I sat up in bed, letting my tired head fall against the cold wall behind me. It wasn’t
until I saw Cameron that I remembered where I was—well, at least I recognized the room I was
in. He was sleeping, uncomfortably sprawled on the too-small armchair. He was still fully
dressed, but had obviously changed out of his bloody gray sweater—I couldn’t remember if he
still had it on when I had first woke up in this room.
His head was rolled back and resting on the wall with one hand half fallen over his eyes, an
unconscious effort to block out the rising sun. His brown hair was scruffy, like he’d raked his
hand through it a thousand times. The dark circles under his eyes told the story of someone who
hadn’t been sleeping much, probably not for many days.
I watched him like this for a while, committing his features to memory.
And then his watch beeped, and he jumped awake, momentarily disoriented. His eyes quickly found
me.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked with a hoarse voice, squinting down at his watch.
“A while, I guess,” I said with care, pulling the covers up to my chin.
He passed both hands over his entire face, rubbing his skin awake. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I answered quickly without really thinking about the question.
Cameron moved to the side of the bed and stopped short, deliberating. Was he debating shooting
me now or later? I looked for signs of trouble, like a dog going on the attack, like a gun being
pulled out from the back of his jeans.
With a movement that was too fast for my bruised brain to analyze, Cameron sat next to me and
rushed his hand to my face. In instinct, I gasped and recoiled from him. His eyes widened, and
he snapped his hand away like he’d just been burned.
The features of his face washed with … Guilt? Worry? Anger? Disappointment? I couldn’t be
sure.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice notably softer. “I was just going to check the bump on your
head. I won’t hurt you.”
His concern was unreserved, which made my throat immediately squeeze shut. It was too late—the
tears had sprung to my eyes.
“I’m fine … really,” I said in answer to the increased concern on his face.
“You don’t look fine.”
I wiped the tears as soon as they escaped my eyes. “This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m
crying.”
“I do,” he mumbled resentfully, his jaw tightening. “Can I check your head … even if you say
you’re fine?”
I nodded through my sniffles and bent my head forward as a peace offering. My heart pumped hard
in my chest while his fingers parted the hairs at the crown of my head and pressed lightly on
the bump. My face winced under the cover of my hair.
“Does this hurt?” he asked.
“No,” I lied, the strain in my voice betraying me.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”
Before I could refuse, he was out the door, and Meatball had found his way in. In an instant, he
was on the bed, crawled up and laying his head on my chest. I rubbed his floppy ears; he whined.
For a big beast, he could be cute, as long as he wasn’t trying to bite your head off.
“Meatball. Out. Now.” Cameron’s authoritative voice startled both Meatball and me.
Like the boy the night before, Meatball immediately obeyed, but not before slipping me a lick
with his sticky tongue against my hand.
“Wow! Does everyone just jump like that when you give orders?” I blurted as I watched the dog
run out.
“Not everyone,” he said dryly. He walked over to my bedside and handed me two little white
pills and a large glass of water. The water was liquid gold to my eyes: my mouth tasted like I’
d been licking the chalk off a blackboard all night. As for the mystery pills, I hesitated and
shyly glanced up.
Cameron folded his arms. “It’s still really early and you need to get more rest. The pills
will help with the pain so you can get some sleep.” He stood there, watching me like I was a
mental patient, ensuring that the crazy girl took her pills.
I needed to get some answers; starting with what I thought I knew seemed like a good idea.
“Your name is Cameron,” I mused, my voice echoing inside the glass.
Cameron’s body stiffened. “Uh-huh.”
We watched each other while I took two large gulps of water to make sure that my throat was open
to choke down the drugs.
He deliberated again before sitting next to me.
“What else do you remember?” he asked me.
Color rushed to my face. “Is this where I tell you that I don’t remember anything?” I blurted
again. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wished I would have spent more time thinking
about the weight of his question and coming up with a response that wouldn’t get me killed.
“No,” he said without blinking, “this is where you tell me the truth.”
I took my time swallowing the first pill and my tears. “That man in the cemetery, what did he
do to deserve what you did to him?” I needed him to tell me that the man hadn’t been just some
random runner who was in the wrong place at the wrong time—that only bad people got killed—
that girls like me didn’t get killed just because they witnessed a murder.
His face hardened. “You assume that the man was blameless.” This wasn’t a question—he had
read what had been lingering in my mind. “What if I told you that justice was served?”