20. Court Transcripts
COURT TRANSCRIPTS
Charlie didn’t come back with pie after she left.
I woke up to an empty, cold bed, clutching at a warmth that was already gone, as if a piece of my soul had slipped away in the night.
The rest of the weekend blurred into a haze—watching endless Lord of the Rings movies to drown out the ache, and cramming for today’s test because life never slows down.
I glanced at her desk—silent, abandoned—like a void that echoed her absence.
Whatever. She probably overslept, right?
Nothing ever truly matters on a Monday anyway, just a blank canvas of waiting for this ache to pass.
I fought to push away the ache gripping my chest, unsure if it was her midnight hair or the way our lips had intertwined that haunted me.
As I scanned the cafeteria during lunch, my heart sank—I didn’t see her anywhere.
Not late; she just didn’t come. A cold wave of disappointment settled over me, thick and heavy.
“Ugh,” Savannah groaned loudly as she slumped into the seat beside me, her voice filled with frustration and exhaustion.
“Still hungover?” I asked softly to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
“Why do they always have to turn the lights so bright?” she complained, dropping her head into her arms, shielding herself from the harsh glare.
I chuckled bitterly. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t drink like you’re invincible,” I teased, but my heart wasn’t really in it.
She looked at me, eyes shimmering with curiosity and something deeper. “How are you even still normal? Didn’t you have, like, twelve shots with the new girl?” her finger poked my side playfully, but there was a flicker of suspicion in her gaze.
“Yeah, but I drink water like a sane person—and I don’t wait until the last second to fix the mess,” I replied, trying to mask the ache beneath my words.
She sighed, dismissing me, yet I felt the weight of her concern.
The rest of lunch vanished in a blur. Cheer practice was over in just fifteen minutes, cut short by a sudden rainstorm.
Coach Linda sent us home early, mumbling something about how everyone was too slow anyway.
I didn’t mind. I made it home just as the sky let loose its fury, rain pounding against the windows.
I peeled off my soaked shirt, and my gaze was irresistibly drawn to that simple black lighter on my nightstand—Charlie.
My fingers reached out, clutching the cool metal as if it offered some solace.
The lid clicked open with a whisper, and the striker sparked, igniting a tiny orange flame that danced hazily before my eyes.
Mesmerized by its flicker, I saw the promise of something dangerous, something just out of reach.
A familiar cry for control echoed deep within me.
Flames licking the brick and mortar surged wildly, flickering across my vision like a fierce, relentless heartbeat.
They beckoned and caressed, teasing me like an old friend whose touch I both cherish and dread, stirring a tumult of longing and desperate need inside my soul.
Shaking my head fiercely, I snapped the lid shut, extinguishing the flame. The lighter remained close, a silent sentinel as I finished dressing.
Later, in the kitchen, I was just eating cookie dough—trying to forget—when I heard the roar of the car pulling into the rain-soaked driveway, headlights cutting through the storm like beacons of expectancy.
“Hey, Dad, you’re home early,” I called out softly as he stepped inside, setting down some papers, his face shadowed by fatigue.
“Not many patients today, no one likes a rainy day appointment anyways.” he mumbled stepping past the kitchen and towards the stairs to get out of the wet clothes.
Curiosity clawed at me when he went to change, my eyes sliding toward the stack of files on the counter.
There, right in the middle, was Charlotte Callahan.
Obsessive
Grief-stricken
Emotionally reactive
Compulsive
All these words I was familiar with—like looking into a mirror, yet afraid to turn the page.
Court transcripts caught my attention a moment later.
Prosecutor: Were you aware that your firearm was directed at the deceased?
Defendant: Yes.
Prosecutor: Did you see the deceased assaulting Lillian Wyatt?
Defendant: If you are asking if I saw Mr. Wyatt raping my best friend? Yes.
Prosecutor: So you admit you killed him.
Defendant: Yes. He was raping her, she screamed. Begged him to stop and he didn’t.
Prosecutor: And then?
Defendant: Then I shot him.
Prosecutor: So you admit you killed him?
Defendant: Yes.
Prosecutor: Ms. Callahan, was there another course of action available to you?
Defendant: Laughs
Prosecutor: Ms. Callahan, what do you find funny?
Defendant: He’s dead and you are prosecuting me acting like he wasn’t some menace to society. Everyone in this court room knew that he was beating her, and you all sat there and did nothing. You let it happen. You should be ashamed.
Judge: I think we should have a fifteen minute recess.
My eyes remained fixed on the page long after the words ceased to make sense.
She laughed.
Not out of amusement.
Not out of indifference.
But out of anger.
Because no one had offered help to her friend. Everyone else had simply stood and watched. A strange heaviness settled in my chest.
I ought to have been horrified.
Instead, all I could think was: Someone cared for Lilly Wyatt enough to take such action.
Footsteps echoed loudly as they descended the stairs. I quickly arranged the papers and stepped away from the counter. My phone vibrated unexpectedly, catching my attention.
Carrie: Hey! Guess who just went through a breakup and is feeling the need to get shit faced.
Me: Oh no! I thought Alex was the love of your life.
Carrie: Turns out he was unfaithful and dishonest. I could use a wing woman, at least five drinks, and some dick to forget about him.
Me: Alright, pick me up at our usual spot around 11.
The conversation ended. I stared at the screen for a moment longer before sliding my phone into my pocket.
Charlie was still missing.
Still silent.
The thought troubled me more than it perhaps should have. Outside, rain battered the windows. Inside, my eyes drifted toward the stack of papers on the counter, settling on the name I’d been avoiding all day.
Charlotte Callahan.
A strange knot tightened in my chest.
Then I shook my head.
Tonight wasn’t about Charlie.
Tonight was about letting go.
And for the first time all week, I was determined to try.