I knew Owen had help moving me. Even as small as I was, my dead weight must have been difficult to lift and maneuver. It didn’t surprise me that it had been the sheriff. It surprised me more that he hadn’t just let me die. It would have been less work on his part.
There was nothing the sheriff could say to me—not even the confession of his decision to keep me alive rather than let me die—that could have killed my adrenaline rush, my high. The Fletchers had brought my madness upon themselves. They shouldn’t have covered for Owen. They shouldn’t have protected him when it was me who needed the protecting. They certainly shouldn’t have thought that ten-thousand dollars would have bought my silence or in any way, would have made me whole again.
They didn’t know they were dealing with someone who’d never been whole to begin with.
The sheriff was right. He should have dug the hole and fucking buried me deep. No good could come of who I was becoming. Jake had once told me that the most dangerous people are the ones with nothing to lose.
I’d already lost it all.
***
“Miss Ford, protocol requires for me to ask you if you would like an attorney.”
Bethany Fletcher stood and tapped a long red fingernail on the scratched wooden table. We were sitting in a small room with no windows and bare green walls, stained with god only know what. My hands were cuffed to the chair behind me.
“Protocol?” I asked. “That’s funny. I’ll have to remember that one.” The woman had some nerve. She furrowed her brow in warning.
Owen had the same look.
With their green eyes and dark hair, they could almost be mistaken for siblings instead of mother and son. Bethany looked sharper though, like a knife with a new blade. She wore a fitted black power suit. Her heels were four inches of pointy, red patent leather.
“Abby, you are being charged with a class A felony of arson, as well as driving without a license, destruction of property over twenty-thousand dollars, and possession of marijuana. You have priors for breaking and entering, petty theft, possession of marijuana paraphernalia, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and battery. You should really take your situation more seriously, sweetheart, because you’re looking at ten years without sunlight in a nice, cozy cell all to yourself.” Bethany was taunting me. The way the word sweetheart melted from her lips, it could have been mistaken for an endearment. Southern women used it when they couldn’t come right out and call you a cunt.
“So what, then? Rape and attempted murder are just misdemeanors? ‘Cause I got a feeling that kind of thing goes unpunished around here.” I looked her right in her eyes.
She parted her shiny red lips and chuckled.
Bethany circled around the desk, unbuttoning the jacket of her suit, and knelt down next to me. “I’m glad you decided to have your little episode today, because now you need my help, and I am the only one who can make all these unfortunate charges go away. I felt bad for you, Abby. I really did. That’s why I sent you the money. Too bad you fucked up a good thing. Now, we play it my way.” Bethany flashed me a fake smile.
“Now, you’re blackmailing me?” I asked. Bethany stood and took a seat opposite me, propping her briefcase up on the table.
“Not blackmail sugar. An agreement.” She pulled papers from her briefcase and set them in front of me. “This is your account of what happened that night: you were mugged. You don’t know who did it. You didn’t get a good look at your attacker. The police report will make it seem as if they searched heaven and hell for the assailant but have ultimately come up empty-handed, and the case will be shelved.”
“You’re out of your goddamned mind.”
“Now, sugar, don’t go using the good Lord’s name in vain. It’s not the Christian thing to do. This is a business transaction—your account of what happened in exchange for me dropping the charges for torching my house. You’re the one who ruined this, Abby. You could have taken your money and gotten out of town, but instead you chose to go all avenging angel on me.”
“Fuck you.” I’ll go to jail, I thought. After what I’ve been through, jail would be like summer camp.
Bring it bitch.
“Doesn’t matter to me, darlin’. It’s not like you can prove anything, not like Owen will ever be charged, what with his father being county judge and all. It’s a simple decision really.” She leaned over the table and propped her chin up on her elbows. “Jail, or your signature. You make the call.”
She was right, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t about making sure Owen was prosecuted for what he’d done to me. This was about not letting these people own me.