Chapter 5
Chapter Five
K AYLA
Every time. Every damn time I’m close to solving that messed-up puzzle, something happens.
And by ‘something,’ I mean Justin going off the rails.
Just like right now. A weird moment of… dare I say…
care ? He stormed in demanding to know why I keep my door unlocked.
I don’t know why; I just always have. But he’s right—given recent events, I should be more careful.
You never know who might decide to visit our sleepy town in Middle of Nowhere, Maine.
I try to wipe away the tears, but they just keep burning my eyes like acid.
I meant what I said: I think he wanted me dead.
No matter how petty it sounds, I still do.
Yes, I know I sound like a hormonal teenager, but there’s no mistaking the hatred emanating from his pores when he’s in proximity to me—it’s palpable in the air, heavy with pent-up hatred waiting to be unleashed, and when it is, it will be hell.
For the both of us, I think, because there is no way that sort of hatred would leave him unscathed.
I really have no idea why he dragged me out of the fire. He must still have some decency where I’m concerned buried deep down—way, way down.
I take a few shuddering breaths as the door once more swings open. Ready to fight, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when I see a familiar figure—a friendly one—standing where Justin had disappeared into the night without a second look, smacking the door on his way out.
“Hey, Mark,” I croak, my voice wobbling.
“He stopped by, didn’t he?” Mark’s low, smoky voice washes over me like a calming pill. “I just saw him at the bar.”
I try to discreetly wipe my still-streaming eyes and smile but fail miserably. “Yeah.” I let out a watery laugh as I choke out my response.
“Why does he do that to you?” His face reflects the genuine puzzlement I’ve felt for years.
“I wish I knew.” I wipe my nose, not bothering with how I must look.
Not with Mark. He’s known me since we were kids, living at the trailer park.
He’s four years older, and even as a child, he was always the protector for anyone who needed it—and always paid for it, though I’ve never heard him complain.
You can’t stick your neck out for somebody from the wrong side of town without repercussions.
“It can’t be that night. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He clicks his tongue resolutely, like there’s nothing else to it, and it sounds weirdly cute.
“Maybe he doesn’t see it that way.” I shrug and wipe my snotty, swollen nose again.
“He should be thanking you.” He comes closer. “I do.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. ”
He gently touches my shoulder. “We both know you did, and I owe you.”
I try to smile again. “Stop. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” His voice becomes firmer, his eyes searching mine.
“No!” I exclaim too loudly, then smother a wince. “No,” I add more quietly. “It’s fine. Don’t get involved.”
“I already am,” he points out.
I offer him a sad smile. “We don’t know that.”
“Bullshit.” His voice rises slightly. “The whole town knows that’s when it all started.”
“Mark,” I plead, waiting for him to calm down as he ignores me, pacing. “ Mark .”
“What?” he snaps.
I walk to him, and he finally stops. I want him to see . “It’s not your fault.”
His features twist in a snarl. “Kayla, you get treated like shit by half this town for sins you didn’t commit, and he just keeps adding fuel to the fire.” His voice drops an octave in anger.
“Just like you were,” I reason sadly. “And it’s not because of that night.
It’s because we were born on the wrong side of Little Hope.
” Mark has a younger sister, who he essentially raised.
Their father was—still is—an abusive son of a bitch, and Mark often drew attention to himself so his sister would be spared.
Like I said—a protector. Reminds me of Alex a little, but rougher around the edges— yes , even rougher than Alex, if you can imagine that.
Mark didn’t have a supportive upbringing or caring parents, so he fended for himself.
And I’m happy to see the man he’s become.
Doesn’t hurt that he looks good too. Not that I’d ever look at Mark as more than a friend—he’s practically a brother since he got his knuckles scraped for me a few times too—but objectively speaking, he’s an attractive specimen.
He’s tall, very bulky, and very hairy. He has a man-bun, a beard, and on few occasions now, I’ve seen him shirtless—his chest is very yeti-like, in both size and furriness.
I poke him in the chest, testing how hard his muscles are. “Man, you got, like, super big,” I tease to lighten up the mood, stepping back to look him up and down. “Are you shooting something?”
Mark was always a scrawny kid, tall with long limbs and shaggy hair, so it’s a huge surprise that he filled out his long body with so much meat.
“Good diet does wonders.” He pats his rock-hard belly with a laugh.
“It sure does. Speaking of which, want something to eat?”
“Nah, I’m good. I gotta go.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I just got off a double shift, so I could use some sleep. I just saw him walking this way and wanted to make sure you were okay.” He scratches his chin covered in a neat, trimmed beard.
“Everything in this town is ‘this way.’” I laugh, but it’s true. In small towns, there is always a Main Street, and everything usually leads there. As it happens, the diner is on Main Street, so we get more action than most.
“Yeah. Take care, Kayla. Call me if you change your mind about the talk.” He waves and walks outside.
Honest to God, I considered taking him up on his offer, but Mark and Justin have a lot of bad blood between them. This is my battle with Justin, and I’ll deal with it. Eventually.
I look around the diner and sigh. I’ve been painting the mural I’ve drawn for this wall for a long time, and my inspiration just got squashed by a sandy-haired asshole with a killer ass.
The rest of the work will require way more time than I initially anticipated.
I finish as much as I can, hoping to be done tomorrow morning, clean up, and drive home, saying a silent thank you to the universe when my car starts on the first try. It must have felt my distress.
The next morning, my mood is a little better. It took me a few tries and a jump start from my generator, but my Jeep was back on the road, and we were rollin’, baby.
A couple hours ago, Freya dropped off her ‘old’ phone—in pristine condition, without a single scratch on it, and now I ditch my thousand-year-old iPod that jams every two minutes.
I tried to give it back, but she refused, saying that if she ever needed me, how would she contact me?
And she needs me every day, per her words. That sneaky fox.
So, I have a phone now; the only thing missing is a new SIM card I need to get from the store.
I’m finishing painting the wall in the kitchen when Marina walks in, her hands full of bags.
“What are you doing here?” She looks around and whistles. “Kayla, honey, did you spend all night painting?”
The only thing left to paint is the crown molding on one of the walls and to fix a few drops on another (I messed up a little right after Justin’s visit, which I’ve forgiven myself for), which will take me an hour, tops. I have a ladder, brushes, and paint, so I’m good to go.
“Nah, just stayed a little longer yesterday. Almost done, though,” I tell her proudly. “What do you think?”
She gazes around again, and I’m scared to hear her reaction.
We’ve already painted it beige, but it didn’t resonate with either of us, so we decided to switch it up and add my drawing.
The color isn’t exactly what she wanted—the brightest peach (her favorite color), but for the sake of our eyes, I bought pastel peach; it looks so gentle and easy on the eyes while still being vibrant and playful.
That’s why I’ve been here all night—I wanted her to see this color before she starts coating it in an orange monstrosity.
“This is…” She looks around again with furrowed brows.
I bite my lip, dread settling heavily in my stomach. Oh man, I messed up .
“This is gorgeous!” she finally bursts out at the same time I start blubbering, “I’ll fix it, don’t worry—wait, what?”
“The walls are gorgeous. I love them. You were right; this color’s better.”
I sigh, a broad smile creeping across my face. “Really?” I ask, my heart fluttering.
“Yes. I love it,” she asserts with less emotion this time, back to her usual self. Oof, I began to worry there for a moment. She’s never that emotional.
“Great!” I hop up from the floor where I was mixing the paint.
“Hey, hmm…” Marina begins, looking out the window.
“What?”
“I think your car is getting towed.” She looks at me worriedly and then back outside.
“The hell!” I run to the window to see she’s right—my loyal Jeep is getting hooked by its front bumper to a tow truck by Bobby, who owns the local towing company and is officially on my shit list. But he isn’t the primary source of the problem—or the recipient of my wrath right now.
A smug-looking Jake Attleborough leans on his cruiser, watching the show unfold.
I can clearly tell he’s eagerly awaiting me to come out screaming, thirsty for the entertainment.
Like a bloodthirsty piranha. What a dick. “I’m gonna kill him,” I growl.
“The shotgun is in the kitchen!” Marina calls helpfully.
I shake my head. “All I need is my bare hands.”
I walk outside, noticing Jake’s smile turn into a full-blown shit-eating grin as he notices me. A Valkyrie on the hunt. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. “Haven’t paid your ticket yet, huh?”
My nostrils flare, and I strain to not lean over and physically bite him as I snap, “You just gave it to me. I have time.”