Fear.
“What did you say?” I asked, wanting to hear him say it again. Wondering if he’d have the balls.
He and Tate exchanged nervous glances. They weren’t my friends. I didn’t need these people in my life.
“That girl. Layna. She’s changed you. Something’s wrong with her. And she’s taking you down with her.”
I curled my hand around the long, dense piece of wood. It fit perfectly in my palm. It was warm and secure.
“Don’t say her name,” I warned.
I saw red.
Vicious, brutal red.
Layna.
“Look at you, Elian. Ready to take our heads off for saying her name? What in the actual fuck?” Tate demanded.
As though he had a right to know anything.
The two men stood beside my workbench. Talking. Talking. I didn’t hear a thing they said. In and out of my ears. No recognition of actual words or statements.
I gripped the piece of wood and knew that it was about to connect with their heads. I wanted to hurt them for questioning Layna. It was irrational. It was unreasonable.
It was the reality I now lived in.
I dropped the piece of wood on the bench with a clatter and got to my feet.
“Do you think that any of this is real?” I asked, waving my hand in the air between us.
“What are you talking about?” Tate asked.
Frowning.
We were both frowning.
“You don’t have the right to ask me questions. You don’t have the right to express your concerns. You have no place in my life. Goodbye.”
I left.
It felt good.
A door closing.
With a bang.
I wrapped each picture carefully and placed it in the box. One. Two. Three. Four…
All of them. Covered glass. Empty faces.
Put away.
But not forgotten.
Just moving on.
The apartment was bare. Like I had never been there. My scent still warm in the air and the only indication that my presence was ever felt.
Sad and lonely.
And moving on.
My phone rang and I reached for it. A number I didn’t recognize flashed across the screen.
“Hello?”
“May I speak with Miss Layna Whitaker?”
“This is she.”
My heart started thumping in my chest. Thump. Thump. Thud.
“This is Michael Pierce, the warden at Red Onion State Prison. I received your message in regards to your father Cain Langley.”
I swallowed.
“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Pierce,” I replied weakly.
“How can I help you, Miss Whitaker?”
I put down the framed photograph that I was wrapping with tissue paper and bit down on my lip. Hard.
Was I really doing this?
It was time.
“I wanted to see about visiting my father. If that’s possible. I completed the visitor form as well as the background check online.”
“I checked the status of your background check before I called, and it seems it has already gone through. Which is pretty darn quick for government.” He chuckled. I didn’t.
He cleared his throat and continued, “I’ve put you on Mr. Langley’s approved visitor’s list. Visiting hours are on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from eight until three. Visits can last up to three hours. It’s important that you familiarize yourself with visitor regulations before you come.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Depending on the number of visitors there may be a delay or a limited amount of time given for the visit.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
Buzz…
“Do you have any other questions, Miss Whitaker?”
“No, I think that’s it. I appreciate you calling me back.”
“Not a problem. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up the phone. I picked up the picture and stared down at the tiny smile and dusting of freckles. Eyes that saw nothing.
Not anymore.
“You’re better than a star, Lay. You’re like me. You make the stories. Those stars will one day belong to you.”
I wanted my own stories.
Not these.
Not the ones he gave me.
The frame slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor. The glass shattered and scattered. Pieces sliced my naked feet.
Pain.
Pain.
Was I ready?
I was ready.