Treadmill

XX.I

Kennedy

Monday, November 30, 2020, rolled around for Kennedy Abrams much like every other day had rolled around for her in the past few weeks since she had removed Rebecca Eaves from her life.

Spectacularly.

Kennedy felt bad abut it. Or rather, she had felt bad about it, for approximately three minutes after doing it. But the three minutes had passed, her stepmother had continued their photoshoot, and it didn't take much longer for Kennedy to forget about Rebecca completely.

Rebecca could have cost them the account if Kennedy hadn't been so quick on her feet. When her stepmother recognized her the second she stepped into the shoot, Kennedy swore up and down that she didn't know who this 'Kennedy Abrams' was, and that she much just be an incredible lookalike. And the fact that Drew Parley was beyond nice to Lydia Farrow made the act even more believable—Kennedy Abrams had never said a kind word to Lydia Farrow in her entire life.

But the fact remained that Rebecca's actions and her lack of communicating with Kennedy before booking the shoot could have caused them to lose everything. The account didn't need Rebecca. Kennedy didn't need Rebecca. So, she had done what she figured anyone in her position would have done: she got rid of Rebecca.

And life had never looked better.

She woke up every morning and didn't have to worry about taking care of her lost puppy. She woke up every morning and did her skincare routine, put on her makeup, curled her hair, ate breakfast, made herself a smoothie, and went off to either class or a shoot, depending on the day. She hardly thought at all about Rebecca. It probably would have made a better person feel a bit guilty, but...Kennedy wasn't a better person. She knew that. And she was perfectly fine with that.

@drewboo was steadily on the rise, and Kennedy couldn't do anything other than stare at the follower count grow and the engagement rate get higher. She had 600,000 followers, she was raking in cash from her deals by the second, and had been offered collaboration after collaboration once she made it known through her 'new' manager—a name she came up with and an email account she ran by herself—that she was now open to doing shoots with other models and influencers, instead of exclusively on her own.

Kennedy was doing all of the above while still keeping her alias intact, which she had doubted she could do for a while. Yet she continued to outdo even her own expectations for herself as the days went on, until after a few weeks she forgot completely about the fact that she had even had a partner in this thing to begin with. She was free. Free of her previous life, free of the man that had the ability to ruin her in every sense of the word, free of the girl who she could pin the blame on if need be.

And she still could. Pin the blame on Rebecca. She just...didn't have to quite yet.

So, on Monday, November 30, 2020, Kennedy Abrams woke up in a spectacular mood at 9:30 AM to knocking on her front door.

"Lyla! Rian!" Kennedy yelled as loud as she could, "Can someone get the door?"

The apartment was silent as a tomb as Kennedy waited for a response, broken only by another round of rapping at the door.

Kennedy rolled her eyes dramatically and pulled herself out of bed, wondering where her roommates would be at 9:30 in the morning. They weren't asleep; the knocking would have woken them up. And it wasn't as if Lyla was still ignoring Kennedy—after Kennedy had rejected Doug in his delusional idea of dating her instead of Lyla, the two had become close again. Lyla didn't seem to care as much that Kennedy had simply been using her ex-boyfriend for physical attraction, since there were no feelings involved on Kennedy's end. That had been Doug's fault for thinking there were any.

Or rather, as Kennedy suspected, Lyla had realized she would lose all of her social status and her apartment if she became legitimately upset with Kennedy or ended their friendship. So, sacrifices were made, and the apartment had an air of civility again.

Kennedy left her bedroom and walked down the stairs in her pink fuzzy bathrobe and matching slippers, scrolling through her Instagram newsfeed as she went. A third round of knocking sounded on the front door as she approached it.

She pulled open the door, fully prepared to yell at whoever was on the other side for disturbing her peace at such an early hour, when she felt the breath completely leave her lungs.

"Are you Kennedy Abrams?"

The one in the middle spoke. Kennedy could register that much. The one in the middle was brunette, and tall—the tallest one out of the three despite being the only girl in the mix. Her badge was shinier than the men's badges. Kennedy noticed that, too.

"Y-Yes." Kennedy managed to stutter out, "I'm Kennedy."

The male police officer, standing to the left of the woman, stepped forward slightly, a pair of handcuffs in his right hand.

"Turn around please, ma'am."

Kennedy obeyed silently, suddenly grateful that she was the only one home and that no one else had answered the door for her.

"Kennedy Abrams, you are under arrest for the murder of Hank Wilcox. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

Kennedy didn't listen to the rest. She didn't quite care about the rest. The only thing that registered in her head was the movement she was making at any given moment. Turning back around to face the other two officers as the one who had handcuffed her stood behind her and forced her out of the apartment. Walking out of the apartment and having the one officer duck her head into the back of a squad car so that she didn't hit it on the top. On the hood. What was the top of a car called? She couldn't remember. Kennedy felt like she should know this fact; she had watched a man roll over the top of Rebecca's car just a few months earlier.

Rebecca.

The name repeated itself in her head, over and over again, as they rode to the station. Rebecca. She needed to talk to Rebecca.