by a hairnet. Her eyes are light brown, and she’s just as tall as me. I don’t recognize her at all. Maybe she’s one of those girls I met during my senior year of high school. They liked to hang out with me in hopes that I’d introduce them to Sterling.
He graduated a couple of years before I started Brighton Academy, but everyone in that place knew I was living with the Aherns. Stupid girls. They really thought I’d be their link to a guy who lived thousands of miles away from Colorado.
“It’s me, Peyton. Peyton Seymour,” she says.
I take a step back, hugging myself because the name feels like a tub of ice water being dumped over my head. Her grandmother lived across the street from us. Our grandmothers were close friends. We used to play together when she came to visit in the summers or while her grandma was watching her.
“Peyton?” I repeat, not believing it. “I think the last time I saw you was before we started the fourth grade.”
“It’s been so long,” she agrees. “My parents split. Mom and I moved to Pueblo, and Dad never brought me back to Grandma’s.”
Grandma mentioned something like that, but I don’t recall the exact words. The explanation turned into a long walk down memory lane where she talked about my grandfather. He died of a heart attack just one year before I was born.
“I’m sorry about … everything, I guess.” She sounds remorseful.
What is she talking about? I don’t understand her little demonstration of sympathy.
“So, you’re working here?” I change the subject.
“This is one of my many jobs,” she says, excitedly. “I’m putting myself through school.”
“Peyton, what have I told you about the line?”
“Sorry Gil,” she apologizes to her manager and then turns back to me. “We have to catch up soon, but for now, what would you like?”
We place our order, then she hands me a number and the cups for our drinks and begins to chat with the next customer.
“Are you okay?” Wes kisses my cheek. “You look pale.”
Pale is right. It’s been a long time since I last saw Peyton. When things got bad, I wondered if she would help me escape. But then I realized it could’ve put her in danger too. My heart continues beating fast.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re not. What’s going on?”
“I’m fine. Really,” I repeat, following him to one of the available tables.
After his big gesture and declaration, I forgot all about my plans— of escaping Denver. How can I leave when his kisses are all I think about and his presence is all I need in my life? But seeing Peyton sobers me up from the haze that took over my brain last night.
What if someone else sees me?
What if he finds me?
He wouldn’t care anymore. I’m not a kid.
“Hey, girly!” Peyton comes to our table with a tray.
“This is so amazing. Wait until I get home and tell Grandma about you,” she continues chatting.
“Your grandma moved?”
“No, I moved in with her.” She pats me on the shoulder giving me a look of pity. “I’m so sorry about what happened to … well it was a lot in such a short time. Your grandmother, then your mother … You know, they never caught the burglar who killed that girl. My grandma thought the police would bring you back. What actually happened?”
God had mercy and the authorities decided to put me into foster care. Away from that hellhole.
“It’s classified information, Miss,” Wes responds taking the food off the tray and handing me my latte. “Thank you for the food.”
“Oh. Well, look for me on Facebook. We need to catch up.”
“I don’t have an account,” I say, controlling my breathing.
“Well, do you have a phone? What’s your number?” She hands me a pen and a napkin. I scribble my cellphone and wave at her as she walks away. Then regret it because I don’t want to talk to her.
What if he finds me?
Wes arches an eyebrow, staring at her in horror.
“She talks …”
“A lot,” I nod in agreement.
“What girl was she talking about?”
“Ava,” I mumble before taking a bite of my food.
“Ava was your sister, wasn’t she?”
The Aherns only know what social services told them. Obviously, social services only learned one version of what happened —his version.
My sister died. My stepfather was heartbroken. We didn’t know who broke into the house and shot her.
I’ve never confirmed or denied his story. They don’t know what went on inside my house, or what truly happened