Meg never slept last night. She was in the middle of her second period class — trig — not that she’d heard a word. She sat with her chin propped in her hand, forcing her eyes not to close. With half a laugh, she wondered why it was so hard. Chase’s words were still stuck on an infinite play loop in her mind. I’m never having kids! Swear to God.
She’d run from him. She’d just admitted she was in love with him not a minute before. She’d been ready to revise her entire Plan for him because maybe, just maybe, her father was wrong, and it was possible to love someone and be loved in return and not ruin her entire future in the process. I’m never having kids! Swear to God.
Her gut twisted again but she was used to it now — almost. The pain spoke to her in her dad’s voice. I told you to focus on your plan! It attacked every time she thought about Chase — the slump of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the never-neat mop of brown hair hanging over furious unearthly eyes.
He’d had a plan that had been all shot to hell. She shook her head and winced. What the hell good did it to do make plans? All that time, all that work and for what, another revision — another course correction? For a spotlight on the disappointments? For a giant red X over the failures? Maybe Bailey had the right idea all along. The pain returned for another go at her whenever she thought of her former best friend — the bounce in her step, the always-ready giggle.
She heard the whispers and saw the fingers pointing at her and slouched lower in her desk, wishing for invisibility. The teacher was discussing sine, cosine, and tangents, but her mind circled right back to Chase. She’d been right there — right on the edge of tearing up the plan. No revisions this time, no course corrections but a totally new plan — one with Chase right smack in its middle. She’d finally believed him when he told her she could have it all.
Swear to God.
“Megan Farrell?”
Swear to God.
A hand tapped her shoulder and she jerked. “Megan Farrell, you’re wanted at the vice-principal’s office.”
Her heart stopped, restarted with a jolt, and then tried to pound out of her chest. She swallowed hard, grabbed her stuff and followed the security guard. She couldn’t remember walking down the halls, two flights of steps, and the main corridor to the office. Suddenly, she was sitting in a hard metal chair at a small round table in the corner of Mr. Poynter’s office. He stood by the window, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. A cup of water was pressed into her hand and Meg looked up, saw one of the guidance counselors sitting next to her.
Funny — she hadn’t noticed her.
She looked into the cup of water, saw her reflection shimmer and ripple. Even the distortion did nothing to hide the pain in her eyes.
They sat for minutes or hours — who knew? Who even cared? Her hand throbbed. Had she cleaned the wound today? She couldn’t remember. What day was it? She couldn’t remember that either.
Swear to God.
She cradled her head in her hands and then pulled them away. They shook.
The door opened and a woman walked in, a battered laptop open in her hands. She glared at her with hard dark eyes over a thin mouth. Her hair was coiled up in an elastic — a ball point pen stuck in the bun. She put the laptop on the table and dragged out a chair. Meg shivered at the screech.
Swear to God.
When the woman sat, her jacket opened and Meg saw a badge on her belt. “Miss Farrell, I’m Detective Barilla, special victims section. Do you know why I’m here?”
Meg only stared at her with wide dark eyes. The woman slid the laptop around so Meg could see the screen. “Do you recognize this?”
Meg wiped the tears from her eyes to clear her vision and peered at the machine. “It’s my wall.”
“Your Facebook page, correct?”
Meg nodded.
The woman leaned over and scrolled down. “I want you to look at something.”
Meg bit her lip. Like she had any choice?
The woman clicked a link to a video someone posted. As soon as it played, Meg’s stomach pitched and she clapped a hand to her mouth.
Bailey’s voice, thin and shrill, filled the room. “Tell him!”
“Oh, God!” Meg clutched her ears and shut her eyes.
“Open your eyes. Watch,” the woman commanded.
Meg didn’t need to watch. She’d been there. She remembered every gut-wrenching minute, right up until the end. “I’ll kill Chase, too.” Her voice sounded raspy, even desperate. Her eyes looked tortured. Chase kept tugging on her arm, but she wouldn’t go with him.
“Is this you? Did you say “’I killed my dad and I’ll kill Chase, too?’”
Meg shook her head. “I— I didn’t— ”
“No? No, that’s not you or no, you didn’t threaten to kill Chase Gallagher?”
Her heart skidded to a stop and she stared at the detective. “I didn’t threaten him.”
“Miss Farrell, I’ll ask again. Is that you on that video stating, ‘I’ll kill Chase, too’?”
“Yes, but—”
“Where is Chase Gallagher? When did you see him last?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where he is or you don’t know when you saw him?”
“I don’t know where he is. I saw him yesterday.”
“Yesterday when?”
“After school. He was angry.”
“Did you argue? Did you threaten him again?”
Meg shook her head frantically. “No! It wasn’t like that. He was mad at his parents, not me.”
A sharp knock on the door sounded. Meg snapped her head around. One of the secretaries came in, spoke to Mr. Poynter too quietly for her to overhear. Meg’s lip trembled and her stomach rolled. “Please tell me what happened. Why are you asking me these questions?”
Detective Barilla looked at her sideways and a moment later, nodded. “Your classmates seem to think you’re a danger to them. A time-bomb about to go off.” Barilla scrolled to another comment.
Meg looked ready to strafe!
Wouldn’t surprise me LOL
She’s a bad ass; she’d totally shoot.
She paints death all the time ;)
“Word spreads, Miss Farrell. Fast and far. Classmates talk to other classmates, a parent over-hears and calls a few more parents. Someone calls the school. Your principal was concerned about this video, and later — the ‘strafe’ term so he called us. Who were you going to ‘strafe’?”
Oh, God! Meg rocked on the hard chair, shaking her head.
“Do you have a gun, Megan? Are there weapons in your house?”
There was a gun once. Suddenly, Meg was six years old again, gripping her ears and staring at her father’s body, blood pooling on the tile, chunks of — of stuff — clinging to the walls of the master bathroom. I never wanted kids! Swear to God. Swear to God.
“We tried to talk to Bailey Grant and Chase Gallagher. Only Chase is gone… nobody’s seen or heard from him since yesterday. And Bailey seems to think you’re the reason why.” Detective Barilla leaned in. “Did you hurt Chase Gallagher, Megan? Did you kill him?”
Oh, God, Bailey. Oh, God, oh, God. “No!” She shook her head vehemently. “No, I swear.”
“You swear. Megan, the video shows you clearly saying ‘I’ll kill Chase, too.’ Who else did you kill?”
“Please.” She begged. “Please let me go home.”
I never wanted kids!
“Who did you kill, Megan?”
I never wanted kids! “Shut up!” She screamed. “Shut up, shut up! I killed my father! Is that what you want to hear?”
Swear to God.