Page 28 of A Violet Obsession

What am I going to do?

I keep my breathing even so I don’t cry. I want to go home and curl up with Hera and pretend none of this is happening.

Footsteps move toward me. I snap my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. Childish? Yes. But I need a minute.

Just one freaking minute to think, and figure out what comes next. Then I’ll get up and walk out of this building, and out of Finn Markham’s life for good.

When I open my eyes, I’m alone, and everything is blurry, which means I actually fell asleep and slept longer than a handful of minutes. Disoriented, it takes me a moment to remember where I am.

I hear footsteps from somewhere behind me. I turn and catch a young blond guy crossing the open floor with a coffee mug, a laptop tucked under his arm. He catches me looking, winks, and keeps walking without a word.

Great. An audience.

Where the hell did Finn go?

I reach for my phone and groan when I see my notifications. Seventeen missed calls. Twenty-three texts. My stomach drops as I scroll.

Emma’s texts start off normal—apologies for sending Finn, a string of lighthearted messages about her Uber driver, a couple of random thoughts about what I think she should wear on her date tonight—but as the timestamps get closer, the messages get shorter. A sure sign she’s spiraling.

Emma: Text me.

Emma: I’m worried. Call me.

Emma: Are you mad about me sending Finn?

Emma: Was he a jerk?

Emma: He better be being nice. If he’s not, tell me.

Emma: Call me.

Emma: Freaking out over here.

Emma: You fell asleep with my brother… And when I put (…) it means text me back with an explanation.

She must have called Finn.

Guilt twists through me. Dawn’s messages are there, too.

Dawn: Did you get home okay?

Crap.

I’m typing out a reply to Dawn, knowing Emma is going to need an actual phone call to calm down, when the plan that’s been forming since I heard the word problem starts to come together.

I can’t stay in Atlanta.

The familiar heaviness presses in. I’m fourteen again, standing in a house that doesn’t feel like mine anymore, packing a suitcase to go live with a stranger.

I press my nails into my palm until it hurts.

Not now. You can cry later if you want to. Right now, you need to think.

I’ll go home, pack a bag, and get Hera into her carrier. I have enough saved for a bus ticket and a few weeks in a motel somewhere. I’m still working through the details when a text from a number I don’t recognize flashes on my screen.

For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

There’s a photo of Dawn and Trevor walking toward their front door, Trevor’s keys are in his hand. It’s taken with a zoom lens, but it’s close enough to see the pattern on Dawn’s scarf.