Zara stumbled into her apartment and closed the door with a bang; she collapsed onto her knees and buried her face in her hands. Every cell in her body gave in as she sagged to one side, begging her to take a rest. She was emotionally and mentally exhausted, unable to face her problems anymore. Zara needed a nap, right there and then.
She awoke later that afternoon, in the dark and disoriented. With a groan, she rolled over onto her stomach—the weight of her backpack crushed her lungs, making it difficult to breathe, but it was better to die from suffocation than with a bullet in her skull. Nine days left and she hadn't achieved anything. The only new information she'd gotten was from Maximilian, and it was something he should've told her much earlier. It certainly simplified things—at least she knew what to look out for—but it didn't make any more of a difference. New York City is a labyrinth, full of false-turns, dead-ends, and villainous people. If she found the Butterfly, it would be miraculous, but truthfully, Zara didn't even have faith in that anymore.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket; the sound travelled through the uneven floorboards and into her ear, amplifying the migraine.
Can I ask you something? The message read, most of the words scythed by a black line running down the middle of the screen.
"Now when did this happen?" She shot up with indignation, the action sending her mind spiralling. Zara had to take a moment for the dizziness to pass, then another to stand up and fumble for the light switch. "And what the fuck do you want, Saffron?" she added in a mumble, once the shoebox-sized room was bathed in a honeyed glow and her narrowed eyes were on the tiny screen again. As much as she wanted to cuss him out for disturbing her self-deprecation, she sent him a cautious 'sure' in response. It showed that she had read his question, but wasn't too interested in the answer.
By the time he replied, Zara was sat at her desk with her homework scattered in front of her and a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich in her hand. Two questions, actually, the phone buzzed, shimmying its way towards the edge of the table. Sorry btw, had to shower.
She had half a mind to ignore him for the same length of time he'd been MIA, but this was the chance for her to ask him about Vincent. If he'd never told her about him, the question of his employment would've never nagged her as much as it did.
Np. Shoot. Just ask the damn questions already.
As she waited for his reply, she scribbled the final sentence for her History notes on World War two.
Bzz. Bzz. 1. Are you still mad at me?
Zara paused with the point of her pen still on the page. She rolled her eyes when she saw the message.
Bzz. Bzz. 2. What did Max want?
She dropped her pen and took a large bite of her sandwich, mulling over her responses. "Oh, you know, talking about drugs and shit. Just the normal stuff," Zara said once she swallowed the misshapen lump. She placed the sandwich back on the plate and picked up her phone.
1. No. 2. English hwk.
The first was true, the second obviously wasn't. But she wasn't going to delve into either—she didn't have the luxury of a smartphone, of unlimited texting, and she wasn't in the mood of filling the thousand-character text box with carefully-chosen words. Whatever lie he wanted to hear he'd have to wait until tomorrow.
Really? Are you sure? Referring to the homework, ofc.
101%. Ask him if u don't believe me. Her fingers were already tired and their conversation had just begun.
YOU ARE READING
Deadly Secrets
General Fiction[NOW FEATURED IN GENERAL FICTION!!!] Everybody has secrets, something to hide. Some say your secrets are your blood; when you shed too much of it, you die. For Zara DeRealis, nothing is as heavy a burden as her tempestuous past. Orphaned as a young...
