Chapter 63 #2
Anna frowns. “Emilia didn’t tell you?” she asks, voice clipped. “Of course not. I stayed with the murderer.”
My jaw tightens, and I frown at her choice of words. “Her name’s Kayla.”
“Potato, po-tah-toe,” she mutters. “You’re on babysitting duty now, Hastings. I’m out.”
She’s wearing one of my baggy black T-Shirts and nothing else.
Fuck’s sake. Grinding my teeth, I let it go for now, taking in her bleary steps and her slumped shoulders.
She stumbles past, brushing close enough that I catch the faint scent of her floral shampoo.
At the doorway, she pauses. One hand rests against the frame, and slowly, she looks back.
Her green eyes are softer than usual. And before I can brace myself, that familiar expression settles over her face, the one I know all too well from Emilia.
Pity.
My jaw clenches.
“That girl’s a mess,” she says quietly. Then, with a sad smile that’s too gentle to be Anna, she ducks her head and disappears.
Don’t I know it.
I curse under my breath, reaching up and running a hand through my hair. First things first, I clearly need to check on Kayla.
The shower is running when I make my way upstairs, Anna’s soft humming leaking beneath the bathroom door.
I knock on Bridget’s slightly ajar door before pushing it open.
Kayla sits under the covers at the end of the bed, knees against her chest, staring through the tiny gap between the boards on the window, looking down into the alleyway.
She doesn’t move when I step into the room. Doesn’t even flinch.
“Kayla?” I say softly.
Nothing. Not even a blink.
“Emilia wanted me to check on you.”
I take another step, and the floor creaks.
“Anna’s heading to work now,” I add. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
Still nothing. She blinks, leaning closer to the window, almost pressing her forehead to the wood.
“I know they’ve already told you this,” I say carefully, “but you’re safe here.”
Her jaw twitches. “I don’t want to be safe,” she mutters hoarsely.
“No?”
“No.” Her voice cracks on the word. “I don’t want to be locked away.” She swallows before adding, “Trapped.”
The word slices through the room like a dagger, burying itself in my gut. I inhale sharply, spine straightening. She doesn’t want to be safe—because being safe like this makes her feel like a prisoner. And that hits too close to Killmoor.
The air grows thin.
“You aren’t a prisoner here,” I say, voice ragged, but steady.
She swallows, and then, slowly, her eyes drop from the window. She leans back, resting against the brown painted wall, and her gaze meets mine. It’s hollow, almost broken, but behind it all, I see a flicker of emotion, something that proves she’s not entirely lost.
“I can’t stop,” she admits quietly. “Over and over in my mind. Reliving every single second of it.” She inhales shakily. “If I had stopped Jace from arguing with them, if I had insisted on going back to work, then…” she trails off, blinking, eyes falling to her knees.
“He still would have argued with them, Kayla. He was protective of you,” I say. “There’s no point torturing yourself.”
She scoffs, but it’s far from amused. “That’s all my mind does these days.” Her arms tighten around her legs. “The marriage, the kiss, the prison… Jace,” she pauses, blinking when her eyes start to gleam. “It all comes back to me, Zac. I did this.”
“No,” I argue, stepping closer, voice low. “The State did this. They made you this way... us this way, when they shoved us in those grime covered cells.”
She shrugs, short blonde hair covering her face as she leans back towards the window. “But my choices made it so.”
“Your choices shouldn’t have left you in a prison, Kayla. Don’t let their fucking bullshit make you believe that. Jace wouldn’t want that—”
“You don’t know that,” she says, tone harsh and bitter. “He’s dead. Because of me.”
“He’s dead because of them. End of.”
Her jaw twitches, and she rests her forehead against the boards, staring through the gap. “Just leave me alone, Zac,” she says, voice steadier than it’s been so far.
“Kayla—”
“Please.” The plea is almost a wail, and my spine stiffens at the sound.
I should fight against her, should argue that shutting herself off from the rest of us is the wrong thing to do, should insist she talks…
but I know how it feels. I know she wants to wallow, to spend time grieving and believe what she needs to.
She wants to cope with it all on her own.
Emilia and all her preppy friends will be there to help whenever Kayla’s ready.
So I give up.
“I’ll be downstairs for a few hours until work,” I say.
She doesn’t react.
When I leave, Anna’s just slipping out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind. She stops when she sees me, eyes widening as I pull Bridget’s door closed behind me.
“Told you,” she murmurs, giving me a sympathetic smile before disappearing into her own room.
I exhale through my nose, rubbing a hand down my face as I head for the steps.
Downstairs, I make a beeline for the basement, needing an outlet and a distraction.
I haul the dumbbells up and start lifting, weakened muscles screaming instantly.
I push through, grunting as I attempt the barbell, the pull-up bar, the kettlebell.
My muscles ache, but I push through, wanting them—no, needing them—to hurt. I want to fixate on something other than the images that play in an incessant loop in my head. Killmoor. Jace. Emilia. Kayla’s denial.
I push harder and harder until my arms tremble.
Breathing heavily, I straighten, leaving the gym equipment in favour of the weapons. My fingers curl around one of Bridget’s favourite knives. Squaring up in front of the target, I launch my hand forward and let go.
The blade hits the wall and clatters to the ground, nowhere near the target, and nowhere near actually imbedding itself into the surface.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
No matter how many times I try, I can’t seem to grasp Bridget’s favoured weapon.