That bad, huh?
I sigh before texting back.
Worse.
I jump when I see movement out of the corner of my eye and grip my phone, ready to hurry back inside. It’s not Banner or any other angry townsfolk with pitchforks, but a white furball ofcuteness. I sit and watch as it approaches and then blink as it jumps into my lap and curls up into a ball.
What the hell?
My phone chimes again. Tearing my eyes away from the cat, I glance at the screen.
You should know, Banner told Mom and Dad you’re back.
Ugh, thanks for that, Banner. Asshole.
I bet that went down well.
Her silence is all the answer I need. God dammit, Banner.
I give the cat a gentle stroke before texting again.
Unrelated, but does Banner have a fluffy white cat? Because one’s currently curled up in my lap and I’d hate for Banner to think I’m corrupting it.
Can a cat be corrupted? Aren’t they evil minions already?
Not a cat fan huh?
Not a fan of much of anything right now. To answer your question, no, Banner doesn’t have a fluffy cat, but Karen from across the street does. Sergeant Pepper is a menace. He makes each of the owners on your street fall in love with him so they feed him. He’s a food whore, with stalking tendencies.
I can’t help but laugh at her response.
Someone woke up and chose violence today.
I put the phone back down and continue to stroke the cat, who seems quite content to let me do so. I must zone out for a little while because I jump when the phone chimes again.
I saw the bruises. Seems I’m not the only one. You want to talk about it yet?
Ugh, of course, she wasn’t going to let it go.
Nothing nefarious happened. I fell, and someone saved me. Trust me, the injuries I’d have had if they hadn’t caught me would have been a whole lot worse. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to talk about who saved me, that’s all.
It’s mostly true. Partly true, at least. Something twists in my gut because this whole scenario feels like Deja vu.
Reluctantly, I lift the cat from my lap and place her on the top step before pushing myself off and heading inside. I take the cup to the sink and lean against it, ignoring the broken cupboard.
Alright, that can be tomorrow’s problem. For now, I need to tackle something that will help me get my frustrations out. That means a trip to the hardware store because I need paint for the living room. My pulse starts to gallop at the thought of leaving the house, but I fight the instinct to hide. Burying my head in the sand won’t help get me out of here any faster. I slip my jacket back on, along with my hat and glasses. I grab my bag and head out before I can change my mind.
I reverse out of the garage and drive through town until I reach the hardware store, where I park in one of the available spots out front. I keep my phone handy in case I need it and sling my bag over my shoulder before walking inside with my head down.
I grab a cart and make my way down the aisle I need, adding paintbrushes, rollers, and sandpaper before stopping in front of the paint cans. I had planned on whitewashing the whole place. Keeping it neutral tends to be what realtors recommend, and nothing is fresher and cleaner than crisp white. But when my eyes land on a very soft yellow, I pause. I’ve never really done the whole color thing. Funnily enough, prison isn’t known for its pastel shades or neon blasts. After that, it was halfway housesand rented apartments, neither of which were mine to paint, so I never gave it a thought. Now, though, looking at the yellow and thinking about the darkness that’s wrapped around every inch of that house, I know it’s the right way to go. Maybe the realtors won’t like it, but my soul feels a little lighter just imagining the sitting room painted in this color as the warm afternoon sun bathes the room with an amber glow.
I add a couple of cans to the cart before picking up a selection of tester pots in various colors for the rest of the house. I throw in a few other items I might need before heading to the checkout. I suck in a sharp breath when I see the owner, Andy Dennis, behind the counter. As a friend of the Bannerman’s, he was pretty vocal about his feelings toward me during my trial. I don’t know how a grown man thinks heckling a distraught teenager is appropriate, but nobody called him on his behavior either, so maybe I expected too much from people.
I keep my head down and place my things on the counter before wheeling the cart to the side. I wait for him to scan the first item and grab it, adding it back to the cart before he can snatch it back. I see him eyeing me curiously, but the hat and glasses are clearly doing their job of hiding my identity.
“You look like you have a project you’re working on,” he says, making small talk. Just great.
I simply nod, offer him a polite smile, and continue to put everything back in the cart after it has been scanned.
