This for That (Edge Of Retaliation, #1)

by Jewel, Bella

  That’s all because of me. Because of me and some stupid mistake.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now except sit here and wait. Just wait for the police to come in and take me away. Just wait for her family to call me a monster, and a murderer, and fight until I’m no longer allowed to walk freely. And they should, shouldn’t they? Do they not have that right? That love for their child?

  Of course they do.

  Police come in and out over the course of the next hour, and I find out what happened to all of my friends. Jessika got crushed in the car and had to have surgery to remove her leg. She’s stable, but I’ve ruined the rest of her life, too. She now has to go through the best years of her life missing a leg and feeling miserable, all because of me. Because of one stupid mistake.

  Sophie is okay, but she’s messed up. She had a few injuries, including a broken collar bone, arm, and leg. She’s going to recover well, but she’s really traumatized by the whole thing. I get that. I really do. It was terrifying.

  Joanne is okay. Somehow, she suffered the least amount of damage. She’s got a few cuts and bruises, but someone was watching over her because she’s going to be just fine. She’s my best friend, and I’m desperate to see her, mostly so I have someone to talk to, but I don’t even know if she wants to talk with me.

  Why would she?

  I just created hell for her.

  The worst part of it is none of them saw anything.

  They were all scouring the floor for the can, so not one person saw the girl step out in front of me. Nobody saw it. Which means I’m alone when I share this part of the story. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the only one claiming it, and I know what they’re thinking . . . I’m just saying that to get out of the charges.

  But I’m not.

  I’m not.

  I’m telling the truth.

  Her eyes, they were broken.

  She was broken.

  Nobody is going to believe me, though.

  I’m alone.

  Completely alone.

  About to face the worst thing I could ever face in this world.

  4

  NOW – CALLIE

  Have you got a criminal record?

  I stare down at the line on the application form for a waitress job I’m applying for, and I wonder what will happen if I say no? Will they look? Will they check further? Do they do a background check, or do they just say they do? If they don’t, and I get the job, and they find out later, can I get into trouble?

  I don’t know.

  I literally have no idea.

  All I know is I need a job, I need something to get me started, but I don’t know how I’m going to do that when every job application I’ve filled out has asked if I have a criminal record.

  Why yes, yes I do.

  I killed an innocent girl.

  I’m sure they’d love to hire me when they found that out.

  I stare at the form, and a soft female voice says, “Are you stuck?”

  I look up at the lady who I’ve been dealing with. She works here and is friendly, but she has no idea about me. She just thinks I’m a girl looking for a job. I seem friendly. I’m pretty. In appearance, I look just like any other girl who might have come in here.

  Only I’m not.

  I’m different in so many ways.

  “I’m okay,” I say, looking back down at the question. “Thanks.”

  The lady studies me, and then glances at the question too, before walking off.

  I’ve already put doubt into her head. If I say no, she’s guaranteed going to check. She’s not going to hire me now. I exhale and stand, leaving the pen on the abandoned paper, and walk out. What’s the damn point? I’m not going to get a job.

  Not anytime soon.

  What the hell am I supposed to do?

  I get back to the apartment Joanne so kindly rented for us and stop when I see a man standing out the front by the sidewalk. I exhale and purse my lips at the very large, very well-built, very hard but kind man standing near the entrance. I know him well. It’s safe to say he became quite fond of me when I was in prison. We became friends. He took care of me. Took me under his wing. Made sure I got out with a clean slate.

  He also kept assholes away from me.

  And believe me, there were a lot of them.

  He looks different at the moment, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him without his guard uniform on. I mean, why would I? It’s not like we’ve been on a casual coffee date together. It was a prison, for crying out loud. Of course he wore the same thing every day.

  As I walk up to the front steps of the apartment building, I study him. He’s got a lot of tattoos. I didn’t pick that up, either. Nope. Honestly, I thought he would be cleaner cut beneath it all.

  Tattoos run up his well-formed arms. His usually slicked-back hair is messy, and he looks more like he’s just climbed out of bed than come from work. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of running shorts, as well as a pair of running shoes. Ugh. Who even runs? Not me. Nope. No way in hell. I’d rather go back to prison than to even attempt running. What pleasure could you possibly get out of it?

  “I thought it was against the rules to talk to prisoners,” I say, and he turns around quickly, those blue eyes narrowing. He didn’t hear me approaching.

  Well.

  That’s not good for a prison guard, now is it?

  Those bastards in there are nasty.

  His dark hair is falling over his face, and he swipes it away and says in that hard voice that I’ve become so used to, “Good morning, Callie.”

  “You didn’t answer my question . . .” I say, stepping past him and unlocking my door.

  “Once you’re out here, I can do what I like.”

  “Right,” I mutter, shoving the door open and stepping inside. “So why are you here then, Officer Corel?”

  “You don’t have to call me that anymore,” he says, stepping inside and staring around Joanne and my very nice apartment. “You can call me Ethan.”

  I turn and narrow my eyes. “That just seems . . . weird.”

  “It’s my name. You’ll get used to it.”

  I exhale and throw my bag down onto the kitchen counter, and say, “Why are you here . . . Ethan?”

  His lip twitches. “I wanted to see how you are.”

  I cross my arms. “Why?”

  “Because I like you, Callie. You’re a good lady with a bad past. I wanted to make sure you were goin’ okay out here in the big, bad world.”

  I snort. “I’m fine. I’ve dealt with far worse.”

  “I know,” he mutters, walking around farther into the apartment and studying it. “This is a nice place. How’d you get it?”

  “I’m not squatting or selling my body for rent, believe me. My friend got it for me . . . for us.”

  He nods. “It’s nice. Now, get your shoes on.”

  I blink at him and when he turns to face me, I see he’s very serious. I mean, to be fair, he always looks serious. But right now, he’s like super serious. “My shoes?”

  “Yeah, your shoes. I’m not goin’ to let you wallow and sink. I’ve seen it happen way too many times. You’re goin’ to get out there, get your shit together, and I’m helpin’ you do that. So, get your shoes on; we’re goin’ for a run. Fitness is crucial for mental health.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I say, my voice a little too high-pitched for my liking.

  “Fuck no. I’m not kidding.”

  He said fuck.

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say fuck.

  Honestly, this is just weird. He’s a guard. Not my friend.

  Although, he kind of is my friend. He was so nice to me. So damned nice. I owe him everything for making life in there not so utterly terrifying for me.

  Running though? Absolutely not.

  “I don’t run,” I say, shaking my head.

  He crosses his arms. “You do now.”

  “No, seriously, Office
r Co—”

  “Ethan,” he cuts me off.

  I growl. “Ethan. I don’t run. You don’t seem to be hearing that.”

  “I’m hearing it just fine. I don’t care. I’m telling you, from now on, you run.”

  “No. No thanks.”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  I stand my ground. I’m not running.

  “I’m not leaving until you do. One block. Hurry up.”

  “You’re not the damned boss of me out here,” I snap, crossing my arms.

  “That’s very childish, Callie. I’ll wait.”

  He sits on my sofa, and with a frustrated growl, because I know he won’t leave, I stomp to my room and grab my shoes. Shoes that, of course, have never been used for running.

  I went shopping the second day out, and got all this stuff. Joanne was kind enough to buy the essentials for me. I got some shoes, mostly for walking around and looking for jobs in. Not running. Never for running.

  With a frustrated huff, I get changed into something more run-worthy—a pair of tight black pants and a tank—and then I throw my hair up into a ponytail and put the damned running shoes on. Damn this man. I can’t believe he’s making me do this. I have no idea how he thinks running is going to make things feel better. It won’t.

  I walk out and give him a look that tells him I’m not happy with his decision, and then I mutter, “Let’s go.”

  He stands up, claps his hands together, and we walk out the front door.

  This is the worst day of my life.

  Okay, slightly dramatic.

  But it’s close. So damned close.

  Screw running.

  WHEEZING, I DOUBLE over and glare at Ethan. “This is horrible. What is wrong with you? Did you get dropped on your head as a child? Do you have issues? How in the hell do you find this enjoyable?”

  Sweat trickles down my forehead as I struggle to get a full breath into my broken lungs. We ran two blocks, not one, and it feels like my whole body is going to collapse. I’m unfit. I’m trim, sure. I’ve always been that way, luckily for me, and in prison, you hardly get overfed, but I’m not fit. I’m not a runner. I’m not an athlete. I don’t do any of that. I never once used the gym at the prison. Not once.

  “You’ll learn to like it,” Ethan tells me, barely having broken out in a sweat.

  “I think you’re imagining things. I could never possibly like this.”

  Ethan shrugs.

  We walk around the corner, very slowly because my whole body burns, and stop when we see Max standing outside my apartment building. I haven’t seen Max for eighteen months. Anger doesn’t begin to describe how utterly disappointed I am in him. In my whole family, for that matter. After the first year or two, they stopped visiting. My mother apparently had a mental breakdown, unable to deal with the media frenzy.

  I don’t care.

  I was just a young girl. I had no one. I was afraid and scared.

  She owed it to me to damn well visit.

  My father visited only occasionally, and then eventually he moved on with his life. Proving to me how little I meant to him.

  Max visited often, but in the last few years, he stopped. He sent letters, saying he was sorry, but he never explained why the hell he left me when he was the only family member I had. He had no right to do that. Family is supposed to stick together. Of course, I didn’t expect them to visit every week, but to just abandon me? That hurt. So much.

  “What are you doing here? And how do you know where I live?” I say when Max turns and stares at me.

  My brother looks more like a man now. Gone are his teenage-boy features. In their place, he has matured. He has filled out. He’s an incredibly handsome guy—he always has been. He’s tall, lean but muscled, and has short messy dark hair and hazel eyes.

  “Callie,” he says, “I can’t believe you’re out. Joanne told me where you were staying, I told her I wanted to visit you.”

  “Don’t give me that, Max. Don’t you dare give me that. You don’t get to be here.”

  I turn to Ethan, who is staring at Max with disappointment in his face. Ethan knows because he saw me the day I realized I was truly alone. Outside of Joanne, none of my family had my back. He found me in my cell, just staring blankly at the wall, completely broken. He helped me back onto my feet. Ethan was there for me.

  Max was not.

  “You good here?” Ethan asks.

  “It’s okay,” I say to Ethan. “I can deal with him. Thanks for the run. Wait, scratch that. The run was awful. But thanks for checking up on me.”

  He stares at Max for a long moment, then nods and tells me he’ll be back tomorrow for another run. Then he jogs off down the street as if we didn’t just finish doing that. Damn him for being so good at it.

  I turn back and glance at Max, then murmur, “I have nothing to say to you, Max. You can leave.”

  “Callie, come on,” he calls as I walk past him and walk into the apartment building entrance.

  I spin around, frustrated. “What exactly is it you want from me? To be happy you’re here? Oh finally, the siblings are back together again? No. You didn’t come and see me for nearly two years. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Any at all?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. If you’ll just hear me out . . .”

  I shake my head, frustrated. Does he even care what I went through? Probably not. I mean, who the hell does? I’m old news, right? “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

  “Mom was sick.”

  I stop, clenching my eyes closed. Dammit, I can’t stand the woman, but he knows he’s caught my attention. He knows I’m not a heartless bitch.

  I turn around slowly to face my brother. “What do you mean she was sick?”

  “She got diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s okay now, but it was a really rough time. We had to go to a different city for the doctor she insisted on seeing. I didn’t tell you because I knew you were already dealing with enough.”

  “Look,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I get all of that, but the fact is, you left me and all I got were stupid letters occasionally. You could have called. You could have done anything, anything at all except leave me feeling like I didn’t have a single person left in this world. A letter did nothing. A letter didn’t help. It made me feel even more alone.”

  He closes his eyes and exhales. “I know, but honestly, Mom was beside herself, and all my time and attention was on trying to stop her having some sort of breakdown. I should have told you, I know that . . .I should have done more than letters . . .”

  “You’re right; you should have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m done listening to you.”

  “Callie . . .”

  I step inside and slam the door. Then I press my back up against it and exhale.

  He knows. He knows what I went through.

  His excuses mean nothing to me. He could have been there if he truly wanted to be.

  This just proves what I’ve known for many years now. You can only ever rely on yourself. Everyone else will let you down.

  Guaranteed.

  5

  THEN – CALLIE

  “Your trial date has been set a week from now,” my lawyer tells my mother and me as we sit at a huge table made of wood, just like they do in the movies.

  All this space but nobody to fill it.

  “What are her chances of getting out of this?” my mother asks, opening her purse to pull out a tissue.

  She’s still bringing the drama forth.

  “If I’m being honest, I don’t think we’re going to get off all that lightly. There is no evidence to support Callie’s claims that Celia stepped in front of the car. Her family is saying she wasn’t depressed and wasn’t suffering in any sort of way. Nobody else saw it. I may be able to drop the charges against driving underage, but as for the manslaughter charge? I’ll do my best, of course, to get Callie out of this.”

  I stare numbly at the table.

  The last month of my life
has been constant talk about what’s coming next. Lawyers and media. The family of Celia on the news, saying they’ll get justice for their daughter. It has been a never-ending hell. I cried so much I couldn’t cry anymore. Now I’m just numb. Beneath the numb, though, I’m terrified. I’m so scared of what’s to come. So scared of where I’m going to end up.

  Involuntary manslaughter is the charge they’re trying to get me on, instead of murder.

  Murder.

  As if I meant to kill her.

  My friends, well, Joanne, said of course I didn’t mean to hit the girl. She told the same story I told—that we were looking for the can. Only none of them actually saw her step out. So, as far as the law is concerned, I wasn’t watching where I was going, and she was crossing the road. I hit her. They’re so incredibly wrong, but my words, no matter how many times I say them, mean little to anyone.

  Because it wasn’t intentional, manslaughter is my charge. It can hold a maximum sentence of eight years. Eight. Years. My lawyer, Gregory, is trying to get me a lesser sentence because I’m underage. Either way, the chances of me going to juvie are probably a hundred percent. I’m not getting out of this. Honestly, why should I anyway? If I didn’t do what I did, Celia would still be alive today.

  The first time I heard her name, Celia Yates, my whole world stopped. I stalked everything from her Facebook to her Instagram. Her family is right; it doesn’t look like she was unhappy. All her photos show her laughing with friends, or her boyfriend, Grant. She looked like she had a good life, full and enjoyable. I took that from her.

  When I started reading the comments on her memorial pages, on what kind of monster I must be, my mother took my phone. She said I don’t need anything else to distract me. I need to be on my best behavior. I don’t think she realizes this isn’t third grade. Good behavior isn’t going to get me anywhere. I won’t get rewarded and let off.

  No.

  Nothing will change my sentence. Nothing at all.

  At least, that’s how I see it.