“You have the right to remain silent . . .” He began his mantra, the rest of his words sounding distant and warbled.
I didn’t struggle as they pulled me out of bed. The second officer took Josh’s picture from my hands and handed it to another policeman. “What’s this?” he asked.
To my shock, Rachel walked in and shook an accusing finger at me. “I knew it was you!”
The second police officer waved Josh’s picture in front of me. “Add this to the list of charges.”
The officer handed the picture to Rachel, who shook her head in disappointment and satisfaction at finally catching me.
“No!” I screamed.
***
I awoke in a cold sweat.
It was a dream.
I searched my brain in hopes that shooting the man from the alley had been a dream as well. But no, it was real. He was dead because of me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Picking up my cell phone, I checked the time: 3:32 a.m.
Trying to stop my body from shaking, I continued to breathe in deep, my eyes open.
What had I done?
My head hurt.
My body ached.
I think I’m paralyzed.
I moved my arm. Nope. I could move.
Everything that happened to me last night played over and over in my head. Maybe someone had seen what happened? Maybe the man hadn’t died? Maybe . . .
I sat up in bed and grabbed my phone from the bedside table. Turning it on, I searched the internet for anything I could find on last night’s events, but nothing came up. No dead body reports, no arrest reports, no gunshot reports, just a whole lot of nothing.
So what did that mean?
Did this really happen?
Had I made the whole thing up in my head?
I looked down at my shirt, still on from last night, and sure enough there was his blood. I remembered now. It had dripped from his head wound when he had me pinned down.
I choked, the memory too strong.
Ripping the shirt off of me, I grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and put it on.
My attacker was real.
It happened.
The alley may have sent him, but he existed. The flashback of his body pushing against mine, his hands trapping me to the ground . . . I shuddered, and my mouth burned from the acid crawling its way up my throat.
No. It was real.
So maybe if this guy was a wanted criminal, then the police might not report finding him dead? Maybe the cops would consider it a case of a bad guy getting killed by another bad guy. I could call the cops and ask, but I already knew I’d never do that.
Touching the bloodstain on my shirt caused my heart to race. Should I burn it? Should I just throw it away? Bleach! People always used bleach in the movies. I didn’t have any bleach. I could get bleach. Did I really want to buy bleach? Could I please stop thinking about bleach!
Murderer.
I had to get this out of my head.
I’d go insane if I didn’t.
If the police found me, then I’d accept the consequences. I wouldn’t hide.
Yes.
Erasing what had happened wasn’t an option, but shoving it deep down into the recesses of my brain and living in total denial seemed like a good idea right now.
I needed this to be the plan because the alternative?
Paralysis.
Terror.
Guilt so severe I wasn’t sure how to live with myself.
Why had the alley done this to me?
Swallowing my feelings and emotions was something I was very good at.
Distractions.
I took the shirt and shoved it under my mattress. If the cops arrested me, I’d give them the shirt. Simple.
The design contest.
Before the attack, it had been my biggest source of fear besides Josh.
I hoped it was enough to distract me completely.
Reaching down to my backpack, I pulled out my sketchpad, thumbing through it until I found the flyer for the fashion contest. And now, staring at the flyer, entering and putting my work out there for all to see somehow didn’t seem as scary after the terror of the attack last night.
Besides, going to Cassiopeia Design School was my dream, and this contest was the only reasonable path ahead of me.
And if I won, if I achieved my wish and was able to go to school, I was pretty sure it was the only way of defeating the alley for good.
It was a start anyway.
If I put my portfolio together quickly enough, I’d have time to stop by the Cassiopeia Design School to drop off my application before work.
It was a plan. I liked plans. They helped me forget.
Grabbing the empty portfolio notebook I had bought over a month ago from my desk, I carefully tore out each design from my sketchpad, cut off the perforated edges, and placed them inside the plastic sheaths until the portfolio was full. It was the best I could do considering I waited until the last moment. Stuffing the portfolio inside my backpack, I left my room, quickly made a couple of meals for me and Hank, placed them into my bag, and I was off. I didn’t want to think about the fact that my Grandma wasn’t up yet, because I didn’t want to think about the fact that she may be in her bedroom with Buster. That thought almost erupted my brain like a volcano, so I shoved it aside as well and hurried out the door.
It was a ten-minute bus ride to the Cassiopeia Design School campus, and when I set foot on the grassy lawn of the school entrance, all thoughts of last night’s attack melted away.
It had worked.
I had found the perfect distraction, the perfect bandage to cover and erase what had happened.
My insides vibrated with excitement. I belonged here. I felt it in my soul. It was home.
Resting in the center of the city, the school was a carved-out oasis of brick, ivy, and perfectly manicured lawns. Cobblestone walkways wended their way throughout the campus, giving
