The asphalt bites into my palms. Miraculously, though, I’m unhurt. I pat myself down just for the hell of it, but besides what I can imagine will be a pretty nasty bruise across my chest, I’m okay.
The girl in my car seems to be okay, too. She regains consciousness, blinking slowly and touching her upper lip.
I stumble around to the front of my car, which is currently smashed up against the other one. A silver compact car, one of those old ones from a decade ago. I hit the driver’s side, but ahead of the seat. It almost appears like I was aiming for the front tire—in an effort to avoid her entirely, I guess, and I just miscalculated. That’s how it could be argued, one way or another.Ifit’s going to be argued.
“Help.” Her voice is soft, hoarse. Like she screamed before impact, and her throat shredded.
I wince.
She has blood streaked down her face, and I can’t tell if her eyes are open or not. Her airbags didn’t deploy, but her window is broken. Glass cuts, then. And even though I didn’t hit it, her door is dented inward.
The street is empty. No cars, no people. When doesthatever happen in a city like this? A city that usually buzzes with nightlife—in fact, itisprobably buzzing with people only a few blocks away.
I nod to myself, calculating. Always calculating.
Another gift from Daddy Dearest.
I go back to my car and open the passenger door. I pull the girl out and lead her around, sitting her in the driver’s seat. I fold her into it, even as she stares at me. Confusion mars her face, turning it ugly.
Confusion is akin to stupidity. If you can’t understand something, you’re just not thinking about it hard enough.
“Where’s your phone, baby?”
Bless her soul, she perks up when I call her that. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know it’s my cover, because I don’t have a clue what her name is. She points to the floor of the passenger seat. To her purse.
“You were driving,” I tell her. I lean into her, cupping the back of her neck. “I need you to tell them that, okay?”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because I’ll make sure your wildest dreams come true if you do this for me.” I meet her eyes, my thumb rubbing a soft spot on her neck just under her ear. She leans into it, barely, and sucks her lower lip into her mouth. “You borrowed my car for the night. You were going to return it to me tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeats.
I nod once and release her, closing her back into the door. I dial nine-one-one on her phone and hand it to her, then take a step back. Once I’m halfway down the block, I call my father.
I thought that would be the end of the story. He wouldn’t blame me for leaving the scene. It isn’t just about getting our way. It’s about preserving his image.Ourimage.
Exactly as I predict, he doesn’t say a word about my bad luck. Or who I was with. I send him the address of the house I’m sitting in front of, and he sends a car for me.
I arrive home thirty minutes later, and he doesn’t ask what happened. He’s like a lawyer, unwilling to incriminate himself in the fine print. If anything comes up, he’ll expect me to smooth it over. If I can’t, he will.
Two hours later, the cop cars come screaming into our driveway. I’m arrested on the spot.
SIX MONTHS LATER
1
VIOLET
Awidely known fact about me: I don’t like surprises. I’m jumpy. I make unholy noises. My face gets beet red, and my body gets hot and tingly, and sometimes I feel like I’ve run out of air. Unfortunately, that combination is the perfect reaction for people whodolike surprises.
Which is why I’ve spent my life being surprised. Birthday parties, jump-scares, visitors I wasn’t expecting… Peopleloveto see the dramatic reaction, and I seem unable to help but give it to them.
And, naïve me, I keep expecting people will remember I loathe them.
Not today.
I’ve barely pushed open the apartment door when the lights come on and a dozen people scream, “WELCOME BACK!”