Page 26 of This for That (The Edge of Retaliation 1)
“I’m going to an art gallery opening later this week. Join me?”
I stare at him. I’m not sure if he’s asking me on a date, or if he just feels sorry for me and wants to help. I don’t know. I just don’t know with Ethan. Sometimes he looks at me like he feels a whole lot more than friendship, and other times he just looks like a man wanting to help a friend.
“It’s not a date, Callie,” he murmurs, clearly seeing my confused expression. “Just helping you out.”
Right.
Awkward.
“Yeah, of course. I’d love to come, thanks.”
“Good,” he says, slapping his knees and standing. “Let’s keep going.”
“Ethan, no!” I whine as he gets up and starts running. I force myself to my feet and follow him. Damn him. This sucks.
But I have to admit, having Ethan on my side? It feels nice. It’s nice to know you’re not completely alone in a world you were so sure had given up on you.
We return to my apartment, and I’m doubled over and puffing. I’m so focused on trying not to die on the sidewalk that I don’t notice Ethan has gone completely still beside me. In fact, I don’t even notice that he’s not answering me when I whine or talk or complain about how breathless I am. Narrowing my eyes, I stand upright and stare at him. He’s staring at my car on the sidewalk.
My eyes move to it.
My blood runs cold.
Everything in my body seems to freeze, and my whole world stops, as if time is standing still. I stare at the bright red dripping paint on the silver car Joanne loaned me, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Spray painted along the entire side of the car is ‘Killer.’
Killer.
I want to curl up and die.
I want to scream and run.
I want to do anything but stare at that word right now, a word that feels like it’s ripping into my soul.
My skin prickles, and I whisper, “Ethan.”
My voice is pained, and broken, and scared. Someone knows this is my car. Someone knows I am Celia’s killer. Someone knows I live here. Someone doesn’t like me. Someone is letting me know that I’m not safe. Someone.
Fucking someone.
“It’s okay,” Ethan says, his hand going to my shoulder and squeezing. “I’m sure it’s just a prank. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay.
It’s also not just a prank.
I don’t understand. I don’t get it. How does anyone know I live here? Is it someone seeking revenge? Is it someone just wanting to make me suffer? I don’t understand. Goddammit, I don’t get it. I thought I was free of this, the judgement and the horror, but it turns out I’m not free of anything.
“Someone has been watching me,” I say, my voice low and shaky. “Someone knows that’s the car I’ve been driving. They know I live here, and they know what I did. Ethan, someone is giving me a message.”
“Don’t overthink this. It could be anyone. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. I’ll call the police, and we’ll get some extra security on your house outside of normal locks and screens. Try not to panic. Let’s go inside.”
He practically drags me inside the house, and when we get in, Joanne is just coming out of her room. She worked late last night, so she was sleeping when we left for our run. With ruffled hair and eyes still half closed, she croaks, “Hey, how was your run?”
I just stare at her, wondering how I’m going to tell her that someone knows I live here, and that someone spray painted her car—something that will no doubt be incredibly expensive to fix.
“Is everything okay?” she asks me.
“Someone spray painted your car,” Ethan tells her. “A message meant for Callie.”
Joanne rubs her eyes, and murmurs, “What? What do you mean?”
“Someone knows I’m here,” I tell her, my voice still shaky and low. “They spray painted ‘killer’ on your car, Jo. I’m so sorry. I’ll get it fixed and—”
“Whoa!” Jo cuts me off. “What?”
“We just saw it when we came back from our run. Wasn’t there when we left. Someone must have done it as soon as we left the house,” Ethan tells her. “I’m calling the cops.”
He disappears out of the room with his phone, and I turn to Jo, who is walking over to me. She places her hands on my shoulders and says, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say, exhaling and then inhaling deeply to try and get my calm back. “I don’t know why someone would do that. I don’t even know who would do that. How does someone know I’m here? Has there been someone following me since I left prison? I just don’t understand.”
“It could be a friend of Celia’s,” Jo says. “Or her boyfriend, a family member—someone who is looking for justice for her death. It could be anyone. The best thing we can do is call the police. They’ll sort this out. I’m sure it’s just a threat.”
