by Amy Cross
"Wish me luck," I say eventually, with tears streaming down my face. "You know this isn't the kind of thing that I'm usually able to do, but I can't let her prosper. Even if I'm never able to come and see you again, know that I managed to get revenge eventually. She murdered you, and now I'm going to give her an eye for an eye. It's only fair."
Getting to my feet, I turn and start walking away. I know Bobby's soul isn't in this cemetery. I know he can't hear me. But if he could, he'd certainly understand why I have to do this.
Cassie Briggs
When I wake up, I find that sunlight is streaming through the railings of the back fence. For a moment, I have no idea where I am, and it takes several seconds before I realize that I must have slept in the back garden, with my back against the fence and my knees drawn up to my chin.
For a fraction of a second - just a fraction - it's as if the past five years never happened. I allow myself to imagine that I could call up Fisher and Bobby, and we could all hang out. The thought fills me with this overpowering sense of happiness, but I blink a couple of times and finally the weight of reality comes down and rests on my shoulders. Those days are over.
As soon as I try to get up, I realize that I made a mistake. I'm stiff as a board, and I guess five years of sleeping on unforgiving prison beds have left my body in a bit of a mess. Gradually uncurling and getting to my feet, I realize that the grass all around me is damp with morning dew. The last thing I remember is coming out of the house because I wanted to be alone, and I certainly had no intention of sleeping outside, but after spending a few hours trying to work out what to do next, I must have nodded off. I guess no-one came out to look for me. They were probably just glad that I wasn't around.
Making my way toward the house, I check my watch and see that it's a little after eight. Hopefully my father will have already left for work, which means I won't have to deal with him again until he comes home tonight. Maybe that's the cowardly way to do things, but the last thing I need right now is to face down my own father and see that look in his eyes again. He thinks I'm guilty, and I have no idea how I might be able to dissuade him. I guess there's nothing I can do. My own father thinks I'm a murdered, that I'm capable of murder, and if that's the case, I don't see that our relationship is salvageable.
When I get to the back door, I peer through the window and see that my mother is pottering about in the kitchen. For a moment, I stand and stare, and I start to wonder if I made a mistake by coming back. Despite the trauma of everything that happened five years ago, my family clearly found a way to manage. By returning, I've reopened all those old wounds and made their lives harder. If I had anywhere else to go, I'd go, but right now I'm trapped here. I have no money, no job, and no prospects, and I need them to let me stay here, at least for a few weeks. After that, maybe I'll be able to get a room somewhere else in town. Maybe.
"Hey," I say as I step inside.
Looking over at me, my mother seems momentarily taken aback. I guess maybe she forgot I was around, or she hoped I'd shot through completely.
"Where did you sleep last night?" she asks, busying herself with the coffee machine. "I made a bed up for you, but you didn't use it."
"Thanks," I reply, still feeling a little groggy.
"So where were you?" she asks again. "I stayed up, but there was no sign of you."
"I slept in the garden," I tell her.
"You did what?" She stares at me for a moment. "Jesus Christ, Cassie, you could at least tell the truth."
"I did!" I reply. "I slept down by the old apple tree, the one that never used to actually have any apples." I pause for a moment, taking time to stretch. "I didn't do it on purpose. I was just down there for a while, thinking, and I guess I fell asleep. I woke up two minutes ago."
"Jesus," she mutters. "The garden? What are you, an animal?"
"I'd like to say that I was full of the joys of nature when I woke up," I tell her, "but that wouldn't be true." I pause for a moment, watching the pained look on her face as she fumbles with the coffee cups. "My ass is wet," I add eventually. "Too much dew, I guess. I'm cold, too. Overall, I don't think I'll be sleeping outside again in a hurry."
She sighs. "What are your plans for today?"
"I have no idea."
"You can't just sit around," she replies. "I'm expecting a call from the publisher later. He'll want to know when we can schedule the first interview for the book. I don't mean to pressure you, honey, but the news cycle is so fast these days, what with the internet and all. We really need to strike while the iron's hot."
"I told you," I say, "I don't want to be in any book."
"And you're in a position to turn down a quarter of a million dollars, are you?" she asks sarcastically. "Congratulates, Cassie. You must have untold riches squirreled away somewhere. That's very resourceful of you, but I wish you'd share some of the stash with the rest of us. Do you have any idea how hard things have been around here? Not just with the economy, but with the whole business of having to deal with the fallout of what happened!"
"No," I reply. "I don't have a clue. I haven't been around, but maybe you could tell me?"
"Just forget it," she says. "I'm not in the mood, Cassie. I guess, since you don't have anything else to be doing, I can tell the publisher that you're available whenever it's convenient for him to send the ghost writer. I'm not going to let you pass up this opportunity out of some misguided belief that you don't have a right to tell your story." She pauses. "Of course, you'll have to tell the whole story."
"I've already told my story," I reply. "To the police."
"I mean the real story," she continues. "Even the bits you've been leaving out. The publisher isn't going to want to put out a book where you try to cover up certain parts. This has to be warts and all. Maybe the police didn't keep pushing, but you're gonna be dealing with New York media companies now, honey. It's a totally different kettle of fish."
"So this is your way of getting me to tell the truth?" I ask. "Is that it? You think that if you push me into taking part in this book, I'll finally give you a story that satisfies you?" I wait for her to answer, but it's clear that she can't be honest with me. "Do you agree with Dad?" I ask eventually. "Do you think I'm holding back on the truth?"
"I think you're in a very difficult situation," she says, clearly picking her words with care, "but if this book deal is going to go ahead, you have to think about how you present the truth. I know the truth is the truth no matter what, but it can be put forward in different ways, honey. What it comes down to is..." She pauses. "Are you protecting someone?"
"Like who?" I ask, feeling my heart start to race.
"I've tried so hard to understand why you won't just tell people what happened that day at the cabin with Bobby," she continues, "and the only explanation I've come up with is that you're protecting someone. Either you're scared, or you're loyal, but you're holding back from telling the full truth." She takes a deep breath. "Was it worth it? Five years in jail. A police investigation that dragged your name through the mud. Coming home to a town that doesn't exactly welcome you with welcome arms? Who could you possibly be protecting, Cassie, who'd make all of this worthwhile?"
We stand in silence for a moment.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I say eventually.
"Then tell me."
I shake my head.
"What about the book?"
"Fuck the book."
"Cassie," she says with an exasperated sigh, "please, listen to reason." Walking over to me, she places her hands on my shoulders. "I love you, but you've got to be rational about these things. Whatever reason you had for holding the truth back, it's time now to come out fighting. Prove everyone wrong. Explain what really happened. The only reason anyone has any lingering doubts is that you seem to be keeping secrets." She pauses. "What kind of secret could be worth all this heartache, honey?"
I take a deep breath. There's no way I can even begin to explain this to her. No-one, least of all m
y straight-laced mother, could ever understand what happened all those years ago.
"Is someone threatening you?" she asks.
"No!" I reply, taken aback by the suggestion.
"Then what?" she continues. "This isn't logical. You're acting in a way that makes no sense, Cassie."
"You don't understand," I say quietly, unable to look her in the eye.
"But I could," she continues, "if you explained it to me."
"No," I say. "You really couldn't."
"But if -" Before she can finish, her mobile phone starts to ring. Taking a deep breath, she grabs it from the counter and takes a look at the screen. "It's Noah," she says after a moment. All the concern is gone from her voice, replaced by an excited, reinvigorated tone. "He's the guy from the publishing company in New York. This could be make or break for us, Cassie. You have to cooperate, just a little. Trust me, this is worth it in the long-run."
I shake my head.
Answering the phone, she fakes a big smile. "Hello!" she says, sounding as if nothing's wrong. It's amazing how quickly she can switch to that fake, insincere bon homie that she always uses in formal situations. "So good to hear from you again! How are you doing? You got good weather over there?"
Sighing, I turn and walk over to the door.
"Yes," my mother continues, "she came home yesterday. Things have been absolutely chaotic, but so far there don't seem to be too many photographers around. She's just focusing on getting settled back into normal life and working out exactly how to move on from the enormous tragedy that befell us all. And, of course, she's trying to decide how she wants to get her version of events out to the American public, or indeed the global public." She pauses. "Yes, I have, and she's very amenable. I think she just wants a little more time to think it over, just a few hours, and then we can push on ahead." Another pause. "Monday? Yes, of course!"
I mouth the word 'No'.
"Monday sounds wonderful," she continues. "It'll be good to get started, while it's still fresh in her mind." Yet another pause. "I don't think you'll be disappointed, Noah. After everything she's been through, she's itching to get her side of the story across. Just this morning, we were talking about the importance of really getting her story across, and..." A pause. "Yes," she continues, glancing over at me, "I'm sure she'd be happy to make a few talk-show appearances to support the book."
I shake my head.
"She's very good at talking," she adds. "I don't know if you've seen any video of her, but she has a real glint in her eye. She's a very likeable young woman, and she's extremely photogenic. I know that's not the most important thing, but it can help, can't it?"
"Fuck you," I reply, turning and walking out of the kitchen. As I make my way to the front door, I can hear that she's still talking to the publisher, and she hasn't even missed a beat. I guess she assumes that I'll come around to her way of thinking, do the interview and the book and the television appearances, and pocked the quarter of a million dollars. Right now, however, the last thing I want to do is step into the spotlight. I want to fade away, to be forgotten by the world. Why can't people just accept that I've said everything I'm going to say? There's no way I'm ever going to breathe a word about Darper Danver to anyone.
Florence Madison
When I see her, my heart misses a beat.
I only arrived a few minutes ago, and I expected to have to wait at the end of the street for hours until she finally showed her face. But now here she is, Cassie Briggs, walking away from her parents' house as if she hasn't got a care in the world. Not only does she have the bare-faced nerve to come back to Fort Powell after all the pain and misery she caused, but she think she can walk through these streets as if nothing happened. It's almost impressive to see her confidence, but at the same time I'm filled with anger. She shouldn't be free. She shouldn't even be alive.
Maintaining a safe distance, I start to follow her. I don't have a plan yet, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. She seems to be heading into town, probably to meet one of her friends so they can gloat about what happened. I know I can't confront her in a public place, so I need to wait until she's somewhere a little quieter. I'm sure the right moment will arise at some point, so long as I'm patient. I just have to keep on her trail and resist the temptation to rush things. I'm quite certain that I'll get my chance eventually.
Reaching into my pocket, I run a finger against the blade of the knife.
Cassie walks quickly, and after a while I struggle to keep up. Although I hate to admit it, I'm not as fit as I could be, and at fifty-seven I'm no match for a young woman in her twenties. Still, I can't let her get out of sight. I've waited five years for the chance to make her pay for Bobby's death, and I won't let my aging body hold me back. Even if this is the very last thing that I'm ever able to do, even if it kills me, I have to stay strong. For Bobby's sake, I have to make sure that this cruel, evil young woman gets what's coming to her.
As soon as she makes the mistake of passing through a secluded part of town, away from prying eyes, I'm going to kill her. So help me God, I'm going to end her miserable, murderous little life.
Cassie Briggs
Not much has changed around here. Five years away, and I've come back to the same old streets and the same old stores. I don't know whether to be glad that I didn't miss much, or sad that progress around these parts seems to be so achingly slow. I dreamed about this place while I was in jail, and it feels so good to be back on these streets. I missed this dull, boring, backwards town so goddamn much.
Pushing the door open, I head into the bar on Rodacre Boulevard. This place is just as I remembered: dull, quiet, dark and pretty goddamn depressing. I remember the day I was legally able to come in here for the first time; I was so excited, I pretty much dragged Fisher and Nicola through the door, only to find that the 'promised land' stank of stale beer and ripe urinal cakes. Even today, it's lost none of its charm, but I guess that's a good thing. Would it really be any better if I'd come back to find that someone had smarted the place up and turned it into a cool new place? As I walk over to the bar, passing a passed-out drunk who's sleeping things off with his face on a beer mat, I feel a shiver of recognition. In a way, I think I missed this place more than I missed anything or anyone else in town.
"Hey," I say as I come face to face with an unfamiliar barman. "Does Olly still work here?"
"Not since he died," the guy says gruffly. "Three years ago."
"Olly died?" I pause, feeling genuinely shocked that such a stalwart of the local scene could have left us. "What happened?"
"Stabbed during a vacation in New York," the guy says, eying me suspiciously. "Moral of the story is, never go on vacation. Bad things always happen."
"Huh," I say, pulling some money out of my pocket. "I need a drink. Something big. Double whiskey?"
"That would be big," he says with a smile, before his eyes seem to be drawn to something behind the bar that I can't see. Quick as a flash, his expression changes.
"So can I get this whiskey?" I ask eventually.
He doesn't say anything, but something's definitely wrong.
"Is that okay?" I ask, placing a twenty on the counter. I only have about sixty dollars in total saved up from the work I managed to get done in jail, but I figure one whiskey is the least I deserve. "You want I.D. or something?" I add, fumbling in my pocket before I pull out my I.D. card and hold it up for him. "I'm twenty-three. See?"
"I'm sorry," he says, "but I can't serve you."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Can't serve you. You're gonna have to leave."
"Why?" I ask, before suddenly I realize what's happening here. Looking at my I.D., I realize that someone has blackballed me from this place. After all, this is where Bobby Madison used to hang out, so I guess his death hit people pretty hard. In a strange way, I feel as if I'm intruding; it's as if, after everything that happened, I shouldn't be here. Still, I never expected to be outright denied service. A few loaded looks, maybe some w
hispers, but not a full-on freeze-out.
"Sorry," the barman says, even though it's clear that he doesn't give a damn one way or the other.
"I just want a drink," I tell him.
"You'll have to find another bar," he says, with the crystal-clear clarity of a man who's never going to budge. "It's nothing personal. You just aren't allowed to drink here."
"Sounds kinda personal," I reply, before realizing that there's no point banging my head against a stone wall. If these people don't want my money, I guess I'll just go and find someone who'll let me hang around." I pause, half-expecting the guy to admit that he was just joking and that there's no reason why I can't stay. It just seems totally insane that I could be barred from a place for no reason other than a bunch of unsubstantiated rumors.
"You have to leave," he says firmly.
"Why?" I ask.
"Policy."
"What is it about me in particular that means I have to leave?" I ask, determined to get him to say the words.
"You'd have to speak to the boss about that."
"Okay," I reply. "Where is he?"
"Out."
"Out?"
He nods, and once again he seems to be looking at something that's pinned to the wall behind the bar.
Sighing, I lean across and see that there's a newspaper cutting on display, with a photo of me. I instantly realize that this must be the bar's way of blacklisting me. I guess the owner must have told everyone to watch out for me and refuse me service if I come inside.
"Sorry," the barman says, "but my hands are tied, you know? I don't wanna get fired."
I want to rip that cutting off the wall and tear it to pieces, but I know I'd just end up looking like an idiot. This is just one bar, and I'm sure one of the others would serve me if I was really desperate.
"Dude," the barman continues after a moment, "my boss might walk back in at any moment, so... I really have to ask you to leave."