𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 {𝚓𝚓 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔}

𝚜.𝟷 𝚎𝚙.𝟷 -𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎-

"I was a fool / you were my friend / we made it happen"

~

When Tate woke up the next morning, light streamed in through the spare bedroom window and she could hear seagulls calling outside. She rolled over to look at the alarm clock she'd taken from her Uncle John's bedroom. Seven fifty-five. She sat up and stared out the window, not knowing why she was awake before the alarm went off. Her head pounded with hangover and she could feel the bags developing under her eyes. She started to climb out of bed, but then she heard the voice of Sheriff Peterkin coming from John B's room and her heart dropped.

"Get decent, sweetie. We need to talk."

Tate held her breath, thoughts flying through her head too fast for her to even comprehend. Had the sheriff seen her? Did she know Tate was staying with John B? She'd been avoiding everyone who might ask her uncomfortable questions about her living situation ever since the hurricane. Her eyes darted to the closed door. The sheriff would've left it open if Tate was in trouble too... right? She took a deep breath and inched off of the bed, leaning over to silently grab her work clothes from where they were scattered across the floor. She slipped out of the outfit she'd been wearing since yesterday, and pulled on the jeans and The Wreck t-shirt she wore to waitress at Kiara's dad's restaurant.

She could hear John B talking to the sheriff, it seemed like they were moving into the kitchen. A wave of relief flooded her when she heard his voice, remembering how lifeless he'd been the night before. Tate inched the bedroom door open. It creaked. The conversation in the kitchen went silent. Tate backed away from the door so fast she almost tripped over the bed in the middle of the room, but caught herself just in time. The voices continued again. There was no way to get out of the house without passing the sheriff on her way. She checked the clock again. Eight-ten. If she didn't leave for work soon, she'd be late, and Tate had never been late for work before. It was part of the reason Mr. Carerra liked her so much.

She sank onto the mattress, looking around the room hopelessly. Her heart was pounding in her chest at the mere idea of being questioned by Sheriff Peterkin. Her eyes fell on the window. It wasn't that far of a drop to the ground, and she knew she could fit through the gap. It was just a question of how much noise the window would make when she opened it. In a house as old as this, the window was sure to creak louder than the door when she tried to escape. Just then, John B and the sheriff's footsteps starting getting closer to the door of Tate's room, and John B's muffled voice grew louder. "Oh- the spare bedroom? No, we don't really use that for much." Tate didn't have the time to second-guess herself.

She grabbed her pair of beat-up red Converse off of the window sill and unlocked the window, trying to pry it open as silently as possible. It didn't work out too well. Every time she managed to work the window a little further up, it made a loud, hollow noise and got stuck. Her chest clenched tighter every inch, and she listened hard as the voices grew closer.