Carter
19.
I tossed and turned for hours on end, which was nothing new. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd actually had a decent night of sleep.
Instead of the usual nightmares, though, all I could picture was Chase. His uncanny personality and even worse looks, he reminded me distinctly of the character Shaggy from 'Scooby Doo'. With unruly hair and a scruffy beard to match—and his eyes that wandered without really looking—unsettling.
Immediately, I thought of Hazel. With the fingerprints on her arm, and the break-in that had her voice wavering with shock and fright in just a matter of seconds—there was no denying that it had been Chase. The way that he had treated her as if she was a piece of meat. Even in the short time in the coffee shop, there was just something so unnerving about Chase that it made me angry. All I could think about was the fact that this guy lived in the same vicinity as Hazel, and no doubt in my mind that he would try to hurt her again.
I didn't know what Chase was capable of, but surely he would have the decency not to put a girl in harm's way.
Then again, how was I much different?
The familiar bout of anger filled me, but this time, it felt different.
I sat up, feeling the heat as it sifted through my stomach. A hand on my chest. It wasn't toward Chase, but Hazel. For working with Chase, for the bruised fingerprints on her arm. I was angry because of her, for making me feel and think about things without even realizing.
As if I cared.
I didn't care about anything but saving my own skin because I knew damn well what would happen if I didn't.
Pushing myself from the bed, I nearly stumbled over my own two feet as a wave of dizziness came over me.
Hazel was nothing like them, and I knew that, but the part of me that wanted to deny it, was the same side that remained indifferent. There was no way that I would ever bring myself to trust Hazel—not after eight years of false hope that my brother might end up coming home. It was wishful thinking.
And then he does. But it's different, and I felt worse somehow rather than better.
I rested my palms against the cool of the window sill, staring out at the dark and empty street, the bright light of the moon reminding me that there was no light at the end of the tunnel. My mind playing tricks thinking that I could have even a glimmer of hope.
Shrinking back from the window, I fell back into bed with a frustrated sigh.
• • •
The next morning, I hurried to get ready for the day. In the back of my mind, a shadow lingered behind me—taunting and jeering at me for a restless fit of sleep. With each sharp intake of breath, I could feel the embarrassment flooding through me with each turn to find no one there.
I couldn't bring myself to pour a cup of coffee, so I trudged to my car, praying that the coffee shop would be a better bet. With Chase no longer working, I was sure I'd be saved from getting myself into anymore trouble.
The bitter morning air stung my cheeks as I stepped out from my car. I hadn't noticed before, but snow blanketed the sidewalks and the sky a dreary, lifeless gray to match.
With a shiver, I made my way inside the shop, wincing slightly when the bell above my head announced my entry.
There was only one other person inside, seated behind a computer with headphones and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. But, he glanced up to look at me when I stepped past his table, only to look away just as quickly. And then back again.
Hazel's old boss stood behind the counter, his eyes latching onto me as I made my way up to him. Expectant, cautious.
Today, the fancy barista man wore a dark dress button-up, dark hair swept neatly atop his head. No different from the last time we met.
"What can I—" he began to say, but I was quick to cut the him off.
"Coffee."
He didn't move for a moment, studying my face for a second, but seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in and spun away quickly.
I watched fancy barista man work with record speed, hands nimble and quick as he poured the dark, steaming liquid into a cup.
Without looking at me, barista man set down the coffee in front of me and said,
"Cream and sugar are on the side." He nodded to his left and pushed a lid in my direction.
Ignoring him, I turned away, but fancy barista man's voice stopped me from getting very far.
"How's your brother?"
At the mention of Thomas, I turned on my heel, a frown on my face that did nothing to hide any of the confusion I might've felt. Along with it, the fear.
Thomas was never spoken of when he left, and hardly anyone knew of him even before then. I'd never once uttered his name since, and no one else did, either.
"What do you know about Thomas?" I tried to remember where I had seen the fancy barista man, how he could look so familiar and yet know nothing about him.
A beat of silence made my stomach flutter nervously. How did he know Thomas?
There weren't very many people who were close to Thomas—maybe a few acquaintances here and there, but never anyone close. Except there was one.
"You don't remember who I am?" Barista man asked me, pulling my thoughts back to the counter.
I looked at him then, my eyes narrowed as I studied his face.
Thomas only ever hung out with one person, he was our neighbor, and walked home from school with Thomas almost every single day.
The few times that he ever came over, I made sure that he never spent long.
But what was his name? I could only remember bits and pieces of the days he spent over, of the lingering looks when he thought I didn't notice, the whispers exchanged.
There was a reason why I'd pushed those memories to the back of my mind—some I'd almost completely forgotten.
Suddenly, my heart began to race.
"I'm Christopher," barista man said. "Riley."
My eyes widened slightly as recognition dawned on me, but was quick to compose myself as Christopher studied me intently.
Christopher Riley. Chris.
No. It couldn't be. But the longer I looked, the more the feeling of dread pooled in my stomach. A flood of memories resurfaced in my mind, images that had long since been buried.
Questions formed in my head, one after the other as the familiarity settled in. I took a step back, this close to turning and running the opposite direction, but there was one in particular that stood out among the rest that kept me in place.
Although Chris had been Thomas's best friend, I know what I saw when I peaked through my bedroom window. His own right across from mine, —a sudden, haunting memory.
How much did Chris know?
The words were on the edge of my tongue. I backed away from Chris, my heart in my throat and my hands clammy with cold sweat.
But when I spun away, he spoke, confirming the thoughts I didn't want to be true.
"Does anyone else know?"
I had every intention just to ignore Chris's question and walk away, but something stopped me—because I knew what he saw, and I needed to see his face.
"No."
The single word was cold and closed off, as if I didn't care what Chris was talking about. And before I could even think to let him speak, I turned and walked away, the coffee long forgotten.
Before I could even get to my car, tears were already racing down my cheeks. One after the other, cold against my skin in the bitter air.
I didn't know how long I sat in my car before I could finally bring myself to drive to the office.
Even there, I sat in the parking lot until I felt composed enough to make my way into the building. I forced Chris Riley's name to the back of my mind, praying that he'd stay there along with all of the thoughts that threatened to plague my mind all over again.
The moment I stepped inside, all of it came flooding back, different this time.
Instead of Chris, I imagined Thomas. And I could feel the unease as I wondered all of what my brother had told Chris—but Thomas was sworn to my secrecy—he wouldn't have said a word. I knew him.
But Chris had always been curious, and unlike me Thomas never one to bottle up all of his emotions.
Did he tell Chris why he left? Did he know where?
That was what bothered me most about Thomas's disappearance. He never said a word or left a single hint.
Just...gone.
A gasp of surprise startled me back to reality, and I hardly had enough time to come back to my senses before I felt something hard come crashing into me.
Startled myself, the weight of her hands still on my chest, I noticed the familiar figure as she pushed herself away.
I narrowed my eyes, first at Hazel, her cheeks tinted red with embarrassment, and then to the papers strewn across the floor.
For a moment, I just stared, watching as my assistant sunk to her knees to pick up the papers, all the while mumbling her apologies.
This time, I wasn't angry—and if anything, I was relieved that Hazel ran into me.
Still, I pinned a scowl on my lips and opened my mouth to speak, to say something I knew I'd regret, but Hazel was quicker.
"I...I thought maybe you weren't coming." She said, her dark, penetrating eyes lingering over my face.
"I come whenever I want." I replied coldly. I prayed that Hazel couldn't see through the facade I was wearing, could feel it slipping the longer I held her stare.
I moved to step around my assistant, deliberately stepping on and scattering the files surrounding her. I even snatched the ones from her grasp, pretending to read the words and numbers printed on the sheet.
"I hope these aren't important."
Hazel's gaze grew wide, and with a hitched breath, she reached up to try to grab the papers, a failed attempt to stop me as I tore the sheets in half.
"Mr. Wright...sir?"
I wasn't entirely certain what made me do it—maybe it was out of anger, for my father's stupid company. Or maybe it was because I just didn't care. Still, Hazel's startled and defeated expression didn't need to know that.
Instead, I stepped around her and made a show of stepping on the papers before making my way inside my office.