I tremble, my lungs screaming and dogs barking in the distant recesses of my mind. I hear myself laughing, then feel my eyes burn.
One hundred eighty-eight… one hundred eighty-nine… onehundred ninety…
I exhale, but the rush of oxygen inflating my lungs isn’t soothing.
It hurts.
And I wonder if this is why my mother chose to suffocate, too. Because it's agonizing to inhale.
Dread’s presence returns. I feel the air move as he throws my pillow at the top of the bed and then leans over my legs to pull the sheet down beneath the mattress again. When he’s finished, my computer chair rolls toward me, and he sits on it.
I slowly open my eyes, finding him exactly where I thought he’d be. He leans forward, his elbows perched on his knees, and holds something in his hands. It looks like a piece of paper, a newspaper clipping, a knife, and… hair.
A chunk of black, curly hair, tied together with a tiny elastic band at the top. Notably without the follicles attached.
The urge to vomit arises again, but the lid on my emotions stays in place for now.
I’m not ready to address what he’s holding, because the moment I do, I might not be strong enough to keep the lid on. So, I glance around the room instead. It looks exactly as it did when I left it three days ago. Clean, organized, not a thing out of place outside of the items that were broken and are now bagged in a trash bag by the door.
Except the man sitting in front of me.
I don’t understand why he cleaned, but I don’t care enough to ask.
I meet his stare, and though his expression is blank, there’s something sinister swirling in his gaze.
“The note was pinned to your desk with this knife next to transfer papers, the newspaper, and this piece of hair,” he explains evenly, still giving nothing away.
My eyes drag up to the wooden desk behind his right shoulder, where he neatly stacked my textbooks next to my lamp with the now missing cracked light bulb.
“Oh.”
I’m slow to return my gaze to his. When I do, the darkness in them has deepened.
“What’s it say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“‘There’s nowhere for you to go but home, Angel.’” His answer is monotone, but Dread has never been emotionless where my father’s concerned. He’s just good at keeping his emotions contained.
Until he’s not.
“Gotcha.” He raises an eyebrow at my lack of reaction. I just… don't know what I'm supposed to say or do at this point.
I clear my throat, forcing my brain to function a little more so we're not stuck staring at one another in tense silence.
“And the clipping? What's that about?”
He huffs out a small, quiet laugh. “An article written while he was on trial about how amazing of a father he is, and how lucky Little Miss Charlotte D’Amour is for having him.”
I would vomit if I had the energy.
But I don't.
“They can have him,” I say quietly.
Dread studies me carefully, seeming almost inquisitive, as if he's trying to figure out a math equation. I don't like it, so I nod toward the hair in his hand.
“That doesn’t look like Mindy Sackler’s hair,” I whisper.
One of the first things I did after storming out of the cafeteria was look up Mindy, only to discover the girl in the cafeteria who accused me of taking her was being very serious. Her name is Gabi Loren, and she’s Mindy’s best friend.
