“Mila!”
Fucking hell, this girl is crazy.
“Hear me out. I need to do something.”
Hear me out. Is she for real? “We agreed on a more subtle plan.”
“Yeah, I decided I don’t like subtle. What if she never opens up because we’re never asking her directly?”
Hardly surprising. She has the subtly of a nuclear bomb. That’s the fastest way to make Indie hate us.
“Mila,” I say, exasperated.
“It’ll take too long, and every time I see her… Spencer, she looks like she’s in constant pain. Imagine living like that every day. Something is very wrong at home, and you know it.”
I rub my hand over my face. “She’ll cut us out if we push.”
“That’s why I’m not directly pushing. She won’t know that I’ve slashed her tyre.”
My eyes widen. “You’ve already done it?”
“I didn’t mean literally.”
“I know you care about her, but why are you so desperate to do this right now?”
“Because she’s my best friend. Now she’s not replying to my texts, which she would normally do if I message before her lectures. And… she’s family. When someone I love is hurting, I can’t function properly. I hate it, and I need Indie to be okay. Help me fix it.”
“You know, you would be a good actress if you can feel what someone else is feeling.”
“Nah, I don’t handle life well on little sleep. Indie said some of your days are, like, eighteen hours. I don’t think I’m ever awake for that long.”
“Can you please not do anything stupid until I talk to her again?”
She sighs. “Can you do something fast? What if they’re abusing her in other ways?”
“Don’t.” I close my eyes and clench my jaw, almost snapping my phone in half.
“I don’t want to go there, either, but something isn’t right.”
“I’m going to call her again.”
“Okay, I’m going over if you don’t hear.”
“All right. I’ll speak to you later.”
Mila hangs up. I hit Indie’s name, and the phone rings.
Mila’s words sit heavy in my gut. What could her parents be doing to her?
“Pick up,” I mutter.
The call goes through to her answering service. I leave a message asking her to call me back straight away. Lowering my phone, I rub my forehead.
Could it really be that bad and we don’t know about it? I take a breath and try not to panic. She doesn’t ever seem frightened of them. I hate the thought of her thinking she needs to keep something from me.
I get up and pace my apartment while checking the flight times to London.
The ache in my chest grows by the second.
Call me back, Indie.
Thirty
Indie
Time has no meaning in this house.
Dad was taken eight hours ago. After the post-mortem, we’ll be allowed to bury him. I’ve contacted my local funeral director. We’ll need to book a church service and a burial, pick a coffin, and decide on flowers. There is so much to think about.
Do we want a wake when we have no family. Dad doesn’t have any friends left. The wake would be Mum and me sitting in this cold living room.
She’s barely moved off the floor. I can’t get through to her, and when I tried to move her, she thrashed her arms and cried harder. I don’t know what to do.
“Mum,” I say, holding onto the door. “Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?”
Her body is as still as Dad’s was, but I hear her shallow sobs.
“Mum?”
“I want David.”
“Let me get you a drink, please…”
I can’t remember the last time I saw her drink anything that doesn’t come in a glass bottle.
She raises her eyes. “Tea.”
Tea. A slither of hope cuts through the despair in my heart. “Okay, I’ll make tea.”
Walking into the kitchen, I turn the thermostat up. The door has been opened and closed a good few times today, and now it’s cold. I flick the kettle on and grab two mugs from the cupboard. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking every second since Dad died.
My body is numb. I don’t know what to think or how I feel. It should be easy to read your own emotions.
He was my dad. Only he wasn’t really. I spent more time looking after him then he did me. Begging, pleading, screaming, throwing away alcohol—nothing worked.
I glance at my phone on the side and groan. I have texts and missed calls from Spencer, Mila, and Wren. I’m also thirty minutes late for my shift at The Waffle House.
Shit.
First, I make a quick call to my manager, pretending I’ve just finished throwing up. The lie has no effect on me. I’m sure I sound awful with the monotone voice of someone who’s had a big shock, despite the fact that I have been ready for this day for a long time.
Then, I open the texts and read. They’re all similar, asking me to get in touch. The last one from Mila reads: ‘I’m coming over’. It was sent one minute ago.
No. I jab my finger into her name and call.
“Indie!” she says, picking up immediately. “Are you okay? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been in bed all day. I have the vomiting bug that’s been going around uni.”
I can see Mila’s face now, scrunched up in disgust. She doesn’t like being sick. She says it takes days before she feels clean again. I’m counting on this right now.
“Are you better now? I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m well enough to make a call, but I still feel awful. Sorry I worried you.”
“You sound terrible. Can I do anything? Do you want soup or… whatever sick people need?”
“I have everything I need.”
“Do your parents have it, too?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll hopefully be okay tomorrow.”
God, I wish that could be true.
“All right. I’m going to check in later. You call first if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mila. I’m going to go ring Spence now. Will you let Wren know I’m fine?”
“Of course. Talk later. Love you.”
“Love you, too,”
