Page 156 of What Comes Around

“Because you owe me,” she snapped, the sharpness breaking through before she caught herself. When she spoke again, her voice softened, almost careful. “Just come. I need to talk to you.”

She needed something from me. And she hated needing anything from me.

That alone made the idea tempting.

And the truth was, I wanted to see her too. Not out of compassion. Not out of anything resembling loyalty. But because she couldn’t touch me anymore. Couldn’t hurt me. Couldn’t twist anything into something it wasn’t.

She was locked in a cell now. Stripped of her audience. Stripped of her power.

I wanted her to see exactly how badly she’d lost.

“Fine,” I said at last. “I’ll come.”

The line went dead.

Two days later, I stepped through the security checkpoint at Cook County Jail.

I had taken my time getting ready that morning, more than usual, carefully erasing every sign of how I’d felt earlier. The nausea, the exhaustion, the rough start to the day.

Soft foundation evened out the pale tone of my skin, concealer brightened the shadows under my eyes, a touch of blush brought warmth back to my cheeks. Mascara, a subtle gloss. My hair fell smooth down my back, polished and silky.

I chose a fitted cream dress that skimmed over the small curve of my stomach without clinging.

If I was going to see her, I was going to look good.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I was led through a narrow hallway, the air sharp with disinfectant and metal. A guard stopped at one of the visitation booths and gestured me inside.

Apple was already there, waiting behind the glass.

For a second, I just looked at her.

She looked… rough.

Her hair was short now, barely brushing her jawline, thin and uneven. I’d learned from Amy that the prison removed all hair extensions on intake. Safety protocol. So this was her real hair

Her skin looked washed out under the harsh lighting, dark circles shadowing her eyes, a bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

She looked nothing like the polished influencer she used to be. She looked like someone who hadn’t adjusted to an orange uniform.

I took the seat across from her and picked up the phone.

Apple mirrored the motion more slowly, her hands trembling just a little.

“You came,” she said.

“Unfortunately,” I replied.

Her jaw tightened. “I need your help.”

“It must hurt, having to say that.”

She ignored it, leaning closer to the glass. “You need to talk to the DA. Tell them you exaggerated. That you misunderstood. Tell them you want the credit card charges dropped.”

I blinked at her, taken aback for a second. “You want me to lie to law enforcement for you.”

“It’s not lying,” she snapped. “It’s fixing what you broke.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of me. I shifted back slightly in my seat, the phone still pressed to my ear. “Apple, this is witness intimidation. And you’re doing it on a recorded line.”