Brutal Obsession (28)

I go to my dresser and touch everything on it. Taking mental inventory. Baubles, trinkets, a sticky note from Willow. A lamp for when I’m feeling like the world is too bright to deal with the overhead light.

My fingers land on a little glass globe, and it reminds me of my mother. And the text she sent out of the blue.

She always left pieces of herself behind for others to find.

A scarf, an earring, a belt. Her engagement ring, once. A trail of personal breadcrumbs that always led back to her.

As a child, I would go around behind her and keep track. I’d harbor them to return to her. Like I was trying to keep her together. She would take the item after a moment of silence, staring at it like she’d never seen it before.

“Easy come, easy go,” she’d say, smiling. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then she’d set it down, and I’d find something else the next day.

Lipstick. A hair clip. Her phone.

I should’ve realized that easy come, easy go was a motto imprinted on her heart. She accepted things into and out of her life with the sort of grace I never understood. Friends. Men. They took up space in our apartment and in our lives until one day she’d lose them.

It was only a matter of time before she shook me loose, too.

When I became the one who felt untethered from her in a way I never had before, I began to collect the things she left. I kept them close, stored them in a box or on my nightstand. I didn’t give them back. I willed her to come in and recognize the pieces of herself that I’d saved. I wanted her to see herself in me.

The globe is one of those things. The paint has worn off, so much so that flecks of blue ocean come off on the pad of my finger. I spin it and watch chips of paint flutter down, collecting on the top of the dresser.

For the first time, I start to resent her. I want to call her and tell her that there was someone in my room, that I’m afraid to stay here. But my call would undoubtedly go to voicemail. When she doesn’t need me to rely on her, she isn’t there.

My leg was the exception.

My career would’ve been the exception.

But all good things come to an end.

The anger bubbles up out of nowhere again, and I pick up the glass globe. It fits in the palm of my hand, just big enough that it’s hard to wrap my fingers all the way around it. The stand is glass, all the pieces are delicate and ornate.

Where did she get it?

Why did she leave it behind?

I chuck it at my wall, and it doesn’t explode into shards like I expect—like I hope. All it does is separate from the stand with a tiny crack, and the world rolls under my bed.

I take a deep breath and go back to the window. There are scrape marks in the paint on the sill. Evidence that someone gouged into the wood in order to unlock it. Whoever did it could come back, and that makes me act.

I call Willow.

She answers on the third ring. The noises behind her almost drown out her voice, but she yells at me to hold on, and then the voices fade.

“Hey, where are you?”

I dig my nails into my palm. “Um, home.”

I explain the situation quickly. That I got home and took a shower, and when I came out there was someone in my room. They came in through my window. That I don’t think she should come home tonight—either that, or she should come home immediately and save me from going absolutely insane.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I lie.

“Oh, wait—”

“Violet?”

I grimace at the new voice. Knox, I think. I’ve never spoken to him on the phone, and it gives his voice a different quality. Willow’s in the background. Saying something to him.

“Someone broke in?”

“Yeah. I just—”

“Who the fuck would do that?” He pauses. “I’ll take care of it.”

It? What it?

Is Willow the it?

“Thanks,” I say, instead of asking the questions I want to ask. “Can I talk to Willow again?”

He grunts, and then her voice is in my ear.

“He looks mad,” she whispers, breaking off to giggle. “You good?”

“Yeah. Is… um, is Greyson there?”

If rolling eyes had a sound, that’s what would be coming through the phone right now. I can practically feel her judgment—and her curiosity. I told her what I could, but beyond admitting that he was the one who hit me and broke my leg, there’s not much I could say without incriminating her.

I still want her to be able to look him in the eye. Because if she can’t, then I’m fucked. He’s smart. He’d be able to tell why my best friend is suddenly icing him out… and then other people might pick up on it, too.

She doesn’t have a good poker face. Not enough to save either of us.

“He got here about an hour ago,” she says. “I mean, we’re at his house. So.”

My eyebrow lifts. “Oh?”

“Yep. The whole team is here celebrating their win. I thought they were going to go to Haven, but apparently that’s out for now… Change of scenery, Knox said.”

I sigh.

“Oh.” Her voice pitches lower. “Knox is talking to Greyson.”

“Stop it.”

“Well, I don’t know what he’s saying.” She breaks into more giggles—of the nervous variety. “You don’t think he’s going to send Greyson to get you, do you? That would be…”