him… which is, like, five times in the last few years. In fact, today is the most we’ve spoken since… yeah, sincethatnight. His face changes in an instant, as if he’s remembering the same.
“I didn’t forget who you are and what you did,” he spits and takes a step back, his demeanor turning hostile before I can even blink.
The fire truck screeches to a halt next to the diner, and firefighters pour out of it. I turn to look at Justin, but he’s gone. I glance around, but he’s nowhere in sight. A dang Houdini.
“Kayla? What the fuck happened to you?” Mark, one of the firefighters who used to be my neighbor and an occasional savior, drops down next to me. “Rachel, I need some help over here!” He waves to one of the paramedics that just arrived, and a tall lady in uniform rushes to me, carrying a massive canvas bag with that unmistakable medical symbol on the side.
“Kayla,” Mark calls out again, “are you okay?” He touches my face and softly nudges me to turn toward him.
He’s the only person from my past who is still nice to me. When you cross that invisible line from trailer park to the “richer part,” you don’t automatically become one of the “good” ones, and the “old” ones don’t accept you anymore either. That’s how you become a king without a kingdom—and being stuck in that purgatory gets lonelier every day.
So when I face him, I break down.
“Oh, shit,” he mutters as he gathers me in his arms. I let out all the pent-up fear, anger, and disappointment built up over the past few hours—the past fewyears—on his shoulder.
Rachel gives me time to cry it out, but then she tepidly suggests, “Mark, I need to check her vitals. You can resume in a few once I make sure she’s alright.”
Mark rubs my back one more time and steps away. “I’ll be back. Take care of her, Rach,” he instructs, and pulls his firefighter helmet on before rushing into the diner. Now the paramedic has full access to my injuries. She checks my blood pressure and pulse before moving to address my head.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, hon.” She gives my shoulder a supportive pat. “I hope whoever did it will be punished.”
“I think he already was,” I mutter darkly, and she hums her approval as she pulls an oxygen mask over my nose, and I begin coughing.
“Give it a moment,” Rachel assures me, helping adjust the mask. As she promised, the coughing subsides in seconds, and I start to breathe easily. Swallowing substantial gulps of pure oxygen, I watch her cleaning my wrists. “I’ll have to take you to the hospital for overnight observation.”
“No, I’m good.” I vigorously shake my head, thinking of the bills that will inevitably follow a hospital stay. I don’t have health insurance. It’d be cheaper to die.
