Vic Vaughn is Vicious

“What are you, my agent?”

“Sure. I get fifteen percent.”

“Jeeves. I’m about to go to prison for some seriously fucked-up shit. Why are you calling me?”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling. The Morans gave me the go-ahead to let you know that they’ve got you covered.”

“I’ve got a lawyer.”

“Not that kind of covered. The better kind.” I think I hear him smile on the other end of the phone. “So listen. Go turn yourself in—they’re not gonna give you bail this time, so be prepared to stay in jail until your family court hearing next week.”

I actually laugh. It’s a cynical laugh. “Well. I’m pretty sure there’s no hope of me ever seeing Vivi and Daisy again after this stupid bullshit. Even if it does get handled. So I don’t even want to think about that family court bullshit.”

“You just let us worry about that. Ut-oh. We got ourselves a twist. Hold tight, buddy. Here we go.”

A whoop-whoop alarm goes off behind me and then… flashing lights.

“Fuck.”

“That’s them.”

“Them? If you mean the fucking sheriff, yeah, that’s them. Wait. How did you know—”

“You have the guns in the back of the van?”

“What?”

“Do you. Have guns. In the back of the van?”

“Yeah. How did you know I was driving a van—”

“OK. This is perfect.”

“How do you figure?”

“Hands in plain sight. Don’t get yourself shot. We’re powerful, but we can’t stop bullets with a drone.”

“A drone?” I lean forward and look up.

“You good?”

“Am I good?”

“Awesome. Talk soon.”

And then the call drops.

And that’s when the sheriff pulls out his bullhorn and tells me to exit my vehicle.

I am so going to prison for this.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - DAISY

I wake up with a queasy stomach on Monday. I had big plans to go confront Lucille last week, but she was out of the office until today. So my life went back to the way it was before Vic.

Just me and Viv.

Work. Babysitter. And, even though I don’t want to admit it, some defeat as well. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I know that I should just be grateful for what I still have. And I am. I know it can always get worse. So my gratitude is real. But we were so close. So freaking close to this new family and once again, it was ripped away.

I also realize that confronting Lucille about the things she said and did seven years ago when she was my TA is pointless. It’s not going to change anything. And even if it does make me feel better, that relief will be short-lived. I understand that confrontation often makes one the lesser person.

But I don’t care.

Besides. I got a sign that week that this was the way forward. Someone dropped Vivian’s backpack off on my front porch last Friday. And what was inside the backpack? My sketchbook. The very piece of evidence I needed to have this confrontation today.

So fuck it. I do not care if I am the lesser person for doing this. I’m going to have my say with this woman and I’m going to do it today.

I arrive at the art building early. It’s a longish building because it acts as a gallery for student work. The hallways shoot off from the main gallery and Lucille’s office is on the second floor of the new south wing addition.

I expect her door to be closed. I expect to have to wait. I had imagined a sort of ambush in my head when I came up with this plan.

But plans. Right? What’s the point?

I stand in her doorway and watch her mess with an antique flat filing cabinet meant to hold large-scale drawings. I clear my throat and she turns.

At first she smiles at me—even opens her mouth, like she might say hello—but then she catches herself and frowns. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know who I am?”

She raises one blonde eyebrow. “Should I?”

“Daisy,” I say. “Daisy Lundin. I was a student in a class you TA’d several years back.”

Now she does smile. “Oh. Hello.”

“You’re really going to pretend indifference?”

She places a hand over her heart. Like I’m offending her. “Excuse me?”

I want to say so many things to this woman. None of them nice. But I want to walk out of here with my self-respect too. So I’m going to choose my words carefully. I hold up my sketchbook. “I came up here on Halloween that year to drop this off.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. But I’m not going to argue about that. I just want you to have the facts so that when you think about me—if you’re even capable of self-reflection—you will know the truth. Even if you never admit it to me, you will know it. I didn’t steal your boyfriend that year, Lucille. You see, Vicious Vaughn was never yours. I’m not saying he was mine, either. But he wasn’t yours. He told me that himself.”