Stolen Course (Wrecked and Ruined #2)

I CAN’T even begin to explain how excited I am right now. I just picked up the pictures I printed of me and Caleb. They turned out amazing. I couldn’t even bring myself to touch them up in Photoshop. We don’t look perfect, but that is more fitting than anything for us. While they were all great, I fell in love with one particular picture. It’s a selfie I snapped while we were lying in bed. The smile on Caleb’s face and my wide open-mouth laugh have all the makings of a picture that would usually make its way to my recycling bin. But this picture caused my heart to skip a beat. It perfectly encompasses our relationship, and the glimmer in Caleb’s eye as he watches me laugh sends warm chills over my body every time I look at it. I had two copies printed—one for Caleb’s place and one for mine.

He’s at the boxing gym tonight, so I’m going to surprise him by hanging it in his room. I found an empty natural-wood frame—one he no doubt made—in his bedroom. I hope it’s okay that I use it. He has these scattered all over his house. If I bought a new one, it would completely clash with the rest of his decor.

I know he keeps his tools somewhere. Just last week, he had them out when he and Eli were hanging his new TV. I’m pretty sure he left them inside. His workshop is locked, so I begin to dig through the closet. On the top shelf is a big cardboard box. I drag a chair over from the kitchen to pull it down. Surely he will have a hammer and maybe a nail in this heavy-ass box.

I lift off the top of the box only to find that it’s filled with paperwork. Just as I’m about to put it back, I see a picture that all but stops my heart. I slide out the tattered image of Sarah’s car wrapped around a tree. The immediate sickness I feel in my stomach knocks me to my ass. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself from dragging the box to the floor beside me. Piece by piece, I empty its contents. I carefully arrange picture after picture of that horrible night in a circle around me. From close-ups of the seatbelts inside the car to the skid marks that start just before the grass, this disturbing box has it all. But it’s not the pictures that bother me most. It’s the pages upon pages of witness statements with Caleb’s notes scrawled out to the side. Some dated as recently as two weeks ago.

If my heart stopped when I found this box, it shatters when I realize what this is. Caleb doesn’t just hate Sarah. He is actively trying to prove that she caused the wreck. Printed reports about her blood alcohol content stapled to the doctor’s statements about when the test was performed make it obvious what he thinks happened.

“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth as anger rolls though my body.

I continue to sift through the files and eventually find three full notebooks of Caleb’s handwritten notes. His words are, not surprisingly, filled with hate, but they hurt no less. It isn’t until I come across a page detailing his plans to prove that she was drunk and his ultimate goal for her to end up in prison that I become physically ill. Choking down my dinner, I rush to his kitchen to grab a garbage bag.

Fuck him. He thinks he’s protecting Manda and doing right by her. Well, it’s my job to protect Sarah, and apparently I’m sleeping with the enemy. I rush back into the hallway and frantically start shoving everything into a trash bag.

“What are doing?” Caleb asks when he walks through the door. At first, he looks confused, but the moment he recognizes the box, an icy glaze slips over his eyes.

“You are still investigating the accident!” It’s not a question. I look at him for only a minute before I continue my cleanup effort.

“So?”

“So? Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, becoming even more pissed off at how nonchalant he is acting. This is a big fucking deal, and he has the audacity to give the “so” bullshit.

“Don’t act like this is news to you, Emmy. We agreed not to talk about her, yet here you are, going through my shit.” He remains frozen at the door with his gym bag still slung over his shoulder.

“I knew you hated her…but Jesus, Caleb. This”—I throw a picture of the car at him—“is a whole new level of fucked up. Do you expect me to lie in bed at night while you pore over old dead ends to help you prove that Sarah screwed up? You’re delusional!” I go back to shoving papers in the bag.

“That’s mine,” he says, grabbing my wrist to halt me.

“That’s funny, Caleb. I thought I was yours.” I look into his eyes, and for a second, his mask slips. “Get your fucking hands off me. I’m throwing this shit out with the trash where it belongs.”

“No, you’re not.” Caleb leans down and starts repacking the box.

“You’re trying to prove that Sarah was responsible. Why? What good will come from this?” I beg for an answer.