“Tonight, when you come back here, I want you to talk to me.” She pushes to her feet. “I want you to tell me what’s going on. I know it can be difficult to talk about heavy stuff, but I want you to trust me.”
Trust? Do I even understand the word? But I owe Clara the truth. So I nod, give Bailey a few pets, then leave the house. Once I’m in my car, I start the drive to the hotel. I’m on edge being alone.
Fortunately, the drive is uneventful, and by the time I arrive at the hotel, it’s nearing mid-afternoon. Before I head in, I check to make sure I have the key I took from my mother’s bedroom, the photo, and the note that was left in my car. I’m also avoiding. It’s something I’ve been good at for most of my life.
I don’t want to be that way anymore, though.
So I grab my bag, climb out, lock up my car, and enter the hotel. When I arrive at Ellis' room door, I remember that I left the drying daisies on his table but never told him about them. He’s probably wondering why in the hell they’re there.
Lifting my hand, I knock instead of using the keycard he gave me. It seems weird to waltz in when he’s in there doing who knows what.
A beat skips by, and then the door opens up. Ellis is standing on the other side, his phone in hand.
“I was just about to call you.” He steps back and holds the door open while motioning me inside. “Do you know why there’s a vase of dry daisies on the table?”
I enter the room, then turn to face him as he shuts the door. “Someone left them in front of the door while you were gone, and Clara and I were still here.” I pluck up the note that’s tucked underneath the vase. “And this was with it.”
A crease forms between his brows as he takes the note and unfolds it. His lips part as he reads the words.
“What kind of sick joke is this?” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know. When I answered the door, the hallway was empty.” I pause, struggling to breathe evenly against the soaring beating of my heart. “I don’t know if you remember this, but Clover used to call me her daisy friend.”
“I remember.” A frown tugs at his lips. “But I still don’t understand why someone would do this.”
“I don’t either.” I set my bag down onto the floor. “As far as I know, no one knew she called me that except you. Well, unless someone overheard her call me it. That may have happened at a party or something.”
He fiddles with his tie, loosening it. “But even if they did, why would they do this to you? It’s fucked up.”
I chew on my bottom lip, dragging out what I’m about to do next, my cowardly instincts clawing at me. But I’m getting better at pushing through the pain.
“The other day, while I was stopped at a gas station, I got into this argument with this guy over me not moving my car out of the way quickly enough. While I was distracted, someone snuck up to my car and dropped these on the front seat.” I dig out the photo and note and hand them to him. “I’m not sure who did it, but the note says they want me to meet them.”
He takes the note and photo from me. He examines the photo first, then proceeds to the note.
“You have no idea who left it?” he questions, his gaze elevating to mine.
“No… But Camilla was there, and we saw each other. I don’t know if she did it or why she would, but she did get in my face at the park yesterday and said some weird stuff to me… Did I mention that to you last night?”
“You did.” He doesn’t offer any more information about what I did and didn’t say.
So, I decide to test it out, as if stepping out of the woods for the first time in years and dipping my toes from the shadows and into the sunlight. “Did I…” I tug at the hem of my shirt. “Did I tell you about the words cut on my flesh and Camilla’s?”
Confusion flashes across his features. “You told me about Camilla but not you.”
My throat clicks as I swallow hard, then nod. I sit down on the bed and stare at the floor. “It happened at the bar the other day during that night you were there. I got blacked out drunk, or my drink got drugged—I’m not sure—but anyway, when I woke up, this was on my back.” Summoning every ounce of courage I have, I twist to face him while lifting my shirt enough so he can see it:
Slut.
His breath catches, but he says nothing. I don’t look at him, shame washing over me for indecipherable reasons.
“Aves, I don’t think you should be involved in this anymore,” he utters quietly. “I think you should let me handle it.”
I lower my shirt and look at him. “What? Why?”
He leans against the dresser with his arms crossed. “Because the word on your back…It’s just… There’s more to it than what you think. I wish I could tell you, but it’s confidential because of the case.”
“I’m guessing it’s because the girl that was found in the park yesterday had a word cut on her,” I say. When his brows rise, I add, “I think you’ve forgotten how much people gossip around here.”
