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I’ve learned that hope is a fickle thing. It comes and goes in a blink of an eye. “I won’t.” I lie to make him think I’m okay. But I am anything but.
“So, where did you end up?”
“A small town in Arizona.”
The line is quiet, and I peek at my phone to see if the call dropped.
“Kalico,” he starts, breaking the silence, “I’m biting back a lot right now because this is already fucking hard, but damn it, I miss you.” There’s a shuffling noise like his phone rubbed against something, and then Paxton’s light chuckle follows. “That was Riggs. He says he misses you.”
A wave of longing washes over me. “I miss y’all, too.” More than I’d care to admit since I’m the one who left.
We end the call on a sad note. I sit alone on my couch, staring out the window that has more life than I do. This sucks. And now, I’m stuck in this freaking house for a week. By myself. I flop across the couch, my limbs flailing in a fit of childish rage.
“FUCK my life!”
As expected, one week was all it took. The world has forgotten about Shanna Clark. The headlines have moved on. I click off the TV, tired of watching the news, when I hear the thrill of my phone ringing out from the bedroom. I debate letting it go to voice mail. It’s probably Martinez with another update, of no updates. But I can’t let it go.
One of these times, it will be good news.
I run back, catching it on the fourth ring.
“Hey, Martinez,” I say, sitting on the unmade bed. I figured at some point I’d be crawling back into it today.
“Hi, Kali. Just wanted to give you an update.” Yep. I should’ve let it go to voice mail. He wouldn’t begin that way if they had found him. “We might be dealing with a copycat, or there’s more than one person we’re looking for.” My ears perk up. What the hell? How many sick bastards get off on burying women?
“Why do you say that?”
“The only similar thing between the two cases is that you guys look alike. Everything about the boxes are different. Hers, there wasn’t a chance of survival. The doctors say she only had minutes to live.”
“How do you explain the note to me?”
He hums. “We’re not sure. Maybe they’re partners. Maybe perp B knows perp A?”
That doesn’t help the sharp pain in my chest. I force my thoughts not to put myself in her place because I know how those last moments of her life were spent. I barely hear the rest of what he has to say as I stare down at my scarred fingers.
“You okay, Kali?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, fisting my hand and pushing off the bed. I will not go there.
“Hang in there, Kali.”
It’s his typical response because there’s nothing else to say. He can’t give me what I want, so he tries to assure me each time, but his words mean less and less each time we talk. Just like the note I used carry. The words have faded, the paper has worn down.
I called Dr. Betty last night. She’s the only one who helps me to see that my life isn’t defined by what he did to me. Or Shanna Clark.
That defines him. He’s the monster.
Or, in recent news, they are the monsters.
It’s up to me to define my life.
And I’m doing a lousy job defining anything these days other than my neighbors’ schedules and marital affairs.
This morning, I woke up determined to live my life. I’m young, healthy, and alive. I’m fortunate enough that I can do anything.
And I’m going to live for Shanna.
I peer out my front window and blow out a breath. I’m done living through you.
