Dinner was barely over when I excused myself from the table, murmuring something about needing rest. I didn't wait for anyone to reply. Frankie glanced at me but quickly returned to her hushed conversation with Marilyn. Blanche barely looked up from her plate, and my mother didn't seem to care as long as I didn't do anything to piss her off.
Fine by me.
I made my way upstairs, shutting my door firmly behind me. The air in my room was cool and still, a little difference from the suffocating performance of the dining table. Without wasting time, I stripped out of my clothes and tossed them onto the armchair by the window. The bathroom beckoned, and I padded inside, pausing for a moment to stare at my naked reflection in the mirror.
My skin glowed faintly under the warm bathroom lights, smooth and unblemished except for the faint scar on my palm that seemed to mock me every time I noticed it. My hair hung loose around my shoulders, still styled from earlier, but already losing its polish. I looked at myself for a long moment before turning away, stepping into the shower stall.
The water was hot, scalding almost, just the way I liked it. It washed over me, soothing the ache in my shoulders. Practice, dinner—it all melted down the drain. By the time I stepped out, my skin was pink and steaming, and I felt lighter. I threw on a loose sweatshirt and shorts, something comfortable, before locking my door.
The safe sat discreetly in the corner of my room, blending in with the furniture. I knelt in front of it, punching in the code before the small door popped open with a soft click. Inside were neat stacks of cash, a few documents, and the files I was after. I grabbed them, shut the safe, and stood.
The balcony doors stood invitingly, the glass reflecting the faint glow of the bedside lamp. I opened them both, letting the cool night air wash over me as I stepped outside. The balcony was one of my favorite parts of the room. It stretched wide, furnished with a plush couch and a small coffee table. I settled onto the couch, crossing my legs as I picked up the first file.
The first page greeted me with a photo. Her face. Heather.
Her red hair catching the sunlight in a way that almost made it glow. Her hazel eyes—those had been the first thing to pull me in. She was smiling faintly in the photo, the kind of smile that hid more than it revealed.
Just Heather. No last name. She'd grown up in an orphanage and refused to take the matron's surname like the others. Of course, she wouldn't. Heather never liked being tied to anyone or anything.
I flipped through the pages, the photos stacking one on top of the other. One showed her eating ice cream, a baseball cap perched on her head, her hair shining under the sun. That hair. I'd always thought it was such a waste, that someone so damaged could have something so beautiful.
Another photo caught my eye. She was sitting on a bench, kissing a boy with glasses. Same day, same outfit—except the cap was now off, lying on the other end of the bench. The boy looked like a nerd, all awkward limbs and messy hair. Definitely not her boyfriend. Heather didn't do boyfriends. She did flings. Boys who'd help her with homework. Boys who'd take her shopping and buy her things she couldn't afford. Boys who'd treat her like the perfect girl, who'd treat her like everything she wasn't, she didn't want to be.
She never had a real relationship, just like she never planned to be a genuine friend to anyone. It was her thing. And, luckily, I'd figured that out early enough to ditch her before she dragged me into her mess. No use getting into trouble for someone who was never worth it.
Another photo: she was crouched by a riverbank, a cigarette between her fingers. A boy stood under a tree nearby, shirtless, watching her with a smile. No glasses this time, no nerdy vibe—just another victim of her charm, probably. And they probably just had sex under a tree.
I turned the page, but the rest of the photos weren't as personal. They documented her movements, places she visited. A month's worth of records in neat order.
I dropped the file and reached for the next one. This one was a collection of also a month's worth call logs. Amidst all, the familiar number from our last call stared back at me, alongside the location it originated from. I stared at it for a moment before closing the file and picking up the last one.
This one was the most interesting. It detailed her time in juvenile detention, complete with photos.
The pictures weren't flattering—gritty, unpolished snapshots of her in an orange jumpsuit. She looked pale and angry in most of them, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. The report said she was there until she turned eighteen, then transferred to adult court for the preliminary hearing, and another trial.
What caught my attention was how quickly she got out. Heather was out on bail within weeks.
That didn't add up.
Murder wasn't something you just walked away from. So how the hell had she managed to get bailed out so fast?
I flipped through the remaining pages, searching for answers, but there was nothing. No explanation, no leads. Just a glaring gap where the truth should've been.
It didn't sit right.
I stared at more of the photos, one of her beating up another inmate, another of her having her lunch, a few others of her either getting into fights, or exercising or cutting the grass as a punishment.
A few other of the rest of the offenders she'd ever associated herself with since her serve time in there. A few boys—of course— and the rest were girls.
The last one was of her talking to her visitor, a man.