“I love you too, Rumor. Goodnight.”
I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. I keep thinking I hear Braden outside my door, trying to get in so he can kill me, not that he’d actually kill me. Or maybe he would. If he killed Andrea, he’s capable of killing again. And he’s really mad. Everyone keeps telling me he loses control when he’s mad.
Pulling the covers over me, I grab the TV remote and find a movie to watch — a comedy — to take my mind off the dark thoughts consuming me. A few hours later, I finally fall asleep.
* * *
In the morning, a series of knocks on my door wakes me up.
“Rumor, are you awake?”
It’s Maria. She doesn’t usually work on Saturdays.
“Just a minute!” I get out of bed and open the door. “It’s Saturday, right?”
She smiles. “I’m just here for a few hours. Brock is having some people over later and wanted to make sure the house was clean. I wanted to get your laundry. I’m putting in a load.”
I step aside, and she heads into my room, holding her laundry basket.
“Did you girls have fun last night?” she asks, tossing my laundry in the basket.
“Um, yeah,” I say, not sure what she means. Shayla must’ve told her we went out.
“Am I missing anything?” she asks, nodding at the laundry.
“No, that was it.”
“You should go have breakfast,” she says as she leaves. “Ana dropped off some pastries from your favorite bakery.”
Ana was here? This morning or last night? Brock seemed in a hurry to get back to his room last night. Maybe Ana was in there waiting for him.
It’s only eight, but I won’t get back to sleep now that I’m up. I shower, get dressed, and go to the kitchen.
“There she is,” Braden says, a smug grin on his face as he walks into the kitchen with Brock.
Brock looks at me. “Have you heard from him?”
“Who?”
“Jackson.”
“No. Why?”
Braden laughs. “Looks like your little boyfriend’s in trouble.” He smirks. “Karma’s a bitch.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go check outside.”
I run past him out of the kitchen, down the hall to the entry. I whip open the door and run outside in my bare feet.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
Two cop cars are in Jackson’s driveway, and another one is on its way, its red lights flashing as it races down the street. And there’s an ambulance.
“Jackson!” I yell.
I take off, cutting through the neighbors’ manicured lawns, my heart pounding.
