My parents are zombies, just barely going through the motions of day-to-day life. They hardly speak to each other. They hardly even look at me. The house has been so silent, you can hear everything. I hear my mother sobbing. I hear them whisper-shout at each other. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking downstairs.
We haven’t spoken. Not about Madison, not about the assholes in town, not about anything at all.
The only place I truly feel content and welcome is here with Mads. It’s strange, the comfort I get from just sitting in front of where she’s laid to rest. She listens to me cry over her, and she listens to my fears and the anger that reside in me, but she never says anything. Not that I expect her to.
Pushing off a portion of the damp grass, I wipe a few stray blades and dirt off my backside and sling my backpack over my shoulder. My Converse crunch through the blades as I weave through the dead. A tremor rolls down my spine as I walk through the cemetery toward the exit. I’m used to it by now, though.
My stomach growls violently as I make my way downtown, past shops closing for the evening. I pause in front of the bakery, the only one still open, and decide to get something to eat. It’s not like we’ll have anything at home. I think my parents have been surviving off coffee and their tears.
The second I step into the bakery, the few patrons inside pause. All conversations die down, and the whispers start. I already know what everyone thinks of me. Half this town thinks I know what happened to my sister. The other half thinks I’m crazy for falsely blaming a group of boys who are off to college in just under a week.
Letting the whispers roll off my back, I step up to the counter, and Mrs. Beverly watches me with sad eyes as if she understands.
“What can I get ya, Kenzie?”
“Two slices of lemon meringue.”
She pauses, and so do I, realizing my slip.
That was one thing Madison could always count on me for, bringing her a slice of pie. A slice of anything, actually. It was our thing. Even when we couldn’t stand the sight of each other, I’d always stop in here and get her a slice of pie.
My eyes burn with an onslaught of emotion. “I-I mean o-one slice—”
Mrs. Beverly shakes her head, her own eyes growing misty. Just like she usually does, she cuts two slices and gives me a wobbly smile.
“Two slices. Free of charge.”
I wage a battle over my emotions. Trapping my bottom lip between my teeth, I clamp down hard, trying to stave off the tears.
“Thank you,” I choke out, my hands trembling around the to-go box.
I clutch the box to my chest, leaving my red-rimmed eyes downcast as I exit. I make my way down the street back toward my house, but loud laughter ahead causes fear to vibrate through my body. I almost drop the pies. When I look up, the guys notice me at the same time.
“Well, well, well,” Vincent drawls. “If it isn’t the town’s biggest troublemaker.”
Dread takes root in my belly.
The rest of the guys laugh. I realize it’s only the three of them today. Marcus and Sebastian are nowhere to be found.
Squaring my shoulders, I tighten my hands around the box of food and try to push past them. I won’t cause a scene, not when everyone in town already thinks I’m a psycho, but Vincent blocks my path. His heavy hand slams in the center of my chest, knocking me back. The air is knocked from my lungs, and I gasp, barely managing to stand upright.
“Not so tough now, are you, Wright?”
My heart races in my chest unsteadily. I fight to pull a solid breath back in my lungs.
“Get out of my way or so help me God,” I warn. My voice betrays me, showing them just how scared I am.
They all laugh, oohing over my show of bravado. “What’re you gonna do, princess? Spread more lies?” Zach taunts from beside Vincent.
The anger, the sadness, and the guilt that have been building inside me recklessly burst. Scathing words tumble from my lips like a woman possessed. “No!” I bark. “I’m going to expose you all for who you really are. I know what you did, and I won’t stop until justice has been served. I won’t stop until the town knows you’re all murderers. I won’t stop until your colleges kick you out. I won’t stop until you’re six feet und—”
Vincent moves so fast I don’t even see his hand coming until it’s wrapped around my throat and I’m shoved against the brick building behind me. My skull slams against the brick, and pain explodes, dazing me for a few seconds.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Are you stupid or something? How many times do we have to tell you to keep your fucking mouth shut?”
“Y-you’re … m-murderers-s,” I choke out from the pressure on my throat. Vincent’s eyes gleam with anger, and he tightens his grip.
“You’re going to wish you never fucked with any of us, Mackenzie. If I lose my scholarship because of you, you’re dead.”
He lets go and brushes past me, bristling with anger. My whole body is shaking as I watch them pass, and I think I’m in the clear until Trent smacks the to-go box out of my hands. It crashes to the ground, lemon meringue spilling out at my feet.
“You won’t win this battle, sweetheart,” he says eerily in passing. They trot along down the sidewalk without a care in the world. I’m left standing there, my chest heaving with anger as I try to pull in steady breaths, rage burning in my veins.
I may not win this battle, but I’ll sure as hell win the fucking war.
The next morning, I wake to banging on my bedroom door. I groan at the deafening intrusion and shift upright on the sheets. My bleary eyes focus on my mom and dad who are standing there with anger written all over their expressions. My drowsiness abruptly dissipates, and I sit upright, fear ranking my heart rate up several notches.
“What have you done?”
“What do you mean?” I can’t hear anything, save for the blood roaring through my veins.
“You’ve been served with a defamation of character lawsuit.”
My eyes grow wide, and I bark out a sharp laugh. “I’m sorry, what? Is this some joke?”
My dad slams a stack of papers down on the bed, anger coloring his expression. “Does this look like a fucking joke, Mackenzie?”
I pick up one of the pictures in the stack, and my stomach bottoms out when I see what’s written on the garage door. I pick up picture after picture, and each of their garages says the same. There’s no way they think I did this. When would I have had the time?
In bright red spray paint, “murderer” is written on the garage doors at each of their homes. Vincent’s words play back in my head on a boisterous repeat.
“You’re going to wish you never fucked with any of us.”
I scramble through the paperwork, skimming the legal jargon. I can’t wrap my head around any of this.
“How are we supposed to help you, Mackenzie, if you keep doing stuff like this?”
My breath gets lodged in my throat, tears springing to my eyes. “You actually think I’m stupid enough to do something like this? When would I have had the time? I know they did it—”
“That’s enough!” my dad barks. “You realize this means court, right? Does it look like we have money to get you a lawyer, Mackenzie?”