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The Woman Who Murdered Me

by Isabella Flores 9 months ago in Young Adult

Part 2

The rest of the morning had swept by in a blur. The only part I really remember happening was Captain taking my statement, (which I don't even remember writing), and telling me that I had to take leave.

When I had gotten back to my apartment, it was in even more of a whirlwind mess than when I had left this morning. My best friend, Tory, and I were moving out, and absolutely nothing had been packed away. Sure, there were boxes everywhere, all with shit hanging out the side or still folded against the wall. Our suitcases had clothes in them, but nothing was even remotely folded or packed. It was like having a really shitty laundry basket. It was my fault, really. I work so much, and I had spent the one weekend that both of us had off to prove that my step-mom was a murderer. I had run out of the apartment so excited two days ago when the call about the body had come in, that I hadn't even told Tory. She was still asleep. When I finally checked my phone (six hours later, whoops), I had almost twenty calls and texts from her, all of them angry. She clearly had been moving more our stuff to the ever-growing pile in the middle of our living room without me. Our living room, along with the our bedrooms, are actually pretty empty, save the pile of nonsense in the living room. We had all of the big furniture moved to our new place the one day that Tory's boyfriend, Mack, could let us use his work truck. We figured we'd shove all the smaller stuff into the back of Tory's Camry and my Civic, and make however many trips we needed.

We were supposed to be gone by today. I'm sure that Tory is pissed, but she wasn't here when I had gotten home. Our landlord, Vinny, is not the most understanding. That's a huge understatement. Vinny is the worst, and he hates having a cop here. This is not the best part of town, and I know that he's doing something illegal out of his unit upstairs. Can't prove it. Don't want to prove it. At worst, I'm sure it's just some minor drug dealing. It has never been worth it to me to upset our already delicate living situation over some weed. Maybe I'll worry about it after I move out, but for now, and especially after this morning, I really couldn't care less.

I have been staring at the shower floor for a while now, but the water is warm. I can't really bring myself to do anything else. The images from this morning keep flashing through my head. Montag laughing. Montag's lit up eyes as he talked about his new daughter. That guy with his gun pointed at us. The bullet casing tumbling out of the chamber. The side of Montag's chest jolting backward. The splash as Montag fell into the river. The wound in his chest gushing blood. His shirt and my hand soaked deep red as I screamed and screamed for a medic. His head falling weakly against my stomach as I held him.

That fucking smirk on Alaina's face.

"...Mara!...Mar!" Tory's voice was muffled as she called through the door. Her insistent knocking interrupting the flashes of my thoughts.

I turned off the water, which was enough to make her stop knocking. I pulled on the old white T-shirt and shorts that I had taken in the bathroom with me, and walked out toweling my dripping hair. Mara was in the kitchen attempting to stack our pathetic excuse for dishes into a box. Mack gave me a small nod of his head as he carried a box out from the pile in the living room and out the open front door. I rolled my eyes. Sitting next to the open door, in a folding chair he clearly found in the alley outside, was Vinny. He was wearing his signature dirty wife-beater and brown cargo pants, both of which looked like he had gone and rolled around in the dirt. His socks don't look much better, and are crusted a nasty yellow color. His sandals did very little to hide them from view. He leaned his the back of his chair against the wall, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. For a brief moment, the thought to kick out the precariously balanced back legs of the chair entered my mind.

"I didn't think you were going to come back until late." said Tory, dragging my attention.

I shrugged. "Captain made me."

"Something happen?" She handed the box she had been packing to Mack, who had come back from his last trip.

How would I even answer that? "Oh yeah, my partner of ten years was shot right in front of me, and it's my fault," or maybe, "My dad married a murderer who placed a hit on me before I arrested her this morning, but it's fine because I only have three partial dead bodies and my dead partner to show for it?"

Tory was a nurse. She wasn't squeamish or easily upset by blood and gore. She had been good friends with Montag too, though. She was there to help deliver his daughter. Now I had to tell her that he was dead. That I had watched the man that shot him only stumble against my bullet which hit his bullet-proof vest. That that fucking woman had fucking murdered him, and I didn't even see it coming. That I was too caught up in my own arrogance to-

"Mara?" Tory pried again.

I just looked at her. She had stopped putting things into the box in front of her. Her gaze focusing me, eyes full of worry. My throat worked, but I couldn't seem to get any words to come out. It didn't feel real. A part of me knew that if I said the words out loud that it would have to be real. If I just didn't say anything, then Montag would still be alive. His wife wouldn't be a widow, and his daughter would still have a dad.

"The car's full. Ya comin' with me? Or did you...." Mack rubbed the back of his hand against the sweat on his forehead. Some of his blond hair was stuck to his face, and he had his flannel wrapped around the waist of his jeans. "The vibes real weird in here." he ended awkwardly.

Tory looked between me and Mack. The worry deepening in her face. "Just go. I'll pack up more stuff here." I waved at her. "Go." I urged as she opened her mouth to argue with me.

Mack taking my cue, pulled her by the arm out the front door, still leaving it open. Vinny waved happily, and dick-ishly, as they left. I threw my towel into the pile of laundry-to-do that was piled against the wall of the bathroom. I finished packing the rest of kitchen, stacking the boxes in the nonsense pile. I didn't feel like walking up and down the stairs just to fight trying to fit the boxes into my car. Mack would do it later. He was not the brightest bulb in the box, but he good to Tory. He and I had never spent a lot of time together. Usually just a few awkward encounters in the hallway or the kitchen when I got home late. He would come with us out to the bar or wherever on the one coincidental night that Tory and I would have off together. But Montag had always come with us too, so I didn't spend a lot of time talking to him.

I let out a sigh. I've been trying not to think about it. I'm still in shock I think. I know that if I look at my phone, I'm going to see a new picture, or a dozen, of Montag and his daughter. I just know it. He always sends them to me. I don't check it though. It'll still be there when I finish packing up this suitcase. I know it will be.

I sit on the floor and pull the suitcase in front of me. It's piled with a huge mound of clothes that I know is not all going to fit. I empty the pile on to the floor next to me, then the world goes black.

My head is pounding, and I feel like I'm going to puke. I'm sitting up, but it feels like I'm moving. There's a dull roar, and a small chime. The air is weird and stiff too, and has a recycled smell to it. Am I on a plane? I blink my eyes open. My vision is blurry, and my head is swimming as I try to focus. The lights are dimmed, and there's a faint blue glow, but I am most definitely on a plane. I try to look around the best I can. A stewardess in a navy blue uniform walks past me. Is this first class? How the fuck did I get on a plane? If the cabin is this dark, then it's got to be night time.

In the seat next to me is a man that I don't recognize who's sleeping up against the window. The other passengers in front of me across the aisle seem to be occupied with whatever movie that's playing. I look across the aisle. The man sitting across the aisle from me has headphones on and is scrolling on an iPad. This man I know...I just can't quite place him.

He notices that I'm awake and looking at him. He pulls his headphones down around his neck. He's wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, and his hand his a sandy brown color. He is rather good looking, but there's about him. "You're awake." he says.

Okay, clearly he's the one that brought me here. Or is with me? Or something. "Where are we?" I manage to get out. My throat is dry. I didn't realize how thirsty I am, but my head is still swimming. My vision focuses in and out.

The man just gives me a confused look. "We are on a plane?"

Well, no shit. "Why are we on a plane?"

"We got on in Carson City, remember?"

Carson City? The fuck? I am not from Carson City. I have never even been there. Isn't that somewhere in Nevada? That is a very long way from the east coast. How did I get on this plane?

The next question I ask though is, "Where is my suitcase?" That's the last thing I remember. Maybe that's why I asked.

"You don't have one?" his voice sounds genuinely concerned, but there's something gnawing at me that tells me its fake. Why would I not have a suitcase if I'm on a plane?

I'm confused and I'm angry. We are also drawing the attention of the other passengers with our conversation. So much so that the stewardess comes over to us. "Everything okay over here?" she asks sweetly.

I can't seem to focus on her face. But my attention is immediately drawn as the man reaches across the aisle and pats my wrist. I look down because it feels like something is scraping across my skin. Sure enough, there's a plastic hospital bracelet wrapped around my wrist. I am still wearing my T-shirt and shorts, and I have somehow acquired shoes? I can hear distantly the man reassuring the other passengers and the stewardess that I have just been released from an institution, and he taking me home. The stewardess brings him a cup of water, which he then hands to me. I drink it slowly, my brain still working to figure what the fuck is going on.

I glance at the man again, my vision still not quite focusing as it should. There's a small smirk on his face as he looks at me. That's when it hits me. The man sitting across from me is Nick Sunland, Alaina's son. Oh, fuck no.

No sooner do I realize just how much shit I'm in do my eyelids suddenly feel real heavy again. I look down at the water. Sure enough there's small particles swirling around in it. The cup falls from my hand, and the world pitches into black again.

Young Adult

About the author

Isabella Flores

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