Branded

“Ask me a different question. One I might be able to answer,” she adds.

I think about the email I got and the note Phina received and how she seemed to know who it might have come from but shut down when I tried to get more information out of her.

“Okay, here’s a question. Has she pissed anyone off in the last fifteen years? Someone who might want to fuck with her?”

I watch as Finnley’s expression goes from irritation to worry as she bites her bottom lip. “What are you talking about? Did something happen?”

I didn’t come here with the intention of freaking Finnley out or telling her about what happened with Phina, but obviously Phina isn’t even confiding in her best friend about it and I don’t like that one bit.

“Someone left a note on her door the other night. It wasn’t signed and let’s just say it didn’t have the nicest words written on it. She went to a mutual detective friend of ours to have him look into it and he let me know about it,” I explain, trying not to growl the word friend. “I got a similar email from an anonymous person and when I confronted her about it at the hospital the other night, I could tell that she knew who it might be, but she wouldn’t admit it.”

Finnley looks back at Collin. “It can’t be him, can it? I mean, she’d know if they let him out, right?”

Collin rubs her shoulder comfortingly and nods his head. “Yeah, they would be obligated to send her a letter informing her of his parole since she testified. She hasn’t said anything to you about it?”

Finnley shakes her head.

“What is going on? Who are you talking about?” I ask, my worry growing tenfold at the mention of parole.

Finnley turns back to me and I watch her throat constrict as she swallows nervously a few times. “Why would both of you get similar notes? You guys have only seen each other that one night at the bar a few months ago and then at the gallery.”

Deciding now isn’t really the best time to inform Phina’s best friend about her proclivity to threesomes and how I practically fucked her in the middle of the hospital, I change the subject.

“Not important. The fact is, someone isn’t happy with her and now I’ve been pulled into it. Tell me what you know.”

Finnley runs her hand through her hair and takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “She didn’t have the best childhood. Her mother left when she was little and her father blamed Phina for it. I don’t know everything, she’s not exactly forthcoming with that information, but I know it was bad. There were times in high school when she would just shut down for days at a time. She wouldn’t eat, she wouldn’t speak, she just…existed. And then, she’d snap out of it and pretend like nothing was wrong. Her dad owned his own garage in town, but towards the middle of our senior year, it was starting to go under. He was drinking a lot, not showing up for work, arguing with customers, that sort of thing. All of a sudden, right before graduation, he came into a bunch of money. He flaunted it in front of Phina and told her she’d never see a dime of it.”

Finnley pauses to collect herself and I take the time to try once again and think back to high school. Phina was smart, beautiful and had just enough of an attitude that no one ever fucked with her. She was in the same popular, jock group that Collin and I hung around with and I never once witnessed the kind of sadness or shutting down that Finnley spoke of. Maybe I just didn’t notice. I was a hormonal teenager. My small head was so occupied with trying to get in her pants that nothing else mattered at the time.

“Phina left that big party at Tony Calloway’s house around seven in the morning the day after graduation,” Finnley continues, pausing to shoot a glare at me when she mentions Tony’s party. Before I can question it, she continues.

“She snuck into the house and as soon as the door closed behind her, she heard a gunshot from her father’s bedroom. She ran back there and found him standing over a body with a gun in his hand. When he saw her standing there, he chased after her. Thank God she was on the track team. She made it to the neighbor’s house and called the police. Turns out, he borrowed money from a loan shark. When he didn’t pay it back on time, the guy came to the house. Her dad walked him back to the bedroom telling him he had to get the money out of his dresser and then shot him in the head instead. Phina testified against him in court and he got twenty-five years to life with a possibility of parole in fifteen.”

Finnley stops talking and the room is dead silent.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “That means he’s up for parole this year.”

Finnley nods. “Why the hell didn’t she tell me about the note?”

“She probably just didn’t want to worry you for nothing,” Collin reassures her. “There’s no way that bastard is out of prison. It has to be someone else.”

It could be, but the possibility of that is slim to none. As much as I hate having to go to him, I know I need to share this information with Dax. If her father is out on parole and Phina doesn’t know, this could get really ugly, really fast.

“I’m going to call Phina,” Finnley announces, pushing herself up from the couch. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about this.”

Speaking of getting ugly really fast…

Most people can close their eyes and pinpoint a certain memory from their childhood where they felt safe and loved. With the melody of an old song or a particular smell that reminds them of being young and cared for, they can picture it perfectly in their mind. The soft press of their mother’s lips on their forehead as she kissed them goodnight after a bedtime story or the scratch of their father’s beard as he blew raspberries on their stomach to make them laugh. I stole these specific memories from Finnley when we were in college and had a night of bonding. I told her about the time my mother brought home a Happy Meal from McDonald’s as a way to apologize for not being around that much recently and how my father picked up the red and yellow cardboard box, tossed it into the sink and then lit it on fire with his Zippo. Finnley wrapped her arms around me and told me I could keep any of her memories I wanted and use them as my own, so that’s what I do from time to time when I’m feeling unusually sorry for myself. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">