In The Name Of . . . (Sequel to Fault Line) [Completed]

Chapter Nineteen

After the door slams in Richie's face, metaphorically, I instantly check out of the hotel. I don't want to be anywhere near Richie anymore. He was associated with Lizzy, he doesn't understand what she did to people, to Jane, my sister, and he surely doesn't understand why I had to do what I did.

I walk briskly down the sidewalk. Determination and anger fill each and every step. Finally the airport comes into my view and my gait speeds up. I enter the airport, getting the feeling of rushing to the gate and the eagerness of a family leaving for a vacation in the Bahamas or somewhere else as exotic. Though I never felt them before in an airport nor the train station back home. I approach the desk and pay for a ticket to South Carolina. Don't ask me why I picked there, I just saw it on the board and decided that it was good enough for me.

I sit in the airport for a half hour before my flight was called. Handing the lady my ticket, I retrieve my duffel bag which I dropped to the floor earlier and proceed to board my plane. Luckily my plane ride is quiet, I like quiet. It's soothing . . . and annoying at the same time, for some reason. I arrive in the South Carolina airport a few hours later, but I might be wrong because of the time zone differences and all of that confusing jazz. Feeling jetlag coming over on me like Niagra Falls, I quickly book it to a hotel, check in, enter my room, and fall down face first on my bed. I take a three hour nap, letting my body acclimate to my new surroundings and my new life while I'm at it. Waking up from my nap, I decide to take a long, hot shower and try the new hair product I bought. My wavy hair won't do me any good anymore. It needs to change if I'm going to continue this life. . . .

After my shower, my hair feels lighter. I check the bottle, it says to use once every day for about two weeks. I can do that. I brush through my hair, leaving it for the air to dry. I look around my room. A sand color hotel wall, some pictures hanging in frames. One queen bed decorated with a pretty coverlet with a spiral design built into the threading. Overall this is probably one of the prettiest rooms I've ever stayed in. Sitting on my bed, I stare down at the phone that sits in front of me. I could call them, but what would I say? How would they react? Should I even risk it? Screw it. I think, picking up the newly bought phone from California. Pressing speed dial number one, I hold the receiver to my ear. It rings three times before Aunt Mallory answers.

"Hello?" Hearing Aunt Mallory's voice . . . it sounds like when you are really missing home and you can't return. Ever. "Who is this?" I snap the phone shut, letting it drop from my hands onto the bed. Idiot. I mentally curse myself. You can't bring them into this. It will only get them hurt. This is my life now . . . and I better get used to it.

I spend the rest of the day making more identities for me. It takes me about forty some minutes to complete one. I make up to seven different ones before I decide that some sleep will do me good. Waking up the next morning felt relaxing, which is surprising. I am not a morning person unless I get to go to school. But even then. . . .

I climb out of bed, catching a glance of myself in the mirror. Yep, you can tell that I slept. Entering the bathroom, I brush my hair thoroughly, brush my teeth, and end up staring at myself in the mirror. My hair is already starting to straighten itself out. Man, that stuff actually does work. My eyes seem lifeless, a boring brown color. My features are pale and stressed. But with a sick and twisted humor, my entire face looks like I stole from the White House. Like I had just done the most happiest thing ever. Like I was born to live this life. The life of a criminal.

Pushing those thoughts away, I turn on my heel out of the bathroom. I need to think of something happier. Which is next to impossible for my part. I plop down on my bed and turn on the TV. Flipping through the channels, I find two shows that interest my. The BBC America channel and the CW channel. I'm in those fandoms, well, the shows of course. Love me some Supernatural and Sherlock. And Doctor Who when I feel like it. But mainly Supernatural, ever since the first episode . . . man, I was hooked. I switch between both shows during the commercials. After I watch at least four hours worth, I shut off the TV. Just because I don't have school anymore doesn't mean that I can just sit around and watch TV.

I dig through my duffel, trying to find all of my gym clothes. Going to the gym seems nice right? Something productive. Instead of finding my gym shirt, my hands feel a smooth, solid object. It can't be. I wrap my hand around it. It is. I hold it in my hands, staring down at it in disbelief. How did I pack this? I didn't. I made sure that I left it behind. This is insane. Murder in 1882. It's following me now. Creepy. I walk over to the garbage can near the dresser the TV is set on. I drop the book into the can, contemplating whether or not I should burn the damn thing. I'm so sick of Lizzy and her tricks following me even after she's dead. I just want to freaking move on already!

Someone knocks on the door. It startles me before I slowly walk towards the door. If this is Richie again, I will stand by the point I made to him. I will kill him. I open the door a little, my hand twisting into a fist by my side. A guy around nineteen or so stands in the hallway. Pretty hazel eyes, blond hair, overall not bad. Focusing on the fact that he's a stranger, I watch him carefully.

"Who are you?"

"Richie sent me, I'm a friend of his." He shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Why? I told him to stay away."

"Which is exactly why he sent me." He pushes past me into my room. Open mouth in a silent gasp, I turn to look at him, irration up the wazoo. "He sent for me to give you a message."

"What's the freaking message then?"

Out of nowhere the guy punches me. "That was the first part." I grab my jaw as his hands retreat to his pockets once again. This guy is ticking me off . . . and Richie for sending the jerk. "Second is that he fixed your record."

"What do you mean 'fixed?'"

"That Lana Rebecca Carter is dead." I stare at my hands. Megan. Aunt Mallory. "And third is that just because you run away from him doesn't mean that he still doesn't know where you are."

"Thanks for the heads up, but he made that pretty clear the last time we met." I smile a very sarcastic smile. "I'll remember to change my email." I turn towards the door.

"Wait." I pause, my hand inches from the doorknob. "Richie said that you murdered his friend, is that true?" He asks. My irritation with him bubbles inside of me more and more.

I turn to face him, anger burning like fire in my eyes. "Yeah, but you want to know why? Because she killed my father and my sister! Then she threatened to freaking kill me! I believe that she had it coming for a very long time because she had killed more people than I can imagine!" I walk right up into his face. "She was a cold blooded murderer and I put a stop to it." I say through gritted teeth. "Why can't anybody just be pleased that I stopped a psychotic bitch!" Now I don't usually swear but when I do . . . you better run for cover.

The guy just stands there like nothing had happened, like I wasn't even in his face. Then out of nowhere he pushes me away with force that can only mean one thing. He wants a fight. Anger is all I feel right now. Time to let the anger out I suppose. I run at him, throwing punches everywhere he isn't blocking. He dodges most of them but some make contact. He lands a couple in my gut while I'm busy with him but I pay no mind to them. We continue going like this until he decides that kicking me away will help. It does for about three seconds. I attack again, mentally thanking my visit to the gym late at night yesterday. After minutes of punching and kicking and blocking, he ends up on one side of the room and I on the other, him being the closest to the door. Suddenly an ear splitting boom fills the room. I look at him curiously, then noticing that a gun is in his hands and he's staring at my left arm. I look down too, watching as blood pools down from my upper arm. When I look back up at the guy, the door is open and he is gone. My lips part, half because he shot my and half because he didn't explain why.

I close the door, leaning against it. My arm is bleeding, the bullet is still inside of my arm, and I have got two people who have annoyed me in the past two days. My life keeps getting better and better.