“Smart girl. Not everyone gets to mouth off to Emory. You’d do well to remember that.”
Twice, Amelia had heard that; first from Liam and then Mirabelle, who didn’t follow the advice either. Then again, it wasn’t really advice, but a directive, maybe even a threat. They dipped into a bedroom, immaculately clean and filled with the scent of fresh-cut roses.
“Mother, sister, wife,” Mirabelle said and disappeared inside a walk-in closet. “That’s who gets to mouth off. It’s a privilege not even Jack, his deputy, is afforded.” She returned with an armful of clothes that she heaved to the bed. “Obviously, I’m not his mother, and I’m sure as shit not his wife.”
“Sister,” Amelia said, though it went without saying. The resemblance to Emory was obvious—jet-black hair, bronze skin, striking amber eyes.
“You got it.” Mirabelle plucked a few items from a dresser drawer and tossed them to the bed. “We’re about the same size.Everything should fit.” She gestured to an attached bathroom. “Get cleaned up. I set some things out on the counter for you, but use whatever you want, and take your time.”
With sweet smiles and soft touches, Mirabelle exuded warm hospitality. Perhaps she expected it to mask the bitterness of Amelia’s situation. Heap on the sugar so the horror goes down. Her overtures, however sincere, rang hollow.
“Do you live here?” Amelia asked.
Charming as the room was, it didn’t look lived in. With a few empty suitcases stacked in the corner, it had the liminal transience of a hotel room. It was a simple question, but apprehension occluded Mirabelle’s bubbly confidence.
“For now. It’s complicated. We probably won’t be here for very long.”
We.The word unnerved with how it forced Amelia into a collective she wanted no part of. Before she could pry any further, Mirabelle fluttered from the room, and her heels clicked down the hall in a rhythm that no longer pranced but prodded.
Amelia retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. The space was blindingly white and pristine, probably hard to clean. Her mom would’ve hated it because white exposed everything. Not there, though. It smelled like bleach and the decorative soaps her Grandma Havick displayed during the holidays, the ones no one was allowed to use.
Mirabelle’s toiletries lined the counter in neat rows from tallest to shortest. She’d even arranged her make-up brushes like a flower bouquet in a faceted glass holder. Her perfume bottles—not one or two, but three—sparkled in the glittering light. Everything was as pretty as a picture and almost as perfect too.
Funny how things changed. As a teenager, Amelia bemoaned her tiny bathroom with its abysmal lighting and terrible water pressure. Back then, she’d thought it was a travesty. She would gladly take that shitty little bathroom over Mirabelle’s spotless one.
She flipped on the shower and peeled off Brian’s sweater and her purse beneath. In front of a dressing mirror, her wreckedreflection was almost foreign. No one ever expected to see themselves that way.
A red mark cut across her throat, and there was another on her cheek. Dirt caked the lesions on her wrists, and dried blood flaked from the gashes on her arms and legs.
When steam rolled from the shower, Amelia stepped inside and winced as water rushed over the cuts and scrapes. At least they’d heal with time. The ache in her chest might never. It grew heavier as she watched the water turn pink with blood that circled the drain.
I’m alone.
No, it was worse than that. Alone meant left with strangers or forgotten in an empty room. That was the least of it. She was lost. Her phone was at home, and her hand-me-down purse had stuck with her all the way. No one would find it in the motel room or with a busted strap on the side of the road.
To the outside world, Amelia Havick perished in the blaze. They’d print her name in the newspaper and call her death a tragic loss.
She should’ve read the tea leaves that warned her. If she’d ditched the party, her mom would have too. Because of her, her mother was likely dead.
And Brian. He’d be alive if they’d kept driving. Instead, he’d died in a weed-infested parking lot. His parents would bury him six feet deep and never recover. Their friends would remember him for his book-smarts but never his bravery that saved her life.
It should’ve made her sad. Somewhere it did, somewhere far off, like a silhouette on the distant horizon. But a haunting chill prevailed, and Amelia relished how it numbed.
Head against the tiled wall, she stood beneath the shower until the water lost its warmth. Only then did she wash her hair and soap her skin.
Out of the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel, combed the knots out of her hair, and brushed her teeth. In the bedroom, cool air invited goosebumps as she evaluated the clothes on the bed. They were mostly dresses that would cling to her figure or show offher legs. She wanted to hide in Brian’s sweater and go unseen.
Amelia ran her fingers over a white, summery sundress, something her mom would have picked out for her. She closed her eyes and conjured her mom’s voice and the honeyed scent of her favorite perfume.
Remember, remember.Memories would fade, surrendered to time. One day, she’d forget.Gone. Poof.
Amelia opened her eyes and scanned Mirabelle’s room. The harlequin bedspread and embroidered pillows, so colorful and bright. Fresh-cut flowers in crystal vases, so joyful and pretty.
Her breaths came hard and fast. It wasn’t fair. Glass lamps and beaded shades, the light so supple. Her stomach roiled. She’d be sick. And the exquisite clothes meant for her to wear. They weren’t hers, though. She didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it.
Amelia’s nails dug into her palms.Remember, remember.It was already fading, a dandelion wish in the wind.No, no, no.
Poof. Gone. Goodbye.
