Ana
I run, the moon high, the night cold. Branches slap at my face, my feet slip in forest floor detritus. I stumble, come down
hard on one knee, get up and keep going.
I can hear Camille and Bree behind me, their voices bouncing off the trees. There’s a stitch in my side and I am about to
vomit from exertion. Ahead, a big oak towers. I stop, limp. I can’t keep running.
Camille and Bree have taken to howling like wolves, and the moon is almost blue in the sky. I walk around the tree and find
a hollow, burrow myself into its moist, cold center. My breath is ragged. I shiver, try to center myself.
Agnes used to say that our circumstances are always the exact consequence of our actions. I’m thinking this as Camille and
Bree go loping by, yelling my name.
I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. I’m the first one to admit that. But I’ll tell you what. I’ve never hurt anyone who
didn’t hurt me first. Where does it say in the rule book that you have to let people abuse you? That you have to let people
get away with it?
Nowhere. It says that nowhere.
Take Kevin Harding for example, the ex that Detective Bandeau mentioned—who thinks I tried to poison him.
Who imagines I’m coming back to finish the job one day.
Well, truthfully, I did poison him. And, yes, sure, I wish I’d killed him.
But Kevin was a sexual deviant and stalker. And after what I thought was
a fairly civil breakup (no bloodshed), he would not leave me alone. The late-night calls, the vile texts and DMs, showing up at my apartment, my job.
I did the right thing first. I went to the police. I took out a restraining order. Let me tell you. They’re useless. Only
respectful, law-abiding people give a shit about restraining orders. Kevin Harding was neither of those. Men like him only
understand one thing.
When I told him I wanted to get back together, when I offered to come over and cook him a meal, his ego was bloated enough
that he believed it. I made him Sadie’s famous beef Wellington. He ate more than was reasonable. How is that my fault?
Sometimes, girls, violence is the only answer. Another Agnes-ism, one of my favorites.
Their voices are fading. I hear them in the distance now faint and confused—Ana! Where did she go?—I take out my phone, cover the glowing blue light with my hand.
The way I see it, there’s only person who can help me now. The last person I want to contact, the last person I should call, and the one I can’t stop thinking about.
As if I’ve sent out a psychic distress call, my phone rings. I hit the silence button quickly, pause, listen to the night.
Did they hear?
I tap out a text. Then another one.
I can’t catch my breath; that stitch in my side feels like I imagine the knife I stuck into April. Ha—still happy about that.
Bree and Camille are coming back, their voices echoing in the night. Did you hear that? Was that her phone?
Ana, one of them yells, sounds like Bree with her smoky, young voice. We just want to talk.
Ever notice that when people say they just want to talk, it never goes well?
I get up and force myself to keep moving.