Because I’ve been pushed around enough, that’s why. I’ve been burned, cut down to believe I wasn’t worth the ground I walked on, and I pulled myself out of that wreckage. Sure, Hazel gave me a second chance at life, but I was the one who survived long enough to get there. And I sure as fuck didn’t make it out of the water that day by being nice.

I just hope I can sell it to someone who will let him keep running it.

Maybe that pretty blonde from the gala… If only I could remember her name.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The walk back has been pretty quiet until a slow moving black car coasts by me on the silent suburban street.

Blood rises to my cheeks, and it becomes hard to breathe. A bead of cold sweat settles on my forehead when the car parks against the curb, the back door opening without the car turning off.

I should run. If I were going to run, I should do it now.

But I’m glued to my spot. This is what happened last time and a hundred times before. I froze when I should have acted.

If those familiar black shoes step out of the car, I have to run. As it is, I’m standing on the sidewalk, only a block away from home, and I’m just waiting for what could be nothing or the end of my life.

It feels like years pass as I wait for whoever is about to get out of this car. It’s probably more like three seconds.

Black stilettos and a tight-fitting dress climb out of the car. I let out a shaky breath as a woman, dressed up and covered in makeup steps out. Her eyes lock on me and she gives me a bright, very fake, smile.

“Ms. Young,” she says as she walks over. “I hope I didn’t scare you. Charlotte Thomas, KYOC, Channel 4 News.”

My heart starts to race, but now for completely different reasons. The woman is holding a microphone but not to her mouth.

“How do you know who I am?” I murmur.

“My cameraman recognized you from our file. I just have a few questions about the well-being of Hazel Whitaker. Our sources have indicated that she passed less than 48 hours ago. Can you confirm this information?”

Her questions are rapid fire, rehearsed, like she knows from experience that if she lets me, I’ll stop her or walk away.

“I—I don’t know anything,” I stammer.

“Are you not the same Savannah Young that has lived and worked at the Whitaker estate for the last ten months?”