Page 6 of Burning Ember

Sometimes all that’s left to choose from are bad choices. The variance of how bad determines how far we’ll fall . . .

My eyes travel back and forth from the pumpkin necklace in my left hand to the box of condoms in my right.

The necklace caught my eye, reminding me I have one other option. I can call Sundown, my sister, for money. But as I stare down at the small jack-o-lantern with a happy face instead of a scary one hanging from a silver chain, I know I can’t.

Won’t.

Taking some of the little money Sunny earns waitressing and receives from the state to support Willow, my niece, isn’t an option, no matter how desperate I become. Plus, no way do I want to put them in danger by contacting them.

Will is the only person in the world I love wholeheartedly, absolutely. I could never take from her or put her in harm’s way.

It’s mid-August, which means she’ll be starting school any day now. Her first day of kindergarten . . . I bet she’s nervous, but also excited. I picture her strutting around wearing this necklace like a badge of honor, proudly telling her little friends her aunty gave it to her. I would have done it if I were home.

My stomach turns when I think of all the days of her life I’ve missed.

And will miss.

But I have to push those thoughts aside. They’re not helping me right now. I can’t keep focusing on the past when I need to be worried about my immediate future.

I have five dollars to my name. That’s food for two, maybe three days tops. But then what?

My gaze swings back to the condoms.

Can I really do what Ivy suggested? Sell myself? Pleasure some stranger for money?

I don’t want to. After everything I’ve been through, I don’t even know if I can.

I’ve walked the entire day from store to store. I’ve tried for weeks to find a job, practically begging for one. But without ID and looking the way I do, no one will hire me. And I can’t work just anywhere, since I have to keep a low profile.

Warner’s father, his contacts, and half the world are undoubtedly looking for me by now because of the media coverage about the fire and my disappearance. I knew with Warner’s father being a state senator, it probably would make the local news, but I didn’t know it would spread further than California.

Three weeks ago, while I was hiding out from a hot day inside a super store, I froze in my tracks. Warner’s face was on one of the large high-definition TV’s. He stood behind a podium and pleaded with the public to call the eight hundred number on the bottom of the screen if they had any information about my whereabouts. I watched horrified as a picture of us popped up. I was smiling in the photo, so it must have been taken a few months ago when we first started dating. Back when I was blissfully unaware of who he truly was. The camera zeroed in on his face showing red earnest eyes, and his frown. All fake of course. Then, in a shaking voice that made chills rush over my arms, he said, “Em, I love you. If you can hear me, come home.” He shook his head, acting as if he was suddenly too choked up to talk and leaned forward. In a whisper soft voice, he said, “Please help me bring my girlfriend home. Thank you.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised he’s free and not being treated as a suspect in my disappearance since blood was all over the crime scene. And nothing’s been mentioned about his twisted and demented proclivities either. His father must have thrown his money around and paid everyone to keep quiet like I feared he would. It was the reason I didn’t go to the authorities in the first place. Warner always bragged how his father was untouchable; he had cops, lawyers, and even a judge in his pocket.

The last thing I need is someone recognizing me and calling the cops.

There’s not a warrant out for my arrest. But I am wanted forquestioningregarding the fire. Although that may be just a ruse to get me to turn myself in so they can turn around and lock me away or hand me back to Warner. And if Warner gets a hold of me, there’s no doubt in my mind, I’ll pay dearly for burning down his house, and putting a spotlight on him and his father.

I exhale and tuck my hair behind my ear.

Ironically, selling myself isn’t a far cry from what he put me through. One big difference is I’ll walk away with money for being used instead of sore limbs, marks, and bruises.

Even in my own head, it sounds so callous. Is that who I am now? A callous, bitter girl? Is that who he made me into? Someone who no longer cares about love or dreams about being with one man who will love me for me for the rest of my life? It’s what I used to dream. Before Warner.

“Excuse me, sweetie. Do you mind?”

I spin and find a woman curiously watching me. The woman is stunning. She wears minimal make-up and has pretty, blue eyes and Angelina lips. She’s somewhat of a cross between a beauty queen and a rock groupie with the most amazing chestnut-colored hair. It’s beautiful, thick, and shiny like hair on those hair product commercials. She’s dressed to the nines in designer skinny jeans, black kick-ass heels, and a red and black shirt showing off her ample cleavage.

I’m instantly envious of her natural beauty and clean, trendy clothing because clearly, this woman isn’t scraping by like I am. For the millionth time I wonder what it would be like to not constantly be aware of the lack of money in my pocket.

Slowly but surely, I beat back the green monster rising inside me. I hate jealousy. I hate seeing it and I hate feeling it. It’s like a disease that festers if you feed it, so I don’t. I learned long ago I needed to appreciate me for me, and not make myself sick envying others.

A hard feat when you consider I grew up with Sundown who looks like a modern day version of Pocahontas with blue eyes.

“Do ya mind if I just . . . reach past you, pumpkin?” The woman gives me a warm smile and gestures forward.

“Pumpkin?”