Once the door closed, I set the box, which was still nested inside my jacket, on my bed. I had put the urn back inside its box, not wanting to draw attention on my way back to my dorm. A student walking around with an urn would raise enough questions.
My shirt was drenched but the box remained dry.
I turned to face Viv but before I could say anything, she ran into my arms.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” I wrapped my arms tight around her.
“What I’ve said before … I’m,” Viv’s chest heaved as she tried catching a breath, “I’m not okay, Sal. I miss her.”
“I do too.” I squeezed her tighter as her tears dampened my shoulder.
“It’s my fault.” Viv’s voice cracked. “Why don’t you hate me?”
I pulled back to look at her, pushing her wet hair out of her face. “It’s not your fault.”
“It has to be.” She sniffed, mustering up enough composure so she could speak clearly. “All because I had wanted to go into town.”
I didn’t let myself react, but I remembered the night she was referencing very clearly. Mom had gone into town earlier that week to get some supplies. A few days later, she had come down with a cold. The third night of what we believed was the flu, she was starting to feel slightly better but was exhausted. She had fallen asleep in her bed early that night, unrousable.
After my shower, I had gone to see if Viv wanted to go lay out on the cool sand and watch the stars at our secluded Caribbean island home. When I couldn’t find her, I began to panic and checked out front. The side-by-side was gone and nailed to the tree where it was normally parked hung a note with Viv’s handwriting.
Went into town. Be back in two hours. I would have invited you, but you’d say no. Maybe next time.
-V
My panic had turned into agitation. She had known we weren’t allowed to leave unless it was authorized by and with Mom, and that rule was to keep our family safe. Viv had even turned off the perimeter alarms. I had hopped on my bike and went after her, knowing it was going to take me at least thirty minutes of hard pedaling to get to town.
I had found the side-by-side hidden off the path. Leaving the bike there, I had begun searching through the small town—it shouldn’t have been hard to find her. It hadn’t been until I heard a couple grunts outside a row of houses that I found her. When I had rounded the corner, she was holding a cat as three boys sat on the dirt, a mix of shock and anger in their eyes.
“V,” I said, not wanting to use her name, “what happened?”
“They were picking on this poor little thing.” She strode toward me, stroking the diluted tortoise shell cat who happily purred in her arms. “I didn’t use any magic,” she added quietly.
I had glanced behind her at the boys on the ground, checking to see if they picked up on her whisper. Two of them were rubbing their shoulders while the other was slowly making his way to his feet. The one attempting to stand appeared to be slightly older than me.
“Come on. Let’s go.” I put a hand on her back, leading her toward the way I had come and eyed the content feline in her arms. “We can drop the cat off at a building a few blocks up.”
Vivian snapped her head in my direction. “She likes me. She can ride in my lap.”
“We are not taking her home.” I scowled. “Mom’s not going to believe that a cat wandered that far out into the forest. She’ll know it came from town.”
“You’re …” Viv stumbled with her words as she glanced at me. “You mean you’re not going to tell Mom?”
Not if Mom doesn’t find out on her own.
Instead of answering her question, I nodded in the direction in front of us. “I saw cat food and little huts made for the street cats underneath a canopy. She’ll be fine there.”
We dropped off the cat—Vivian no longer arguing once she realized she couldn’t take it home—and continued making our way to the side-by-side and my bike. But before we made it, a shadow fell in front of us and I recognized him as one of the three boys Vivian had downed. He had been the one getting to his feet.
Based on his frantic breathing, he must have run to be able to cut us off. He wouldn’t have been a concern if he hadn’t been pointing a small firearm at us.
“Crap,” Vivian muttered.
Crapwas right. The hands of the teenager were shaking, but his narrowed eyes and set jaw didn’t hold back his determination and the anger fueling him.
Was he drunk?
