The Suspect

Chapter 13

Opening the door, my stuff hits the floor with a thump, and I make my way towards the living room. I'm not sure what to expect. It's been about an hour since Kiara called to check up on me, and I don't know if she's asleep or not.

I look over the couch and see her sprawled across it, with popcorn all over her and her snores echoing throughout the room. My smile soon wilts as I look around and see how much she set up for us. A movie is playing, Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Askaban, of course, and by the looks of it she was well prepared and very excited.

A bottle of wine remains unopened, and two glasses stand beside it. On the coffee table, there are all sorts of snacks and candies. She's moved the couch so that it looks more like a bed now, and several of my favorite fuzzy blankets form a nice little cushion on top of it.

I drop my head and sigh, feeling both sad and happy at the same time. Sad that I haven't been able to spend time with my best friend, sad that we keep fighting here and there. Happy that she's still here. I walk towards her and pick up the bowl of popcorn, cleaning up without a sound. After, I take one of the blankets and tuck her in as she stirs and turns to her other side. I smile at her open mouth and elephant-like snores and make my way to the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed.

My phone buzzes, and I see two texts. One from my dad, and the other from the dickwad.

Dad: Are you coming this weekend?

I stare at it for a while, not sure if I have it in me to face him with all the bruises on my body and face.

Me: I'm not sure, lots of work at the office. I'll text you if I find the time to.

That should do it. Next, I open Tatum's text. As usual, his vagueness never surprises me.

Dick-Tatum: We need to talk.

That's it. No hey, no hello. Just a plain old we need to talk. When did I ever care about how he texted me? I shouldn't be. Let me rephrase that, I don't care.

Me: What's the magic word?

With a smirk, I turn off my phone and head to the shower. As soon as I turn on the lights, my skin pales, and my spine becomes as stiff as iron. I can't stop my bottom lip from trembling as I take in my appearance.

My reflection; that isn't me. The girl in the reflection is the other side of me. The bad, the terrible. The left side of my face is now painted red. Slightly tilting my head, I see the source of the blood right above my brow, where my skin is cut open; very deep by the looks of it. The right side is the same picture, only a shade lighter. My cheek is red and swollen by the huge imprint of a hand sketched on it.

A small twinge of pain in my lower back reminds me of my gun. I reach for it and wince as I unclip it and place it on the top of my vanity. My lips part and my jaw hangs as I turn around and see my shirt stuck to my lower back, the red still spreading. I slowly lift my shirt, and the pain doesn't stop.

Rip it off, just like a bandaid.

Breathing out once, I prepare myself and lift it in one quick motion.

"Fuck," I whisper-curse and pull it over my head. I don't miss the soreness and pain in doing so. Looking at myself again, my whole lower back and midsection is covered in purple bruises. Just as I'm about to strip completely and head into the shower, my phone buzzes again.

Dick-Tatum: Pussy. Now, meet me tomorrow at our spot. 8:30 am. Don't be late.

First, I'm surprised he's still up. But then again, judging by the fact there are a few screws missing in his head, I shouldn't be surprised he is. Second, on normal days, his response would annoy me, but right now, it doesn't.