“All right, you. None of your sass now. I was lonely and new in town, and he asked me out. No harm, no foul. And he’s not a bad guy, just not a good fit for me.” She glances behind her and lowers her voice slightly. “And maybe it was fate or something. He’s a pretty well-known judge in town, I think. Maybe he’ll be able to help me somehow. It never hurts to have friends with a little bit of clout, right?”
I can tell she’s grasping at straws a bit, trying to find something to be hopeful about in the face of so much relentless shit, but I feel myself getting drawn along with her. We both need something to cling to, and hey, she’s not wrong. In Fox Hill, a lot really does seem to depend on who you know. We’ve got the Black family in our corner—for now, at least—and if she can get Judge Hollowell to help too, maybe that’ll turn things around.
“Yeah. Maybe so.” I shrug, tilting my lips up. “I guess it just depends on how bad you broke his heart when you dumped him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ha ha. I didn’t dump him. It was a mutual realization that it wasn’t going anywhere. Your mom isn’t quite the heartbreaker you think she is, kid.”
“Tell that to every one of my classmates back in Bayard who had a crush on you,” I shoot back, lifting my brows. “And Dennis Keeland from down the street. And that guy from the PTA—what was his name?”
I keep going, making an elaborate list of everyone who’s ever had the hots for my mom, and we’re both laughing by the time I finish. It’s forced and fake, but… it feels nice.
It feels needed.
It still doesn’t stop me from crying on the bus ride home though.
5
My exciting Friday night is homework with a side of homework, and a little homework cherry on top.
At about nine p.m., there’s a knock on my door just like last night. A few seconds later, Lincoln’s voice murmurs, “Harlow?”
I don’t answer, and there’s a beat of silence before the doorknob jiggles as he tests the lock. Then there’s a dull thunk, which might be his forehead hitting the door. But I still don’t answer. I stay completely still and silent until I hear him walk away, even though I know he knows I’m in here.
I can’t tell if I’m being cowardly or smart by refusing to talk to Lincoln—a little bit of both, maybe. I want to talk to him, and that’s what scares me the most. My mom needs me right now, and my priority has to be helping her. I can’t risk giving my trust to someone who doesn’t deserve it.
My eyeballs feel like they’re about to melt out of my skull by the time I finally turn the lamp off and crawl into bed, but I’ll take it.
The massive study sessions mean I’m getting caught up on missed work pretty quickly, and besides, I like being exhausted when I go to bed.
I’m less likely to have nightmares that way.
For the few weeks after Iris’s death, my dreams were haunted by horrifying images of her body flying through the air, of a man in a black ski mask staring at me from across a dark expanse, and of a small, still lump in the middle of the road. They got a little bit better for a while, but now they’re worse again.
Because now they’re a confusing mish-mash of images and emotions relating to both Iris’s murder and my mom’s arrest.
In my dreams, sometimes it’s the man in the black ski mask who bursts in on the cocktail party to take my mom away, but no one seems to realize how wrong that is, that he shouldn’t be allowed to take her. I keep trying to get to him, to pull his mask off and expose him, to make everyone see that he’s not the real detective, not even a real cop, but Dax’s arms band around me like iron, and I can never quite reach the man.
Or sometimes I dream about Iris’s death, except when the driver of the dark car gets out to check the body, gloved hands reach up to pull off the ski mask... and the face below is my mother’s.
The first time I had that nightmare, I sprinted to the bathroom and barfed as soon as I woke up, clinging to the toilet bowl while sweat cooled on my body.
But the upside of cramming my brain full of facts and figures for a half-dozen different classes is that it leaves less room for my cruel subconscious to fuck with me.
And tonight’s a good night. I hardly dream at all.
I wake up late on Saturday morning, feeling fully rested for the first time in a while. After showering, I twist my hair into a loose knot on top of my head and throw on a long knit top and a pair of leggings. The world outside is gray, and a few little white flakes dance around in the air outside my window—snow is threatening, but I don’t think it’ll actually stick.
It’s weird. I’m not used to having such drastically different seasons, and I can already tell I’m not going to love winter. I’m more of a “t-shirts all the time” kinda girl. This “bundling up” thing blows.
The Blacks keep their house nice and toasty though, and I’m about to settle into the comfy chair by the window with one of my textbooks when I hear another knock at the door.
I freeze.
Shit.
Lincoln Black is persistent, I’ll give him that.
“Harlow? Low.”