"How're you feeling this morning?" My mom's smile was tight and forced, her eyes were tired. I wondered if she'd been sleeping at all.
"I'm okay. Am I going back to school today?" I asked, eyeing the large breakfast she'd made me.
"If you're feeling up to it, sweetie. You've had a lot of time off, I don't want you to fall behind… not all because of some…" she broke off, her face crumpling and the floodgates of her tears opening with a whine.
"Hey, mom, look, I'm okay," I smiled, trying awkwardly to embrace her with one arm. My mom rarely cried in front of me, and it didn't seem fair for her to do so now, when I'm the one who should be upset.
"I know you are, you're so strong, Violet. My strong little girl. We're so proud of you, after everything you've been through," her tears were still coming, distorting her voice. I grit my teeth, reminding myself she was only regurgitating what people were telling her. I'd only found out two days ago, when I'd logged onto a social networking site for the first time, because I planned on going back to school and wondered how many people would still be talking about it. The comments hit me like the bullet's Tate had planned for my skull. 'RIP, Leah, u were so brave!', 'Such a beautiful young girl, she would have been famous,', 'always in our hearts, Leah'. But worse were the comments directed towards him, and me. 'Tate Langdon will rot in hell,' 'I feel soooo soo bad for that Violet girl.' 'Bet he raped her, too, she seems kind of fucked up.' 'I heard he tried to kill her but the cops stopped him. Too bad they couldn't save Leah, she was really innocent.' I'd slammed my laptop shut and pushed it off the edge of my bed, it landed on the floor with a harsh clunk and I curled into the foetal position. I didn't go back to school that day and it was a full twenty-four hours before my mum managed to coax me out of my bedroom.
"He didn't do anything to me mom. How many times do I have to say it? Tate was my… friend," I trailed, not wanting to share the most vulnerable part of us with her. That was something reserved solely for the me and him that existed in my head, now. I stormed out of the kitchen and down the hall, my mother hot on my heels. I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, opening the door and making my way down the path.
"Honey, I have to drive you. I'm sorry, but it's a safety thing. He's still out there."
"So what if he is?" I yelled, continuing down the drive and feeling my heart break at the sight of his house. I waited by the car, though, not wanting to cause a scene. My mother ran out the house moments later, still in her pyjamas but with shoes on now. She didn't speak to me the whole journey, which suited me fine because I was back to imagining blonde curls behind bushes.
"Have a good day," she offered, coldly. She hadn't even thought her words through, because we both knew my day would be anything but good. Necessary, yes. Progress, maybe. But good? No. Without Tate, my day would never be good again.
In the most typical cliché you could imagine, the hall fell silent as people noticed I'd arrived, and whispering began as I shoved past the crowds to reach my locker. Hundreds of eyes followed me, some suspicious, some sympathetic, some neutral and just curious. I opened my locker and shielded the contents from prying eyes, though I knew the police had been through everything inside, my books were in a different order to how I'd left them. I grabbed the essential books I'd need for the day, not intending to have to stop in the hall so long until the end of the day when the novelty of my tragedy had worn off. The bell rang and I shoved away from the locker, pushing it closed with a clang and heading to first period English. The class dragged, no one would sit next to me. History dragged, a girl left crying when I answered my name in roll call. Lunch dragged, I ate on the bleachers and saw the ghost of a blonde-boy running laps around the track. Gym dragged, I was exempt because of my anxiety and everyone watched me out of the corner of their eye like a feral dog on chain with a weak link. I was exhausted by the time I reached my locker again, but at least people were starting to accept that I wasn't going to kill anyone, and I wasn't the dramatic mess they'd been hoping for. I wasn't good enough gossip to be worth watching any longer. So I stacked my textbooks and notebooks into my locker slowly, sluggishly, and turned to leave, almost before catching sight of the withered purple flowers crushed against the grate of my locker. My breath hitched, but I knew better than to hope because there is no way Tate could have got in and out of this place without being seen. Police were everywhere, for the students' protection, just like the squad car that had taken up residence on the curb outside my house. I glanced around me, before shoving the violets into my bag and hurrying out the main doors, to where my mother was waiting to pick me up.
Though it was impossible, there were fresh flowers in my locker every day for the next two weeks. School got easier, because people were moving on. It was chilling to watch people laugh and chatter as though Leah had never existed at all, just a month after something so horrific. I guess that's high school though. Tate was right. I had to find him. Someone was on my side, because when I went to my locker that afternoon, a scrap of folded paper fluttered to the ground, moved by the force with which I'd swung the door open. I scrabbled for it, surprised, because the flowers never fell out. I didn't read it, afraid my face would betray the contents, and, with any luck, the sender, so instead I pushed it into my bag and rushed for the doors. My mom was there to pick me up again, but she didn't try and ask me about my day. We'd fallen into silence as of late, realising that we had little, if not nothing, in common, and that in order to salvage some semblance of pleasantry in our relationship it was best if communication was kept to essentials. When we got home I thanked her for the ride and she nodded, following me into the house and locking the car with the click of a button. I jogged straight up to my room, pulling the note from my bag and dropping onto my bed. I unfolded the paper between shaking fingers. Just two words. I don' t know what sonnet I'd expected, but the disappointment in my soul was eradicated the moment the words registered for the first time. 'Beach. Tonight.' I smiled, reading and rereading the basic, block text a hundred times.
"Burn the evidence," I whispered to myself, flicking open my zippo lighter and catching the corner, dropping the note into the glass by my bedside when the flames rose to lick my fingers. When I was certain it was an unreadable, shrunken sheet of ash I got up, going to my clothes to pick something to wear tonight. If he wanted me to go with him, I would, so I packed a little bag with essentials and what money I had.
I wondered if he'd want to meet in THE spot. The one where he'd hid her body, the one where he'd probably killed her, too. Or would he want to meet further down the beach, where we'd sat and he'd told me his very worst secrets. I suppose it depended entirely on why he wanted to meet me. Maybe he liked to be consistent, and would kill me where he killed her, or would he take me in his arms and ask me to run away with him on the sand? The beach was black and I stumbled along it, not sure how he'd find me. I glanced over at the rocks where I'd seen her corpse, shivering, but the light below and behind it captured my attention. A fire. That would be a risky move for a murderer on the run, but I guess I can't predict Tate's state of mind. I paced quietly over the sand, crawling over the rocks as soundlessly as possible and peering over the edge. A group of teenagers were sitting around the fire. Not Tate, but some underage party. One of the boys turned at the precise moment I lifted my head, and stopped laughing.
"I'm, sorry," I mumbled, turning to manoeuvre myself over the rocks again.
"No, no, you're right on time," he said causally, taking a few steps towards me. I shook my head.
"No, it's okay, I made a mistake," I tried, but the boy was still advancing, and two others had joined him, flanking on either side as they began climbing over the rocks towards me.
"Yes, I'd say you did. You know, we almost hoped you wouldn't come. We thought, judging by how… boring you've been these past weeks, that you really didn't have anything to do with Leah's murder. We almost thought you were throwing those violets away, and that you'd do the same to the note. But the fact that you're here… to meet him…" the boy trailed off, sighing over-dramatically, and I recognised him suddenly as one of the other kids from Tate's track group of jock types.
"I… I don't know why I came, I-"
"You came because you love Tate. Let's not bullshit each other, alright? You came to see Tate because you love him or whatever, and you knew about him killing Leah. Fuck, you probably watched, huh? Got off on it?" He launched for me and grabbed my arms in an iron grasp, dragging me on my stomach back over the rocks. I could feel the course stone scraping the flesh off my stomach but I pressed my lips tightly together, resolved to let whatever happened, happen, because these kids weren't murderers themselves and maybe I deserved this anyway. I was manhandled between the three, who half carried, half dragged me back off the other side of the rocks and dumped me in front of the fire.
"What do you want?" I asked quietly, trying not to sound panicked.
"We want, answers, Harmon." Another stated, darkly. His eyes were puffy and red but his cheeks were sallow, and I didn't recognise him at all.
"You don't go to Westfield," I replied, trying to place his face. He looked so familiar.
"People say I have her eyes. I'm Leah's brother." Of course, of course, the eyes. Equally clear, and equally cruel. "Know something really sick?" Her brother continued, stepping over to me and crouching in front of my face. "Wanna know?" I turned my face to the side, away from his crazed expression, and he dipped his head down and to the side to catch my gaze again. He sighed because I hadn't asked, but knew I didn't plan to. "I liked Tate. Like, I really fucking liked him. We used to hang out when Leah had some girl shit to do, and I actually wanted him to stay with her. I wanted her to make him happy more than I wanted him to make her happy. How sick is that? Right?" He kept asking me and I kept staring at the sand and the way the fire changed the colours of the grains and brought out the glassy tones. The knuckles against my cheek were more of a shock than they should have been, had I been paying attention to the wreck of a person in front of me. I clicked my jaw back, moving it in tiny circular motions to assess the damage. He'd hit right to the bone, and I think he'd split a knuckle because my cheek was damp. "You look at me when I'm talking to you, you fucking sadistic bitch!" He was crying now, sticky saliva hitting my face. I turned to look at him, my eyes wide and innocent. I knew I looked young, knew I could pull off that scared-little-girl look and maybe save myself a worse beating.
"I'm sorry she died," I whispered, and he shoved me backwards and held me against the fire, the flames so close they singed the sweat right off my face.
"You're not sorry. You're as bad as he is. No, you're worse. You know what he did and you walk around this town like a guiltless little angel, when you know. Did you see him do it? Did she suffer?" he broke down again, letting me go. I dropped into the fire and rolled out just as quick, putting out the fire at the ends of my hair and cradling the arm that had been lightly burned.
"I'm sorry, I don't know. I didn't see her die," I pleaded for him to believe me, but his eyes had turned cold. He looked the same as she had when she'd singled me out to be her personal play-thing, and I knew I was pretty much a goner.
"Well, I'm sorry too, but if you can't tell me, than you will suffer." He stomped down on my leg from its folded position against the floor and felt the bone strain underneath his boot, but not break.
"Hey, hey man, we're just scaring her, don't take this too far," one of the other guys, the first one, warned him with a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off and looked down at me, before crouching in front of me.
"I'm not going to really hurt her, guys, chill out. Go back to the car, I'll be over in a minute. He glanced round to face the others, an easy smile on his face. "I just want to make sure she understands why she has to stay away from him, y'know for Leah," he'd injected just the right amount of sadness and sympathy into his tone, and the others bought it, as they shrugged and began walking away.
"We'll meet you in the parking lot, don't be too long, dude, I'll give you a ride home." The boy in front of me nodded at his friends, waving, before turning back to me. In a loud, fake voice he took hold of my hand. "I just want you to be safe. No more innocent girls need to die, okay?" But when they were out of earshot a slow, sadistic smile spread across his face and I knew I was going to die, or at least be beaten into a coma tonight.
"They all just… left?" I whispered in disbelief, because they had to have known this guy was unstable. Maybe they were okay with him doing this, so long as they didn't have to watch and could just go back to living the life of blissful, naive denial so typical in high school.
"Sure they did, Harmon. They know you deserve this. Don't worry, I'll pretend it's Tate I'm hurting, okay? I suppose," he punched me hard in the stomach and I think something ruptured, much deeper than the penetration of his fist could have delivered. "That this will hurt him much more than if we had him here, won't it? He loves you, after all. Not her. Not my poor sister. He never did love her, I could tell." He punched me again, and twisted my hair around his fist. "He was too good for her, but he should have just ended it. Not her. He ended her and she didn't deserve that!" Finally, something I could be convincing on.
"No, she didn't deserve that. I didn't like Leah," I coughed, my stomach reacting sharply to my intake of breath, "but she didn't deserve to die, and Tate was wrong. But you can't punish me for it. I was at school the whole time. I didn't know he'd killed her until way after," I tried to be as convincing as possible, because I was being truthful. He pulled my head to the side and closer to him.
"Too little, too late," he whispered, and I was preparing for some fresh hell, but none came. I was thrown to the ground as he released my hair and I stayed there, fearing the consequences of trying to move before he'd decided what to do next.
"Violet," soft voice, soft fingers raking gently through my hair to reach my face, cup my cheek and jaw, turn my head to face him. The fire illuminated his blonde curls, emblazoned around his pale face and impossibly dark eyes like in so many of my dreams.