“No, fuck you, Shawn.” I slap my hands against my thighs, and stand. “I’m done here. I’m not your friend. You can show yourself out.”
As soon as I turn my back to her and take one step towards the desk, the screech of tires tears through the air—
Liv shrieks.
There's a loud thud.
I spin back around.
A silver sedan, diagonal on the crossing.
Groceries spilled on the asphalt.
I can’t see the old lady.
I can’t see—
“Carey!” I scream.
My lungs burn.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t stay still.
I hear the shop's door bell, then the glass rattle in the frame.
My vision is a tunnel as rage bubbles inside me.
My skin feels like fire.
There’s a pounding like a hammer against my skull.
I won’t go through this again.
This time I won’t allow someone to take my world and get away with it.
11.5 years ago
Sunshine Motor Inn
Eugene, Oregon
2:45 a.m.
I’ve been here for hours. Since before the sun set. Parked, watching his door like a hawk; a pile of beer cans beside me on the passenger's seat.
I followed him all day. From the second he walked through the gates of the county jail, to the liquor store, to this shitty motel. So much for promising to never drink again.
Sebastian Davis-Alvarez. Gutter trash. Murderer. Free man.
With my final beer can empty, I crack the top on a bottle of whiskey, the cheapest I could find. So much of this shit has passed through my body in the last six months it hardly has an affect anymore. It doesn’t numb, doesn’t blur, doesn’t ease the tension or calm the way every muscle in my body is braced and waiting, vibrating with rage.
I haven’t spoken to my parents since before the trial.
Haven’t seen anyone I know other than Eden since walking out of the courtroom six months ago. It’s easier to look at the bottom of an empty bottle than Anaise’s face. She cares too much, but Eden’s an enabler. He’s got his own pain to cover up with sex, drugs, and too much liquor. But I don’t need him for this. Retribution is mine to carry alone.
There’s something ironic about a cheap motel set back from the highway by a row of crippled evergreens called the Sunshine Motor Inn. Not even the sign wants to be there; half of its neon letters sporadically flashing on, then back off again.
