22. Cassie
CASSIE
The closer I get to the house, the more dread roils around in my stomach.
I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. I’ve been avoiding her as much as possible because I have no idea what to say to her.
When I was little, I would always get the worst stomachache when I knew my mom was mad at me.
It’s clear from the texts she wasn’t calm, but I wouldn’t expect her to be given the news.
There’s still a small part of me that isn’t entirely sure how she will react once I’m there and the conversation actually unfolds.
I don’t like to be a dumbass, so I don’t like to hope for things I know aren’t likely to happen, but I must still be hanging on a frayed thread of hope about how this will go because I don’t have a stomachache yet. I have anxiety, curiosity, dread, but no stomachache.
I park Tor’s car in the driveway, then turn off the engine.
Nervous anticipation makes my palms clammy as I get out of the car.
The march to the front door feels like a march to death row, but I’m still hoping the governor will call with a stay of execution. When I get there, I turn the knob and find it locked.
She knew I was coming, so if I had to guess, it’s not an accident that she made entering the house just a little more difficult. That doesn’t seem like a great sign.
I dig out my key and let myself in, and as soon as I close the door, I see her sitting on the couch, watching a news channel.
My gaze drifts to the television just to make sure it isn’t the local news airing some breaking update to Tim’s case that I’m unaware of, but it’s not.
It’s some pasty dude riling up viewers about things that hardly matter and are definitely none of their business.
I wait for her to turn it off, but she doesn’t. I wait for her to look at me or acknowledge that I’m home, but she doesn’t.
The silent treatment is a choice, I guess.
Well, if she doesn’t have anything to say, then I don’t either. I slide my purse off my shoulder and start toward my bedroom.
That does it.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The viciousness in her tone does what the dreaded drive over did not—it triggers that familiar stomachache.
I stop walking and turn to face her, my stance tentative. “It didn’t seem like you wanted to talk, so I was going to my room.”
Now she turns the TV off.
I swallow, watching her stand. A stress gopher burrows deeper into my stomach when I catch the look in her eyes.
I’m in trouble.
“You know, I have put up with a lot from you over this past year,” she says.
My stomach drops.
“Your grades dropping, alienating everyone who ever cared about you, your sullen behavior, your ‘me, me, me’ attitude. You have made it very clear you don’t give a damn about this family or how anyone treats us because of your bullshit.
” Her eyebrows rise. “You know, Tina at the grocery store told me about your little incident. I asked you for one little thing, just get me a lasagna pan so I can make dinner, and you have to turn it into an ‘All About Cassie’ production!”
My face heats, my heart wanting to sink into my stomach, but that’s already dropped, so there’s nothing to fall into.
“I put up with your lies and your secrecy. Your disappearing car—that I paid for, by the way.”
It was my sixteenth birthday present, but she’s thrown gifts in my face before, so I’m not surprised.
“And then today I have to hear from someone else that my daughter was dragged down to the police station in the middle of the night. That the reason her car went missing is because she’s a suspect in a murder investigation!
How do you think I felt, Cassie? What kind of mother does it make me look like to find out something like that from some lady who asked because she was worried about me and expected me to know what was going on?
Do you have any clue how fucking dumb I felt? How embarrassing that was?”
My chest is tight, so I take a deep breath, then exhale before I try to speak. “I’m sorry if you were embarrassed.”
Her brown eyes bulge out of her head. “Who wouldn’t be, Cassie? What the hell is going on with you lately? Why aren’t you telling me anything? Why were you at that house the night Timothy Walters was killed?”
Only in the darkest corners of my mind have I even bothered to run through what an interaction might look like if I told my mom the truth. I knew there would be horror. I knew that the likely outcome would be her thinking I am a terrible person.
But that persistent thread of hope was there that perhaps she would surprise me. Maybe she would understand.
I can see in her eyes now that there’s no chance, so I don’t gamble with my freedom by telling her any part of the truth. I tell her the story Tor prepared for everybody else.
“I’ve been seeing Tor Walters. I was with him that night.”
“So when I told you Timothy Walters was dead, you already knew because you were there, and you just decided not to tell me?”
“Yes. I had been up all night at the police station. I was tired, and I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you’ve been sneaking around, having a whole secret relationship with someone in that family you claim to hate so much?
Here you’ve been making us feel awful if we didn’t go out of our way to condemn them, and you’ve been, what?
Dating one of them? The twin brother of the boy you say raped you? ”
Her weaponizing word choice does what eighteen years of stomachaches have not been able to accomplish.
It snips the thread.
“You know what? I’m not going to argue with you about this,” I tell her.
With that, I turn back around and start toward my room.
“You better get your ass back here right now,” she tells me, coming around the couch. “I still have a lot of questions for you, missy.”
“Are any of them ‘are you okay?’ or maybe ‘are you in trouble?’” I demand, my temper and my hurt getting the best of me. “Because I’m hearing an awful lot of accusing and very little support. Don’t know why I expect anything else at this point.”
“Do not talk to me that way in my own house,” she snaps, following me down the hall.
Instinctively, I turn around, not feeling safe with my back to her. My mother has only gotten physical with me a couple of times in my life, but I seldom stand up to her, either. I know from experience she views that as provocation.
Glaring at me, she demands, “Did you have something to do with that boy dying? You tell me the truth right now, or so help me…”
“Maybe,” I say, eyebrows rising. “My ex-boyfriend is apparently the one who killed him, and it seems like maybe he followed me to Tor’s house that night, so…
maybe. And I still don’t care. He got what he deserved, and expecting me to mourn a piece of shit like Timothy Walters to save face is actually certifiably insane. Just so you know.”
I hardly have time to register the movement before the impact of her slapping me across the face. A gasp of surprise slips out of me as I look back at her.
I see a look on her face I’ve only seen a few times because I’m usually careful to avoid bringing it out. It’s pure, homicidal rage. The wild kind of look that lets you know someone is capable of truly terrible things.
I wonder if Tim saw that in my eyes the split second before I pulled the trigger.
I don’t think so, and I guess I’ll never know, but at this moment, I wonder.
I hope it’s the last time I ever think of him, but I know it won’t be.
I wish it was the last time I’d ever think of her, but I know it won’t be, either.
Tears spring to my eyes. Not from pain—at least, not the physical kind. The slap stunned more than it hurt, though my skin is stinging.
“Stay away from me,” I tell her lowly, my voice shaking. For just a second, I try to channel all that rage she seems to carry and look at her with the same kind of danger in my brown eyes. Maybe knowing I’m under investigation for murder will make her think twice about coming after me.
Then I turn and go to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I don’t have a lock. I used to, but Frank removed it after an argument years ago.
Once I’m alone, I let the tears fall freely. I cry until I can’t breathe, and once I feel empty, I grab a tissue and wipe the tears away.
My phone is still in my purse, so I fish it out and pull up my message chain with Tor. “So, about that apartment. What are you charging for rent?”
His response comes a few seconds later. “For you? I’m thinking 100 kisses a month.”
My blotchy, swollen face tugs into a smile. “Wow, that’s pretty steep. Do you have any kind of payment plan?”
“The price can be negotiated,” he texts back.
“Any idea what the bills run? I want to make sure I can cover everything before I commit, but not living here sounds pretty good right now.”
“You don’t have to worry about any bills. I’ll cover everything. I can add you as an authorized user to my credit card and get you one of your own, so you have one for expenses. I take it the talk with your mom didn’t go well?”
“No.” I don’t offer any details. “How’s your family stuff going?”
“There’s a lot to deal with, but hopefully I’ll be done shortly. If you need to get out of there, you can go to the lake house. I have a key hidden for the back door. I can tell you where to find it.”
“That’s okay. I’m gross right now, I need to take a shower.”
“You could never be gross,” he tells me.
I smile, but I really do want to get in the shower, so I don’t text him back.
___
I feel a little better when I get out of the shower.
When I wipe the fog off the mirror and peer at my own reflection, I see my cheeks are still flushed, but whether that’s from the crying or the scalding water, I’m not sure.
I don’t plan on going anywhere for the rest of the night, so I moisturize my face and braid my hair, but I don’t put on makeup or anything.
I know there’s a chance Tor will invite me over once he’s done with his family stuff, but I didn’t feel like going to the lake house last night, and even though we ended up having a good time, I don’t want to go tonight, either.
I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster for the past twenty-four hours—hell, longer than that, really—and I’m completely drained.
I smell dinner cooking, but I know I won’t be eating. I don’t plan to come out of my bedroom again tonight, and I’m not hungry anyway. I do wish I would have thought to grab a bottle of water when I got here. Going to grab one now would mean facing my mother, and I’m not that thirsty.
Outside, I hear a car door slam, and I sigh with dread.
That means Frank is home, and I’m sure my mother has fully prepared him with her vindictive narrative of why he should be an asshole to me tonight.
As soon as he comes in the house, he’ll probably check in on her and then head straight to my bedroom to scream and harass me for “being mean to her.” They always gang up on me when Mom and I fight.
Wanting to get to my bedroom before he comes in, I don’t bother drying off. I pull my sleep shirt over my head and drop the towel in the laundry basket, then I open the bathroom door, prepared to make a quick escape.
Frank usually comes in through the garage, so I’m surprised when I hear a knock on the front door. I’m relieved, too, because someone at the door should distract my mother long enough for me to get to the bedroom… unless it’s the cops here for me, I guess. That would be bad.
I keep walking toward my room, but I slow down long enough to see who’s at the door. My eyes widen in surprise when I see Tor standing there.
And he looks pissed.
My mother, of course, goes right into her phony “sweet and accommodating” mode. “Oh, hi, honey.”
Tor does not offer back his golden god of Holbrook High smile. He meets her gaze with a straight face, his eyes chips of ice. “Cassie here?”
“Yeah, of course.” She steps back a little nervously and opens the door wider to let him inside. “She just got out of the shower, so she might be a little flushed,” she adds, already making excuses.
Tor ignores her and glances over his shoulder. “This way.”
I frown, confused, and my confusion deepens tenfold—along with my mother’s—when I see half of the Holbrook High football team walk into my house carrying cardboard boxes.
Mom’s gaze darts to me uncertainly. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, cocking my head at Tor. “Um, what are you doing?”
“Moving you out. Your mom’s a fucking narcissist. You don’t live here anymore.” He hands me a slip of paper, and when I look at it, I see it’s an actual Change of Address form.
My mom’s face has gone completely white in the face of Tor showing up like this, but I see the flecks of simmering rage when she looks at me. “Cassie, what did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” I say uncertainly.
Tor turns and looks my mom dead in the eyes. “Where’s her important paperwork? Birth certificate, social security card, stuff she needs?”
“Um…” She’s flustered, her gaze darting from him to me. “I-I keep that stuff in the cabinet.”
“Go get them,” he says, clearly enunciating each letter.
Her eyes widen. “I don’t know what she told you, but—”
Tor cuts her off, using every inch of his height to take a step forward and tower over her. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, I’ll cut the goddamn thing off.”
I’m struck completely speechless as my mom looks up at him, wide-eyed and tongue-tied as well.
A guy who called me every conceivable terrible name in high school stops in front of me with an empty box. “Where should we start?”
“Um… the bedroom?” I point at the door, and he nods, heading inside to start packing up my belongings.
We do not have a large house, so we don’t really have room for all these bulky athletes.
They fill the space, and the presence of so many strangers silences my mom.
It’s one thing to go off on me when we’re alone with no witnesses, but she would never behave that way in front of an audience like this.
Knowing she has no other play, my mother starts crying, but nobody pays her any attention.
Tor takes my important paperwork from her, then heads into my bedroom.
I follow him.
“Everything in here yours?” he asks.
“Yeah. Everything but the dresser. The stuff inside is mine, but the dresser itself… she probably wants to keep.”
“Pack it all up,” he tells the guys. Glancing at me, he grabs a box. “Anything you want to take in the bathroom or anywhere else? I want to grab everything tonight so we don’t have to come back here.”
“I just took a shower, so I have some clothes in the bathroom. Probably a few other things, toiletries and…” I look up at him. “How did you know she hit me?”
He places a hand on my waist and backs me out of the small bedroom so his friends can get inside to pack, then he says evasively, “We’ll talk about it later.”