Page 101 of Ghosts Don't Cry

My hands are shaking now that the threat has passed, adrenaline draining away. I shove them into my pockets in an attempt to hide it.

And that’s when it hits me.

I want to stay here.

The realization rocks me back on my heels.

When did that happen? When did this stop being just another temporary place to exist? When did I start wanting more than just survival?

But I do. I want to build a life here. I want to finish the work Edwards started. I want to prove that Iammore than what they remember me to be.

“You look like you need coffee.” Tom is already moving back toward the kitchen. “And maybe some real food. I bet you didn’t have breakfast.”

I watch as he moves around the kitchen, an unfamiliar emotion expanding in my chest. It’s uncomfortable, awkward, but real. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to retreat.

I don’t know how to do this. How to accept help and believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as alone as I thought. Everything inside me wants to run, push him away and hide where no one can see how much this has shaken me.

Tom starts the coffee maker as though this is a routine we’ve been following for years … and I let him. Because I don’t have to figure it all out right now. Maybe I just have to learn how to let someone stand beside me while I try.

A voice inside my head whispers that it can’t last. Nothing good ever does. Somehow I’ll ruin it, or the universe will find a way to take back something I’ve dared to allow myself to want.

For now, I silence it, and take a seat at the table, accepting the coffee Tom places in front of me—hot, black, exactly how I like it—and accept his company.

Chapter Forty

LILY

I spendthe rest of the weekend hiding in my apartment. Cassidy stays with me, sleeping on my couch, and waking me every few hours like the doctor ordered. The stitches in my lip pull with every movement, a constant reminder of what happened. The bruising spreads across my cheek in shades of purple and yellow, impossible to hide no matter how much concealer I try to layer on.

Mom calls three times on Saturday afternoon, and six times on Sunday. I stare at her name on the screen and let every call go to voicemail. Cassidy fields the calls when Mom tries her phone instead, telling her I wasn’t feeling well, that I needed rest, and that I’d call her in a couple of days.

The police call sometime on Saturday, asking if I want to press charges. I tell them I don’t. There’s no point. I know Dan didn’t mean to hit me, and even though I’m angry and hurt at him, I’m not going to ruin his life over a mistake he made.

By the time Monday morning comes around, the throbbing in my face isn’t quite as bad. The stitches are still visible, but I’ve figured out the best shade of concealer to hide the worst of the bruising. The marks on my throat that Ronan left there onFriday night are nothing compared to the mess on my face. A high-necked blouse covers them easily.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to see what everyone else will see. A teacher who got caught up in violence? A woman who made poor choices? Someone whose judgment should be questioned? Or a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The drive to school takes no time at all, and Principal Martinez’s voice cuts through the morning quiet the second I walk through the door.

“Ms. Gladwin. My office, please.”

I follow her down the hallway, past empty classrooms and bulletin boards. Two teachers pause their conversation to watch me pass. I keep my eyes forward, spine straight, and try to ignore how dry my mouth has become.

She closes the door to her office behind us and gestures for me to sit. Her expression is unreadable as she takes her place behind her desk. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger on my face, taking inventory of the damage.

“I’ve received some concerning phone calls this morning.” She rests her hands on top of her desk. “Mrs. Walsh has been particularly vocal. She heard quite a detailed account of an incident happening outside The Flamingo on Friday night between you and someone she claims is a known criminal.”

Heat crawls up my neck, burning into my face. Kate and Amy must have made sure everyone heard their version of events. That’s how news travels in this town. It starts with whispers in the coffee shop, or grocery store, or bar, then spreads through social circles, growing more dramatic with each retelling until it reaches people like Beverly Walsh, who knows exactly how to use the information.

“And of course, there’s also the incident outside Wilson’s on Saturday morning.” Her voice remains calm and professional. “Some parents are understandably concerned.”

“I didn’t?—”

She holds up her hand. “Before we continue, I should mention that Mrs. Walsh has already called an emergency meeting of the school board.”

Of course she has. Beverly Walsh has been on the school board longer than I’ve been alive. She treats it as her own personal kingdom, wielding influence like a weapon.

My fingers curl into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms. I force my voice to stay steady. “What happened on Saturday wasn’t my fault. I was trying to stop a fight.”