A metallic taste fills my mouth when I swallow it down, and I realize only now that I have gnawed into my left cheek, my tongue flicking at flayed pieces of flesh.
A cold ache settles in my stomach as I digest the massacre.
“Laiken, I’m going to make this as quick as possible, okay?” Chief Wynston’s voice is full of sympathy, and when I raise my eyes, I notice how his light brown shirt is straining at the buttons, a clear sign that he’d left it in the dryer too long. “Can you tell…”
He’s speaking but I’ve zoned out, my eyes slipping past him and over his curled shoulders, landing on Chase through the large, paneled window at our side.
He’s outside, his shoulders taking the weight of his body as he rests against the big glass panel, one foot perched on the low windowsill. His phone is pressed to his ear, chin down and his long brown hair is a bracket around his stubbled face, blowing with the breeze.
He pushes a bottle of water to his lips and takes a hard pull, and I think he can feel me watching him because when he turns his head, his eyes instantly find mine.
Heat flushes up my neck, accompanied by a familiar coiling in my stomach that I hadn’t felt in years. I look away, toward Wynston, cross my arms and wrap them around my abdomen, grabbing for my hips. I answer his questions about the shooting, all while clenching at my skin, and when he’s done, Wynston pushes from the booth and moves to my side. His hand trembles when he reluctantly rests it on top of my shoulder and drops his chin.
And I know he wants to say more. I know he wants to address the news of the young woman they found this morning. I know he wants to reassure me that he will keep me safe. But he doesn’t do any of that, instead, asking, “Can I take you home, sweetheart?”
And I raise my chin, tilt it toward Chase.
He was still outside, in the same position, watching me watch him, watching Wynston, with the water bottle back at his lips.And Wynston must follow my line of sight because I feel his hand slip from my shoulder as he nods and walks away.
A flurry of vehicles and a marked police cruiser are at the entrance of the trailer park. I tug at the hair tie on my wrist when asphalt turns to loose rock and Chase takes the gravel road toward my lilac home.
I keep my head down.
The police company wasn’t abnormal.
Here, someone was always causing trouble, fighting with their neighbor, threatening to kill them, or their cat.
I lived among a bunch of impulsive losers. It was the cost of being a Campbell.
I draw in a breath, my pulse tapping at my neck as I sit only inches from Chase, close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
We hadn’t spoken a word to each other. Not since he had his chin pressed to the top of my head, mine at his chest, surrounded by blood and debris. The silence in the cabin had begun to fester with words we weren’t ready to say yet.
My teeth are clamped together and I’m breathing through my nose.
Music is low through the speaker at my side. I recognized it, an acoustic version of “Ghost” by Badflower. However, the lull of the track couldn’t find a way to soften the reserve between us.
I’m staring at my hands, picking at the chipped pink nail polish stroked across my thumb when Chase rasps, “What the fuck?”
My chin rises, but not toward him. My eyes catch on the scene that sits ahead of the truck's red hood, and my stomachdrops because I’d clung to some atom of hope that maybe the universe would find a way to be kind to me today.
But my wishes and fate had always been marginally separated.
A swarm of reporters are camped at the front of my trailer. Microphones at the ready. Bulky cameras resting beside lanky or severely overweight men, no in-between.
My gaze shifts to my neighbors, and I notice how every last one is perched on their porch, or camped out in fold out chairs, waiting expectantly and excitedly for the scene of my arrival to unfold.
My pulse taps again, faster now.
News spread quickly in a small town, and it was hard to evade the swarm when Devil’s Peak made you the center of their hive.
I cast my eyes to Chase. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him since folding myself inside his truck. His brows are furrowed, and he looks almost unbalanced.
“Why are they here?” he speaks aloud, agitation fierce through his voice. “Why the fuck aren’t they at the diner?”
I drop my chin to my chest with a sigh, eyes casting down, returning to my chipped fingernails. I start picking at the edges of the pink lacquer on my opposite thumb, shaking my head.
“Didn’t you hear?” I ask, eyes still downcast.
