Charges. That meant court. Maybe jail. Some sort of juvenile facility? My breaths started coming quicker again.

A knock sounded on the door, and a female officer poked her head in. “You’ve got a call, Markum.”

He looked at me. “I’ll be right back. Officer Stapleton will wait with you.”

Thankfully, she didn’t try to make conversation. I closed my eyes and pictured the way Detective Markum had breathed. I counted to five as I inhaled and then out to five with the exhale. Any time I saw Derek’s face in my mind, felt the way his arms had always made me feel so safe, I shoved it out. Any time I began to panic about judges and jails, I counted my breaths.

The door squeaked as it swung into the room, and my eyes flew open. Markum had a pretty good poker face, but I could still see the lines of concern. I dug my fingers into my thighs. “What is it?”

“I spoke with your father.”

My nails bit into the denim. “What did he say?”

“He and your mother declined to come down to the station or to get you a lawyer.”

My eyes shut again for the briefest of moments. I had expected a silently seething father and a mother with disappointment in her eyes. But still, parents with a lawyer in tow. “They’re not coming?”

“No.”

“So, what happens to me now?”

Markum shifted on his feet. “I can call a court-appointed lawyer for you, but unless you have someone who can post bail, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in holding for tonight, at least.”

Derek. He was the person I would’ve called. The one I could always count on. Yet he was sitting a few rooms over, betraying me to anyone who would listen. Selling our love in hopes of getting off scot-free.

“Is there someone else I can call? A grandparent or aunt?”

I stared down at my hands, saw the red marks from the handcuffs, my peeling purple nail polish, the fraying tear in the knee of my jeans. “No, there’s no one you can call.” Because I was completely and totally alone.

1

ANNA

PRESENT

“Are you wearing your mesh glove, Kenz? I don’t want you to lose a finger.”

Kennedy let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not going to chop off a finger.”

I set my knife down on the cutting board and turned to face my friend. “Do you not remember that hot man of yours gluing your finger closed after you sliced it open?”

“That was one time. I swear, neither of you will let me live it down.”