I had hoped to never see again walks into my room. A flood of memories takes over my mind. Georgina Matthews on the forest floor. Alone. Dead.
“Do you care to talk to me for a minute?”
“That depends,” I sigh. “Is anything going to happen with this report, or will it be buried like everything else on campus?”
“I can assure you our department takes these things seriously.” He sits in the chair across from the bed and pulls out a tiny notebook. His presence says caring, but his body language says otherwise. “Can you tell me everything you remember from that night?”
For the next twenty minutes, I tell him everything, well, almost everything. I don’t tell Officer Striker who was on the rooftop with me. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t drag their names through the mud, down in the fucking dirt where they belong. Something stops me, though. So, I keep their secret, a secret I don’t deserve to be buried with.
Officer Striker and I shift our attention to the door when it opens. Marek stops dead in his tracks, startled by my company.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Officer Striker stands, tucking his notepad into his pocket. “Where were you the night of Miss Weston’s attack?”
A sudden, icy contempt flashes over Marek’s face. He thinks this is a trap, that I ratted him out. If only there was a way to make him sweat a little longer.
“The bonfire, sir,” Marek fibs.
Officer Striker watches him, gauging his demeanor and body language. I want to laugh when his eyes narrow on Marek but manage to hold myself together.
“If you think of anything else that may help us, please call the station.” He stops next to Marek and glares at him. “Mr. Hawthorne, try to keep a better eye on her.”
Once the door closes, I ease out of bed and toss the garment bag back onto the windowsill. I glare at Marek as he takes up the seat Officer Striker has vacated.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Keep an eye on me like I’m some damsel in distress?” I turn my aggression on him. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
“I figured, since I haven’t heard from you for the last two days, I’d walk the line of caution and give you some space. But when I woke up this morning, and I still hadn’t heard anything . . .”
“You decided to do what you usually do”— I glare at him as I pull the covers over my legs— “and do whatever you want.”
Marek runs his hands over the back of his head and down his neck. “When you put it like that, Palmer, it makes me seem . . .”
“Abrasive? Overbearing? Psychotic? Unrelenting?”
“Tell me how you really feel.” He kicks his feet up on the bed, looking entirely too comfortable after everything. I nudge them off.
Neither of us says anything. There’s nothing to say. Every couple of minutes, one of us will break and look at the other. We choose silence over actual words.
“I don’t feel unsafe, and I hate you for that,” I blurt out, shaking my head as I look at him. “You’re so damn charismatic, that it makes it almost impossible to feel what I’m supposed to feel.”
“Who says you’re supposed to feel a certain way?” He’s kidding, right?
“I don’t know, Marek.” I shake my head and then slowly turn my head to gawk at him. “Society?”
A belly laugh spits out of Marek’s mouth. I sit in awe as he struggles to get himself under control. At some point, he clenches at his stomach. Suddenly, he stops, sits up a bit straighter, and looks at me.
“You aren’t kidding,” he deadpans.
“No, I’m not.”
“Come on, Palmer.” He leans back in the chair, appearing far too at ease. “We don’t fit into society’s expectations on any day. This is no different.”
“You tried to kill me, Marek.”
“Well, now, that’s where you’re wrong.”
A knock on the door silences our conversation. My doctor walks in, a disgruntled and unsettled expression painted on his face.
“You’re requesting an early discharge, I’ve been told.” He stops at the foot of the bed, clapping rolled up papers against his hand. “And while I understand, I don’t advise it.”
“So, I’m stuck in here?” My eyes shift to Marek, his face stoic and unchanging. I turn back to my doctor. “That’s what you’re telling me?”
“Actually no.” He shrugs, handing me papers. “Sign these. They’re saying you’re leaving against our best medical advisement, and you’ll be free to go.”
“Really?”
“You’re eighteen years old.