“I’m glad you let me know,” he replies. “I’m nervous about you going there… Maybe you should wait until I can go with you.”
“We’ll be fine. You’re busy. And besides, no one will be home for a while.” I cross my legs then uncross them, fidgetiness bubbling through me.
“Can you at least text me when you leave, so I know everything went smoothly?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, thank you.” He sounds relieved, which means he’s been anxious.
Does he feel this way because of what I told him? Or does he know something he hasn’t revealed yet? He is investigating my father’s murder, so the probability of that is high.
“Is everything okay with you?” I question. “You seem… I don’t know, uneasy.”
He doesn’t immediately respond. “Everything’s fine. Just please be careful. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
I don’t believe him, but he’s a detective and might not be able to divulge the information to me. So, I let it go, agree to do as he requests, and then we hang up.
As I sit in the silence, I attempt to convince myself that everything will be all right. But as a petal from one of the daisies falls off, I wonder if Clover is somehow reaching from her grave to warn me.
8
CLOVER
“You look like shit,” my mother tells me as I trudge out of my bedroom and into the living room of the dump of a place we’re currently residing in.
“Thanks,” I reply dryly with a roll of my eyes.
I pretend her comment doesn’t sting, but her insults always do, even when I fight the urge to care.
I collect my bag from off the floor and then open the front door to leave.
“Annoying bitch. I’m going to start making you pay part of the rent. Show your ungrateful ass what responsibility is,” my mother mumbles as I step outside and shut the door.
I tell myself none of this matters, that she’s hurting and strung out. That her rude comments are a result of withdrawal. It’s true, but I also wonder if beneath her festering need lies an animosity to the daughter that lived. She said that to me once in a drunken rage; that she wished I’d be the one that died instead of Bailey.
Thank god, I took a couple of hits before I left my room today, or else my chest would feel tight right now with all of my dark thoughts tiptoeing in my mind.
As numbness consumes my veins, I start toward my car parked in the driveway. But right as I’m about to climb in, my phone buzzes. I retrieve it from my bag, and for the second time in about a minute, relief washes over me that I’m numb.
Jason: Hey, what’re you up to today?
When I first met him, I felt an immediate attraction to him. But ever since the incident when I woke up on that cement floor, that feeling has hollowed, and all I feel is a vast emptiness whenever I’m around him. It’s good, though. It makes it easier to reply with what I need to do.
Me: I have school, but I can ditch.
Jason: Yeah, do that. I need a favor.
I have to suck in a breath before I respond.
Me: What’s up?
Jason: I need you to recruit a few girls for a major job.
Me: What job?
Jason: Don’t ask questions. I just need you to do it.
My stomach coils into agonizing knots as memories stab at my brain. It’s how I felt that day as I lay on the cement floor, my entire body in pain, my brain so doped up on drugs that I couldn’t remember what happened.
