"Madeleine, you know what you did was wrong."

In the front seat of Abella's beat-up tan Volvo, fifteen-year-old Madeleine stared at her phone and tried to ignore the old woman's disappointed gaze. She had been caught shoplifting at a lingerie store.

Again.

When Madeleine said nothing, Abella continued, "I just can't understand what's gotten into you. You were always such a sweet child. What made you do something like this?"

Madeleine shrugged.

She didn't know why. She was bored. She was curious. She was half-hoping she'd get caught so her mother would be forced to pay attention to her.

Only it wasn't her mother's number she'd given the police when they'd taken her into custody. It was Abella's.

She secretly hoped Abella might take her home with her although she didn't like Abella's cramped guest room, where she always caught cold from the draft and she could hear the shouts of the neighbors and the annoying horns and motors of the midnight traffic below. Oddly, though, she would always drift off to sleep there and sleep soundly until the next morning when she would awaken to the wonderful scent of Abella's crepes and omelets wafting into the bedroom.

She had missed Abella's cooking so much since the elderly maid had retired three years earlier.

"I raised you better than this," Abella continued.

"Yeah?" Madeleine spat back. "And then you left. What? Did I get to be too much for you too?"

"Madeleine, that's not—"

"Why? Why did you leave?"

"I retired, Madeleine. I just—"

"But why did you leave? Why did you leave me there?! Can't you just take me with you?! I-I'll be good. I promise. Please let me live with you. I'll do all my homework every day…and I won't steal things from stores…and…I won't even wear makeup…sometimes."

"Mon petit chou, I can't stay with you forever." They had pulled up to a traffic light, and Abella reached over and stroked the top of Madeleine's hair like she had done for a five-year-old Madeleine not so long ago. "You're going to grow up before you know it and go off to college. See more of the world. Meet lots of exciting people."

"But I can still do that with you."

Abella shook her head.

"Madeleine, I'm not rich like your parents. I can't give you those opportunities."

"But I don't care about that."

"Believe me, you will."

"But—"

"You need to stay with your parents and live a good life for me, all right? Do all those exciting things I never got to do."

Madeleine shoved Abella's hand away and stared out the window again.

"Listen to me. You're always going to be my little girl, you know that? All you have to do is be good and kind and brave, and you really, really have to be strong."

"I…" Madeleine's could feel the tears welling up before she could shove the ache back down in her throat. "I can't," she choked out.

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't." Madeleine shook her head. "I can't do anything right. I can't."

"Madeleine, stop saying nonsense."

"No, no." Madeleine shook her head more fervently. "I just make a mess of everything, and apparently I'm not even good at that!" Madeleine swung open the car door and got out, ignoring the woman's protest.

"I'll walk the rest of the way," she announced, slamming the door.

Swinging her purse over her head, she crossed over hurriedly between a few cars to the sidewalk and took off running. She ran until she couldn't hear Abella's plaintive cries pursuing her. She ran until her feet ached and her lungs felt ready to burst. She ran until the tears filling her eyes blinded her, until she couldn't see where she was going and she didn't care.

Back at her apartment, Madeleine lit a new cigarette and took another swig out of the bottle of white wine on her patio table. The cool night air did nothing to calm her. If anything, the quiet made her thoughts as relentless as ever. In the dark, she had nowhere to hide from herself.

She'd thought after tonight she would feel in control of things for once. She'd feel satisfaction knowing someone would finally be getting what they deserved.

Where was the high she'd been craving all these years?

She finally had the So family right where she wanted them, and all she could think about was that stupid waitress and the stupid scared look in her eyes.

Madeleine, you know what you did was wrong.

"Shut up," Madeleine muttered into the bottle.

At times like these, she wished she'd never burned that box: the photos, the letters, the mementos, the articles, all of it. She needed to remind herself why she started all this.

But she'd been angry that day, the day she'd destroyed her mother's box. She refused to use the word hurt. How hurt can you be by someone you didn't expect to love you in the first place?

Now history would repeat itself.

Only this time she would be the author.