Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
SORROW
I sip my drink as I stare out at the overgrown yard, debating what to tackle next.
After an emotional morning with Katy, I need to switch my mind off and do something to distract myself.
I’ve already picked up the mess in the kitchen. And though the painting isn’t finished, after last time, I don’t want to be in that room, stroking memories like hot coals in a fire, ready to burn me when I least expect it.
I turn toward the house next door. I hear something fall and hold my breath. If Banner is home, I need to head back inside. No way am I ready for another sparring match with the man, not when I’m still bearing the bruises from the last round.
I took my jacket off when I got here because I got hot.
When I lift my arm, I can clearly see the ring of bruises.
I wince as they throw me back in time to another set of bruises caused by his brother.
I swallow the nausea and drink the rest of my coffee as I remind myself that I’m not the same girl.
Jake might have caught me off guard last night, but I’m nobody’s victim.
My phone chimes, so I grab it. I keep my eye on the fence separating my house from next door before glancing down.
Can confirm, parents are still dicks.
I chuckle at Katy’s message before I reply.
Did you expect them to have changed between breakfast and lunch?
I wait as the phone tells me she’s typing and grin when the message comes through.
I hoped zombies would attack while I was with you. I figured they’d make a tasty snack.
I crack up laughing.
Don’t zombies eat brains?
Crap, good point, of course they’d survive.
Maybe you should switch from horror flicks to Disney for a while, you little ray of sunshine.
Lame. Zombies are where it’s at.
I know what I could do with a little of that Disney magic right now. Maybe I could whistle a tune, and some birds would help me clean this place up.
That bad, huh?
I sigh before texting back.
Worse.
I jump when I see movement out of the corner of my eye and grip my phone, ready to hurry back inside. It’s not Banner or any other angry townsfolk with pitchforks, but a white furball of cuteness. I sit and watch as it approaches and then blink as it jumps into my lap and curls up into a ball.
What the hell?
My phone chimes again. Tearing my eyes away from the cat, I glance at the screen.
You should know, Banner told Mom and Dad you’re back.
Ugh, thanks for that, Banner. Asshole.
I bet that went down well.
Her silence is all the answer I need. God dammit, Banner.
I give the cat a gentle stroke before texting again.
Unrelated, but does Banner have a fluffy white cat? Because one’s currently curled up in my lap and I’d hate for Banner to think I’m corrupting it.
Can a cat be corrupted? Aren’t they evil minions already?
Not a cat fan huh?
Not a fan of much of anything right now. To answer your question, no, Banner doesn’t have a fluffy cat, but Karen from across the street does. Sergeant Pepper is a menace. He makes each of the owners on your street fall in love with him so they feed him. He’s a food whore, with stalking tendencies.
I can’t help but laugh at her response.
Someone woke up and chose violence today.
I put the phone back down and continue to stroke the cat, who seems quite content to let me do so. I must zone out for a little while because I jump when the phone chimes again.
I saw the bruises. Seems I’m not the only one. You want to talk about it yet?
Ugh, of course, she wasn’t going to let it go.
Nothing nefarious happened. I fell, and someone saved me. Trust me, the injuries I’d have had if they hadn’t caught me would have been a whole lot worse. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to talk about who saved me, that’s all.
It’s mostly true. Partly true, at least. Something twists in my gut because this whole scenario feels like Deja vu.
Reluctantly, I lift the cat from my lap and place her on the top step before pushing myself off and heading inside. I take the cup to the sink and lean against it, ignoring the broken cupboard.
Alright, that can be tomorrow’s problem.
For now, I need to tackle something that will help me get my frustrations out.
That means a trip to the hardware store because I need paint for the living room.
My pulse starts to gallop at the thought of leaving the house, but I fight the instinct to hide.
Burying my head in the sand won’t help get me out of here any faster.
I slip my jacket back on, along with my hat and glasses.
I grab my bag and head out before I can change my mind.
I reverse out of the garage and drive through town until I reach the hardware store, where I park in one of the available spots out front. I keep my phone handy in case I need it and sling my bag over my shoulder before walking inside with my head down.
I grab a cart and make my way down the aisle I need, adding paintbrushes, rollers, and sandpaper before stopping in front of the paint cans.
I had planned on whitewashing the whole place.
Keeping it neutral tends to be what realtors recommend, and nothing is fresher and cleaner than crisp white.
But when my eyes land on a very soft yellow, I pause.
I’ve never really done the whole color thing.
Funnily enough, prison isn’t known for its pastel shades or neon blasts.
After that, it was halfway houses and rented apartments, neither of which were mine to paint, so I never gave it a thought.
Now, though, looking at the yellow and thinking about the darkness that’s wrapped around every inch of that house, I know it’s the right way to go.
Maybe the realtors won’t like it, but my soul feels a little lighter just imagining the sitting room painted in this color as the warm afternoon sun bathes the room with an amber glow.
I add a couple of cans to the cart before picking up a selection of tester pots in various colors for the rest of the house.
I throw in a few other items I might need before heading to the checkout.
I suck in a sharp breath when I see the owner, Andy Dennis, behind the counter.
As a friend of the Bannerman’s, he was pretty vocal about his feelings toward me during my trial.
I don’t know how a grown man thinks heckling a distraught teenager is appropriate, but nobody called him on his behavior either, so maybe I expected too much from people.
I keep my head down and place my things on the counter before wheeling the cart to the side.
I wait for him to scan the first item and grab it, adding it back to the cart before he can snatch it back.
I see him eyeing me curiously, but the hat and glasses are clearly doing their job of hiding my identity.
“You look like you have a project you’re working on,” he says, making small talk. Just great.
I simply nod, offer him a polite smile, and continue to put everything back in the cart after it has been scanned.
“You find everything you need?”
I nod again as I hear the bell chime above the door. I tense but focus on the task at hand, the need to get out of here clawing at me.
“Hey, Denny, what brings you in here at this time of day?” Andy asks the newcomer.
“Looking for the owner of a van you got outside.”
I tense even further as I turn and take in the police uniform.
The guy pulls out a small notebook and flips it open before reading off my license plate.
I raise my hand to tell him that’s me before pulling out my card to pay for my items. I’m too busy paying attention to the cop to notice Andy glance down at my card, reading my name from the front.
“Miss, you have a broken taillight,” the cop tells me.
I turn back to Andy, who curses and frowns when I see him looking at my card. He glances up, fire in his eyes. I know he’s going to refuse me service, so I tap my card to the machine and smile when it beeps, accepting my payment. I put the card away and grab the cart handle, pushing it away.
“You’re not welcome in here, Sorrow. I don’t serve murderers,” he snaps. I feel my shoulders hunch, but I refuse to acknowledge him as I head to the door.
“Miss Wells?” the cop asks as he follows me out. Right, the taillight.
I leave the cart next to the van and walk around to look. I swear it was fine earlier. I’d have noticed, right? I look down at it and frown before looking at the other. Both are intact. I look up at the cop who has followed me, point to the light, and shake my head. It looks like he made a mistake.
He frowns and looks himself, moving closer. “Shit, my mistake.” He sighs before pulling out his nightstick and smashing it into the taillight, the glass shattering to the ground. I stand there open-mouthed, trying to figure out if that actually just happened.
He looks up at me and smirks. “Like I said, taillight’s out.
Now, I’m going to give you a ticket.” He pulls out his pad while I silently fume, knowing there is nothing I can do.
I fist my hands and wait for him to give it to me.
He rips it from the pad and hands it over.
I reach to take it, and he grips my wrist.
“Is that alcohol I can smell?” He leans in and takes a deep breath, my heart thundering in my chest like crazy. Is this really happening in broad daylight? Normally, I’d be mad but calm because I have nothing to hide, but innocence doesn’t matter in Tempest. I’ve played this game before.
I let my eyes drift closed for a second before he pulls out a breathalyzer and makes me breathe into it, which I do.
He pulls it away and doesn’t even bother looking at it before he spins me around and pins me to the side of the van, my head smacking painfully off the metal.
I swallow down my yelp as he slaps a pair of cuffs on me far too tightly.
“Driving under the influence and resisting arrest? Tut tut, I’ve heard that’s how you roll. Well, I’d say your behavior implies you have something to hide, which means I have probable cause to search this vehicle.”
He grabs me, walks me over to his squad car, and yanks the door open before shoving me inside.
He pushes too hard, though, not even making sure I have my balance.
I pitch over, and with my hands cuffed behind me, I can’t catch myself.
My face hits the seat, all my weight bearing down on me, wrenching at my shoulders.
I taste blood as my nose makes impact and my teeth slice into my gum.
I can’t right myself before the door slams closed behind me.
Instead of fighting it, I stay where I am and let my body go lax to take some of the pressure off my shoulders.
I feel tears run down my face, but my body is so hopped up on adrenaline that I can’t tell if the tears are from my anger and fear or a reaction to my nose getting hurt.
I hear commotion outside the car. I can’t see anything from this position, so I tune it out.
I don’t know how much time passes before the driver’s side door opens, and the cop climbs in.
He doesn’t even look back at me. He shuts his door and takes off, not giving a shit that I almost end up in the footwell.
I never thought I’d be grateful to see the police station, but when the car stops, all I care about is getting out of this thing and away from this asshole. Being alone with this guy scares the crap out of me more than I care to admit.