TRUST.
I DON'T think I know what that word means anymore.
In the short time that I've been home from the hospital—the only recollection of life that I have at the moment—I've seen trust broken, and betrayed, and taken advantage of more times than I can count. I've seen trust become twisted between sisters, between lovers, between friends, between a mother and her daughters. And I'm the common denominator in all of those scenarios.
But Mason makes it seem as though trusting him is something different. A means of survival. A way of putting my life in his hands.
He didn't say much more at the restaurant, remaining vague and cryptic, staying true to his trademark style, but he reiterated that he would speak to me again later in the day, when there would be more time for him to explain everything in detail. We had driven back to the Pender Falls High parking lot veiled in a heavy silence, until he announced it would be best for me to attend my afternoon classes, to quell any growing suspicions. I agreed, making it clear that going to class wouldn't equate to speaking with my so-called friends. At least, not until he had explained everything.
So here I sit, in the middle of biology, unable to register a single word coming out of the teacher's mouth. Instead, my eyes shift in every direction nervously, as though Dylan, Zoe, or James will show up, even though I know we don't share this class. I notice several gazes linger on me, as they always do, and I wonder if any of the people they belong to are like Mason: strangers that know more about what happened to me than I do.
My knee bounces restlessly, eager for the end of the day, and the promise of much-needed information that it brings. Eventually, the bell rings, and I'm the first to stand up, breathing a sigh of relief as I collect my books, hugging them to my chest. I need to make it to my locker to exchange my books, then head to my last class without being spotted by the people I'm trying to avoid. Before, it didn't really matter if I glimpsed them in the hallway. It was awkward, which was to be expected, given my situation with Dylan, but it was bearable. Now, I can't shake the feeling that something horrible will happen if they so much as look my way. It's unnerving.
Attempting to blend in the crowd, I follow the flow of the other students, I lower my head, letting my hair hang around my face in the hopes that it will make me less conspicuous, my heart already hammering in my chest. Winding through the hallways, I head to my locker, changing out my books hurriedly and making it just in time for the second bell to ring. Calculus drags on painfully slowly, and I feel restless yet again. Luckily, this teacher is too busy sleeping at his desk to notice my inattention, and we're instructed to work on the problems from yesterday's lesson.
I find myself thinking of Dylan—both the real boy, and the ghost of him who haunted my dreams last night—and how they both seem like very different people, yet painfully the same. Conjuring up an image of him attacking me shouldn't have been so easy. He's my ex-boyfriend, for Christ's sake. How can you date someone for two years and have no idea that they're homicidal? I can't have been that naive. The person I know myself to be now is shrewd, good at thinking on her feet, and intelligent. She wouldn't turn a blind eye to something like this.
Finally, the last bell rings, signaling the end of the period, and it feels like a small victory. I've accomplished my first goal. My second goal is to find Mason. Collecting my things, I stand from my desk, following my peers as they exit the classroom and enter the hallway. I move as quickly as possible without shoving my way around people, depositing my books in my locker and latching onto my backpack. I'm about to close the door when a slip of paper floats to the ground, and I frown.
Glancing around the hall surreptitiously, I try to see if anyone is watching me. Keeping my expression blank, I crouch down slowly, silently praying it's not from Dylan. My fingers connect with the paper, and I pick it up delicately, straightening out. I look around once more before dropping my eyes to the words scrawled in dark handwriting.
7pm. Rawley's Junkyard. I'll explain.
Breathing out a sigh, I feel a wave of disappointment. I'd hoped we could meet up right after school and hash things out, but I suppose I can wait until later this evening. I've gone all this time without knowing, so a few more hours won't kill me. Hopefully.
✘✘✘
The house is quiet when I get home.
Audrey's car is gone, and I assume she must be job-hunting after resigning at Antonio's yesterday. I try not to think about it as I kick off my shoes, sliding off my coat with a deep breath. Walking through the house, my footsteps feel too loud, and I peek out of the French doors to the backyard, catching sight of Scout along the way. She lays down her head on her paws, looking incredibly disinterested, and I feel a tug of sympathy.
I consider going out to greet her, before glancing at the now-faint scar on my hand, left there by our last encounter. Sighing and telling myself to grow a pair, I go into the closet, grabbing a dog treat before heading outside. The grass is damp on my socked feet, and I regret taking my shoes off.
Predictably, Scout stands up on all fours at the sound of my approach, looking tense and alert. I walk toward her slowly, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. As I get closer, she sniffs the air, as though she can smell the treat already. I give her a wry smile, noting the way her tail begins to wag.
"You get pretty lonely out here, don't you?" I say, raising an eyebrow, and her ears twitch at the sound of my voice. "Well, if you weren't so insistent on hating my guts, you could come hang out inside."
She whines, growing impatient, her chain sliding across the ground as she takes several steps toward me, and I laugh shortly, shaking my head.
"You're an easy bitch to win over," I tell her good-naturedly. "Know any tricks?" Holding the treat above her head, I watch her serious eyes as they remain glued to my hand. "Sit," I order, and she does so.
Smiling, I offer her the treat, still keeping my distance, and she devours it eagerly. "Good girl," I coo, my hand reaching out to pet her before I think better of it. I don't want to push my luck. She whines again, wanting more, and I hold out my hands, showcasing their emptiness. "Sorry, I'm all out."
Turning away, I head back to the house, thinking that it's best to leave her actually wanting something from me, so that maybe next time, my presence will actually make her excited. It may be a pipe dream, but I don't have many allies to choose from at the moment. Having a dog on my side might make me feel better.
Entering through the doors, I strip off my now dirty socks, grabbing my homework out of my backpack and heading to the living room. Taking a seat on the floor by the coffee table, I find the remote and turn on the television, hoping some background noise will drown out my overthinking and allow me to focus on my work. I pull out the problems from calculus that I failed to work on in class. Every time I so much as think of the names Dylan or Mason, I reach for the remote again, turning up the volume a notch.
It doesn't work.
Feeling far too distracted to even attempt solving these problems, I stand up, thinking a glass of water might relax me. I turn down the volume on the TV before I exit the living room, the voices starting to give me a headache. Massaging my temples gently, I make my way into the kitchen, spotting Sofia's car in the driveway now. I have no idea how long she's been home, it must have been too noisy for me to hear her enter the house.
I open up the cupboard, grabbing a glass and heading to the sink to fill it up. I've just turned the tap on when I hear footsteps behind me, at first assuming they belong to Sofia, before realizing they're not the clicking heels she always seems to be wearing. I bristle slightly when they come to a stop a few paces behind me.
Looking over my shoulder, I'm faced with Clark, standing with his tie loosened, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. I feel my muscles become marginally less tense, but I still remain on guard, put off by the soft smirk of his lips as he watches me. Clearing my throat, I straighten up.
"Oh," I say, "I didn't know you were here."
"Evening, Allie," he says smoothly.
My eyes dart to the hallway behind him, not bothering with pleasantries. "Where's Sofia?" I ask, feeling like it's an important question for some reason.
He follows my gaze, before turning back to me with a sigh, though his expression doesn't change. "Important call with a client. She's been on the phone for twenty minutes already."
Clark's eyes don't leave my face, and I think about how this is the first time I've ever been alone with him—that I can recall, anyway—and it doesn't feel good.
Humming in response, I nod, turning back to the sink and starting the flow of water again, hoping to quell the awkwardness in the atmosphere, and the bad feeling rising in my stomach. I put my glass under the water, watching it fill up for several moments, then turning off the tap. I plan to make my escape to my bedroom, and avoid more the inevitable stilted conversations we're bound to have, but when I step back, I bump into a hard chest, trapping me in my place.
The speed of my heart instantly kicks up, and I freeze. Hands rest on my hips, sliding forward slowly to rest on my stomach, and I feel a sheen of sweat form on my forehead. I immediately think of Audrey, of her bitterness for the man standing behind me, and about how whatever he tried to do with her is most likely what he's going to try with me.
I grit my teeth, giving him a chance to back off. "Let go of me, Clark," I say firmly.
"You're a very beautiful girl," he says, ignoring my words.
I whirl around, elbowing him in the chest and accidentally smashing the cup on the counter in one movement. Water splashes my jeans, bits of glass tinkling to the floor, and he steps away from me, holding his hands up innocently. I glare at him as my chest rises and falls, shaking from adrenaline.
"Fuck you," I spit in his direction, feeling my hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms.
The telltale click of Sofia's heels comes down the hallway, and Clark turns to look at her. She enters with wide eyes, cell phone clutched in her hand, looking bewildered. I watch as she takes in the liquid on the floor, the broken glass littering the tile, and my shoulders, tense and seething with rage. She looks between Clark and I in quick succession, clearly unable to get a proper grasp on the situation.
"What on earth is going on here?" she finally exclaims, shaking her head.
My heart still races persistently in my chest. "Your boyfriend just tried to—"
"Darling," he cuts me off, feigning concern and turning to the woman next to him. "I think Alina is having some sort of mental breakdown. She's turning violent. She's lost her mind!"
"What?" I blurt, my eyes widening in disbelief, and Sofia turns to me, her eyebrows clouding in a frown. "Don't be ridiculous!"
"That car accident must've done more damage than we thought," he continues sadly, ignoring me yet again.
I watch Sofia process his words, and my reaction, and I can tell that she's believing him. A wave of outrage engulfs me, and I imagine this is what Audrey must have felt like when this same thing happened to her. It's an indescribably awful feeling to watch the person who just sexually harassed you lie about what he did, and get away with it too.
"He's full of shit," I persist, shaking my head.
"Maybe we should take you back to see Dr. Meyer," she says worriedly, looking to Clark for a second opinion, and he nods seriously.
"I—" I begin, before stopping myself abruptly, clamping my mouth shut. Arguing seems futile at this point, she isn't hearing me at all. And an appointment with Dr. Meyer means a chance to confront him about his shady behaviour. Clenching my teeth, I drop my shoulders. "Fine. Whatever."
They both turn to me, surprised at my agreeable response. I step away from the glass, deciding that Clark can clean it up, hoping he slices his dirty fingers in the process, and begin to head toward the front door. I need to get out of this house, and away from these people. I know I'm too early to go meet Mason, but waiting for him in the junkyard seems a lot better than hanging around here.
"I'm going out," I announce, sliding on my shoes and pulling on my jacket.
"Allie—" Sofia begins, but I open the door, exiting the building and effectively cutting her off. The door slams closed behind me, and I let out a breath.
Pausing in the driveway, I feel my face threaten to crumple, and I wrap my arms around my torso. My body feels foreign where he touched it, and I itch to escape my skin and feel clean again. With my lip trembling, I walk down the drive and down the sidewalk, knowing it'll take me a while to get to Rawley's.
I know in the silence, my mind will replay the event, so I force myself to keep it blank, a vast empty blackness that cannot be penetrated by intrusive thoughts. My eyes glaze over and I stare straight ahead as the sun begins to make its descent below the horizon. Remarkably, time passes relatively quickly when I don't allow myself to think, and I arrive at the junkyard shortly.
The chain-link fence stands the way it did when Dylan and I came here, rattling slightly from the wind, and I slow down as I approach. The second I stop moving, I begin to cry.
Leaning against the fence, I feel the metal dig into my back, but I don't care as I slide to the ground, attempting to wipe away the tears with my hand. I don't know if I'm only crying because of what happened with Clark, or what happened in the past with him and Audrey, or the other various things currently causing me stress in my life. Like the fact that I'm most likely about to find out who really tried to kill me. Or the fact that someone actually tried to kill me at all.
I must remain on the ground with my head in my hands for some time, because suddenly I hear footsteps approaching, but I can't make myself look up until I hear their voice.
"Alina?"
Lifting my head, I see Mason Byrne standing before me, the setting sun creating a halo around his head, and causing me to squint slightly. When my eyes adjust to the light, I notice that his dark eyebrows are pulled into a frown as he regards me. I clear my throat, brushing the hair out of my face and standing up. His frown deepens.
"Hi," I greet weakly, my voice hoarse, both from my cold, and from my current mental state.
His eyes run over my features, widening. "You're bleeding."
I blink. "What?" I look down at my body, trying to see what he's talking about, before noticing a streak of blood on the sleeve of my jacket. Frowning, I lift my hand, inspecting it until I spot a cut across my palm, realizing I must have gotten it when I broke the glass on the counter. Now that I've acknowledged its presence, it begins to throb. "Oh. It's nothing. I'm fine."
He gestures to his cheek, frowning.
Feeling self-conscious, I duck my head, trying to wipe it away, swiping my good hand across my face blindly. This goes on for several moments before he catches my fingers, stopping me, and I flinch.
"What happened?" he asks, regarding me seriously.
"It doesn't matter," I tell him, shaking my head.
His eyebrows furrow once more. "Yes, it does. You're hurt."
I drop my eyes, looking away. When I don't say anything, he sighs, gesturing for me to sit down again, and I glance at him in confusion. "Let me clean it up."
Feeling disoriented, I sink to the ground once more, and he follows suit, crouching in front of me. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket for a tissue, and I still as he places a hand under my chin to keep me still, gently wiping the blood away. I watch his face as he focuses on his task, blue eyes intense as ever, and for some reason, I start to tear up again. He finishes, crumpling up the tissue, his eyes flickering to mine, and I try to look away but it's too late.
"Why are you crying?" he asks quietly.
Reaching up, I brush away the tears that begin to fall. I cut my gaze to his, narrowing my eyes and feeling defensive. "Why do you care?"
I stand, and he follows suit, a look of remorse pinching the space between his eyebrows. "I told you I give a damn," he murmurs.
"Doesn't mean I believe you," I mumble, folding my arms and looking away.
He sighs again, reaching up to run his free hand through his hair. "Do you want me to explain things or not?"
I keep my mouth shut, realizing I need to pick my battles, and nod silently.
Turning around, he leads the way into the junkyard, before depositing the tissue in a nearby waste bin. I follow him through the various rows of cars. "Why did you choose this place to meet, anyway?"
"I had to pick somewhere people wouldn't see us," he answers, and it feels nice to get a straight answer out of him for once.
My eyes scan over our surroundings. "What about the grouchy guy who works here?"
"He gets off work at five."
I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as I shake my head. "How do you know that?"
Mason turns, looking over his shoulder to raise his eyebrow, looking amused. "I googled their business hours."
"Oh," I say, feeling foolish.
We walk in silence for a few more paces, and I finally catch up, falling in line with his footsteps. When he brings us to a halt, I realize we're standing in front of the vehicle Dylan pointed out last time. The battered Ford that I was told I was driving when I got into my accident. It looks the same as I remember, foreign and unfamiliar and nonsensical. We regard it in silence for several moments, before Mason turns to me, and I meet his eyes.
"I assume you've figured out by now that it wasn't a collision that made you this way."
"I have," I say, nodding.
"Good," he says shortly. "Now, I'll explain the rest."