It seems like a lifetime ago, another person who sat grief-stricken in the local library, searching for a way to get her life back under control.
I’m not that girl anymore.
But whoever I’ve become is about to be blown apart.
I’m no fool. I know exactly where Jackson’s going with this. It’s laid out in front of me like a goddamn one-way road.
Carrson doesn’t know, though. He tips his head to the side, brows pinched together in confusion.
My stomach knots, tears threatening. I swallow them down. I won’t show weakness here. Not now.
Jackson raises the bag above his head and turns in a slow circle, making sure all eyes are on him. He’s enjoying this. I can tell. He stands tall, chest out, eyes alight.
“This is Becky’s bag,” he announces to the room, brandishing it. “She brought it with her to school. Here at Ashford University, the only college she applied to.”
Carrson’s gaze swings my way, and his brow furrows, but I don’t look back. I can’t watch it, the moment he stops caring about me.
Like he’s in the middle of a stage, Jackson raises his voice, making sure everyone hears. “Let’s see what she brought with her, shall we?”
My head drops, and I close my eyes, already defeated and he’s just started.
Jackson sets my bag on the floor. He crouches down and opens it. The minute he touches the turtle, anger courses through me. I stomp over to him. “That’s mine! Give it back.”
He grins up at me like I played right into his hands. “Glad you admitted that. Now we know that whatever’s in here is yours.”
He pulls out a stack of paper, and a couple of pieces fall out of the pile. They flutter to the ground at Carrson’s feet. He bends down and picks one up, then stares at it.
Jackson shuffles through the rest of the papers. He picks up one and clears his throat, beginning to read. “Senator Ashford vetoes pediatric medical research bill.” He holds the newspaper article over his head for everyone to see.
There’s a shuffling from the crowd, the low rustle of whispers from the back of the room.
He lets that drop to the floor and selects another.
“Ashford University, the future of America. This small southern campus boasts more Congressmen as alumni than any other school.”
The paper drifts to the floor.
The murmurs rise in volume now, overlapping. Competing with one another.
“Designer drugs flood local schools. Are politicians to blame?”
More articles. My past spilling at their feet.
Jackson reads them as I stand there with my head hanging.
“These are interesting,” he says, his voice bright with a sick kind of amusement. Like this is all entertainment to him.
It’s photos he gets out next.
The campus. Ashford House. Rosewood Hall.
Someone gasps. The whispers grow louder now, distinct enough that I can separate the words.
“Why would she havethat—”
“That’s not normal—”
“This one is my favorite,” Jackson says, raising it high.
