Chapter 4.

I cannot get out of the courthouse fast enough. I duck my head, cowering inside of my oversized coat and pull the toboggan down lower, practically in my line of sight, I fight so hard not to be seen.

I burst out of the building and make my way quickly down the front steps, careful not to slip in the patches of ice building up in the crunched down snow.

I glance up ever so slightly, catching sight of my rental parked just to the left off of the street and I sigh in relief, almost there.

I fumble with the key fob trying to get in, certain this will be the moment someone is going to walk up and see me, but I manage to get in unscathed.

I crank the car and lean my head back onto the headrest, letting what small amount of heat this crap car is capable of spewing warm the air around my body. Imagining it seeping in through my layers of clothing and into my flesh.

The radio is clicked on in the car, which I think is strange considering I drove here with it off, but this car is, while still shitty, nicer than ones I've driven before. So maybe it has some sort of automatic switch on for the music or something.

I sit up, reaching over to turn the dial to at least put it onto a station that's playing music but that's when I hear it.

"Police are asking anyone with any information to come forward or call the local authorities at-."

I slap at the radio to make it stop. Silence fills the car, but all I hear in my head is those words. Those words were how it all started.

Being here is making me more crazy than usual.

I'm filled with thoughts of all of the first newscasts I'd heard sitting in the backseat of my parent's car. They'd just picked me up from school and they were singing a song on the radio at the top of their lungs. I'd laughed and played along even though I didn't really know the words we all tried to out sing the other until suddenly as we pulled to a stop light, the song cut off abruptly and the car speakers were filled with the muffled sounds of the radio host fidgeting with his mic.

"Sorry to interrupt the jams," he had said. We always listened to this station and I'd heard his voice a thousand times over on countless days but even at my age then I heard the discomfort in that small shake of his voice. "We are getting word to be on the lookout for a local Girl, Madison Reach, of Faulkner. She was reported missing to the local authorities late last night after not returning home from school at Faulkner High School. Faculty says she was in attendance, but her whereabouts since leaving the campus are unknown. She is fifteen years old, 5 feet and five inches tall. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and was last seen wearing a red coat and blue jeans." He continued. "If you have any information regarding her whereabouts or have seen her in the last twenty four hours or have any information in regards to this ongoing case, you are urged to please contact the local authorities. We will keep you all updated with any word we receive. Our prayers are with her family at this time." The radio host took a breath and then with his best attempt at cheerfulness he said. "Now back to the music."

A new song started, but my mom had reached over and turned the volume down low as my father reached out to rest a hand on her bouncing knee.

I knew Madison.

I'd had classes with her.

She was smart, always raising her hand, or making the class groan with contempt when she'd remind the teachers of assignments they had forgotten to take up.

She'd always been nice to me. We'd never really had a conversation but if I needed a pen or to know what page I was supposed to be on, she'd always been more than happy to help, a big smile on her face.

And now she was missing?

The thought didn't know where to go inside of my brain. This was Faulkner after all. People didn't go missing here. They didn't just up and vanish. Everyone knew everyone. This place was safe.

I'd had chills run up my arms.

I, like everyone else, started coming up with things in my head. Maybe she ran away? Maybe she had a secret boyfriend who she went to stay with? Maybe she'd just gotten lost or something? No one's minds went straight to anything nefarious. We were safe in Faulkner.

No one wanted to believe she could actually be missing. People didn't just go missing, did they?

But then her body was found.

Her body.

Not her, but her dead body.

They found her two days later, dead and naked in a ditch. She'd been so severely beaten that they had to use her dental records to identify her.

Someone had killed that girl, the one with the big smiles and hand raised. Someone had snuffed the life right out of her and then discarded her on the side of the road like trash.

From that moment on, no place would ever feel safe again.

I can feel my breath racing, my head swimming with confusion. Being back in this town is stirring things back up in me that I don't want touched.

My heart is in my throat and I struggle to breathe around it. I grip the steering wheel in front of me and fold my body forward onto it, trying to focus on my breathing.

I cannot do this right now. We can not fall apart right now. Not here, Missy, not right now.

I chant these things over and over to myself, trying to grasp onto where I really am right now. I'm not in the backseat of my parent's car. They're gone. I'm here. I'm ok.

We're ok, we're ok, we're ok.

It's not happening again. My father is dead. My mind is playing tricks on me.

A knock on my window sends me jolting upright.

I clutch my hands to my chest, like I can catch my heart and stop it from flying out of me.

"I didn't mean to scare you." Mrs. Statham says on the other side of the window.

I try to steady my breathing as I roll my window down, brushing the snow back that falls into the car.

"Did I forget something?" I ask her, trying to keep my voice calm and even.

She smiles down at me, a bit of her dark tinted lipstick smudged against her large teeth. "No, sweetie." She tells me, pulling her coat tighter. "I just wanted to check on you, you looked awful in there."

Gee, thanks.

Why do people always feel the need to point out to people that they look like they're falling apart?

"I'm fine." I say in a clipped tone. "Just-just- dealing with a lot."

"I know, hon." She says as if she could ever actually know how it feels to be me. "Listen, you can tell me no if you want, but I'd feel awful if I didn't offer. Why don't you come by my place and I'll fix you up something to eat. We don't have to talk or anything like that, I just don't want you to feel like you're alone here, and we all need food."

My stomach growls as she looks down at me. Every part of me wants to say no. Every part except the one that can feel the lightness of that pill bottle in my pocket.

"I don't want to be a bother." I tell her.

She waves her hand around and laughs. "Oh don't even be silly like that, it's no bother at all. You'd be doing an old woman a favor. I haven't had anyone to cook for in ages, it would be a treat for me."

I understood this tactic. The whole making it sound like they're the one that wants to have you there even though in reality they just don't want you to know the favor is all for you.

I hate pity, but I hate the idea of starving a little less. I know damn well I'm not going to the store anytime soon.

"Ok." I say.

She grins from ear to ear, happy that her persuasion has been accomplished. She prattles on the directions to her place, even though I know exactly where she lives. She's the only realtor in town. All of the families here have used her services at least once. She's a staple member of this town.

The silent drive is a short one.

Mrs. Statham lives just outside of downtown on 1st Ave in a large two story red brick house with a manicured yard and big white pillars holding up the second floor balcony that looks out over the yard.

I park my car behind one of her vehicles and follow her inside, letting her fuss over getting my coat and hat and hanging them up in the closet just inside the foyer.

Mrs. Statham, like most of the people who live in Faulkner, is loaded. Her house smells like baked goods and is warm like only people who don't have to worry about their electric and gas bills can afford to have.

"So," she starts, pointing at the stools on the other side of the island in the kitchen, gesturing for me to take a seat. "I don't mean to be nosey or start a fuss but are you doing ok?" She turns her back to me, opening the big double doors of her shiny refrigerator, pulling out ingredients.

"Yeah, I guess." I nod, taking one of the seats and watching how she flutters around her kitchen, pulling nice cookware from cabinets and turning on her nice flat topped stove.

Everything about this woman just screams nice.

Maybe with that money I'm getting, I'll have a stove like hers one day. Maybe I'll buy a book to learn to cook something other than macaroni or ramen. Most of my meals include the freezer and a microwave.

"I know you and your aunt weren't particularly close." She says softly. "I'm sure being here is difficult for you though."

That's an understatement and I'm sure she knows it.

"I'm just here to settle it all and then I have no plans to ever come back."

"Like your brother?" She says it casually, and I know she may be nice, but she's phishing for information same as everyone else always does.

I give a non committal shrug of one shoulder, pulling my hair down from the ponytail and pulling a small section to twirl around my finger.

Graciously, she doesn't push further.

"Chicken casserole alright with you?" She says instead, glancing over her shoulder at me. "My," she sighs before I can answer. "You look so much like your mother sometimes it's like seeing her all over again."

The comment catches me off guard and I drop my hair, letting my hands fall down into my lap. "Thank you." I say, not sure if she meant it as a compliment or not. My mother was beautiful, something I don't see myself ever being, but to hear someone say I look like her, it warms me a bit. Then I think how happy I am I don't look like him.

"You do look exhausted though." She says, turning back to busy herself once again. "Are you sleeping enough?"

I want to laugh.

Why do people always as if I'm sleeping? Sleeping is about the only thing I do. People should be more worried about how much awaking I'm doing. Because, lately, not much.

I can almost feel the near emptiness of that orange bottle in my pocket hanging in that closet.

"Can I use your bathroom?" I blurt out, and she laughs, telling me to use the one off of the living room.

I walk that way, trying to make this quick but I stall when I step into her living room.

One whole wall is covered with pictures of families and couples and some single men or women, each standing and smiling with Mrs. Statham holding up a big SOLD sign.

She has a picture with every person she's helped find their homes.

It would almost be a sweet kind of thing to have memorialized like this if it wasn't for two pictures in particular that knock the air out of me.

The first is a picture of my mother and father, holding up that SOLD sign, their eyes lit up with all the possibilities this new endeavor will hold for them. They're young, younger than I even am right now.

In this photo, my father's face is still visible.

How can she have a photo of him right here in the middle of her home where he can always be watching. Where she has to pass by him every single day. Where she has to look into those deep set green eyes, knowing what he'd done.

There are pictures of some of his victims hanging on this very wall with him. The thought makes me want to vomit.

The second photo though...

A face I never expected to see again.

One that's changed so much with age, but yet...he looks exactly as my memory holds him.

Mrs. Statham comes around the corner then, checking on me.

She follows my gaze the photo that has my full attention now.

"He came back." I whisper.

"Oh, that's right!" She laughs. "I forgot you and him had a little thing going there for a while."

"When did he come back?" I turn to stare at her.

"Oh, uh, I think that was early last year." She says, not noticing that my heart has fallen out of my chest where it should be and has settled somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. "He bought a cute little new construction off of Maple, it's lovely, has the best-."

I walk away, heading up the hallway and locking myself into the bathroom.

I let the faucet run on high to drown out the sound of my frantic heart.

I sit down in the floor, my back against the door and pull my knees up to my chest, forcing myself to breathe.

Not here, Missy. Not right now. Not over him. Not right now.

I push back up onto my feet and open the drawers of the vanity, moving things around as quietly as I can. When I come up empty I move my attention to the mirrored cabinet doors over the sink and creak them open.

Jackpot.

One good thing about having a pill problem these days?

Everyone is depressed.

In front of me are three orange bottles of pills.

I check the first one...useless.

The second one... a strong pain medication they usually give for arthritis. That'll do.

The third...Prozac.

It's not my favorite, but in a pinch, it'll do.

I take the second two bottles and pour about half of the pills out of each into my hand. I pop one of the Prozac and then shove the rest into the pocket of my jeans.

I put everything back as I found it, flush the toilet, then turn off the water and exit the bathroom.

Mrs. Statham is still standing at the end of the hall where I left her.

"Are you ok?" She asks, looking at me with concern.

I just give her the best fake smile I can muster. "I'm starving." I say. "How long until we can eat?"

I refuse to look at the wall as I walk by.

I will not face my father again, and I damn sure am not about to see his face again.

But when did he come back? Why is he here? How does he seem? Does he still remember me?

Stop it, Missy.

I try to relax my mind, take solace in the fact that when I leave here my bottle will be full again and I'm one more day closer to never seeing this place again. I try so damn hard not to think of him, not to worry about what his being back here means.

I look at Mrs. Statham and use all of the willpower I have left in me not to ask her anything else about him.

Questions like, is he alone? What does he do now? Is he still the same? Did he ask about me?

We cannot do this.

I cannot let thoughts of him sidetrack my life again. He broke me once, I can't let his new presence back in this town send me spiraling again.

He's the one who left.

He's the one who broke my heart.

I can't let him have anymore power over me.

But even as I try to convince myself otherwise, it's already happening.

I'm already falling back into the hurricane that is Aries Carter.