Anxiety nips at me, circles warily, and darts forward to take another bite.
I rip the seal before my paranoia can get the best of me, and a shower of bright crimson glitter explodes into the air, clinging to my clothes, my lips, my hair. I shake myself off like a dog and examine the card inside.
It’s handmade from heavy stock, a watercolour heart painted on the front in pink, gold, and pastel blue.
The message inside is the same crimson ink as my name, this time a single word inside quote marks.
“Smile.”
I turn it over, but there’s nothing more. No name. No return address. No signature.
Brushing a few more flecks of glitter off the front of my outfit, I pick up the envelope and check the back.
Nothing.
Smile. Either an innocent word or one tinged with so much rampant misogyny that it makes my blood fizz and sputter inside my veins.
I read it again and, thanks to my mother’s earlier revelation, this time I hear it in my uncle’s voice.
“Smile for the camera, darling. Say cheese.”
A carousel of images strike me, too many to separate, each one hitting like a physical blow. I close my eyes, my breathing hoarse. My pulse races until I can barely catch the individual beats.
My brain can’t handle the influx, retreating to a safe space to huddle and wait for the rampant slideshow to end.
When it does, I’m on the floor, knees to my chest, violently shaking. Everywhere I look is glitter.
Fucking glitter.
It’ll probably hang around this flat for longer than me.
Moving slowly, I uncurl and get to my feet. The change in position makes me feel better, as does tearing the thick card into pieces, tearing those pieces into pieces. I stomp along the hallway to collect the vacuum cleaner and suck up every bit of card and glitter I can find.
With that done—out of sight, out of mind—I’m back on an even keel.
Once I store the vacuum back in the closet, my heart calms to its usual pace and I’m more than ready for a drink, a dance, and as much snack food as I can cram into my face.
Anything to help forget I’m not such a good girl after all.
CHAPTERTWO
TRENT
It’sSaturday night and I’m fetching another slab of beer from the open garage when I hear the gunshot.
Instantly, my heart hammers so quickly I can’t feel the individual beats. My eyes bulge with pressure until the world around me turns concave, like I’m staring through a fisheye lens. Hairs on my head, arms, and neck stand to attention, their thin lengths seeking feedback before they can be soothed back to lying flat.
The world pauses as I wait for the next bit.
For the blood. For the horror. For the brains to come spilling out of someone’s head.
Images of Robbie flash through my mind. His body falls, heels drumming on the concrete floor of the warehouse. My mouth fills with heavy spit, the taste of metal and blood.
The sound comes again, and my muscles relax as I realise it’s not a gun. Not a shot. It’s my neighbour’s old car backfiring as he tests the engine. The repair of the classic Aston Martin has been happening for so long now, I doubt it’ll ever be complete.
I rub my hands over my hair just to move, to unlock, then finish my task and walk to the window, staring out at the back lawn, figures cavorting past as the party gets its second wind.
My chest aches and I dig the heel of my palm into my sternum, trying to rub the sensation away. Anxiety twists my nerves until they’re tight enough to snap. A state they’re in almost constantly since the shooting. My outwardly calm demeanour is a complete fabrication for the sake of those around me.
