didn’t either for that matter, and she was still shivering with the electric pulse of adrenaline while she stood under the hot shower.
She didn’t even have a bathtub, and so she stood until the water started slowly cooling, eventually climbing from her small shower to stare at herself in the small, old mirror that hung above her bathroom sink counter. Her hair was long, and it would dry with a natural, beach-curl wave, which was fortunate, given she had no intention of doing it. She combed through the long layers and then flipped it over and scrunched it lightly to revive the natural curl before righting herself.
The second call that had eaten the better portion of thirty minutes had been her mom. Celia was the epitome of a country bumpkin, and Bailey’s father had humored her by returning to Celia’s roots in the Ozarks. Her father, Daniel, had been a fairly successful author. He was no New York Times bestseller, but he didn’t much care to be, either. He did what he loved, hiding away in his office for days on end at times, occasionally sneaking a cigarette from the window when he was particularly blocked on a scene he was writing. He’d come out smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, and Celia would glare with an understanding smirk playing on her lips. She’d clap a gentle hand on his shoulder and speak quietly while Bailey watched from the table. “Whatever gets you through your madness, dear.”
That was not the woman Celia was today. Celia had once been vibrant and just a bit loony in that absolutely perfect sorta way. She had the same naturally wavy, auburn hair that Bailey had, and she was slim and athletic. She was an artist and had spent years teaching pottery classes out of her workshop. After Bailey was arrested, her always waiting-list pool of students seemed to dry up, so now she turned to her own work, selling to small boutique shops around the region. The region grew significantly after word spread that Celia Trent’s own daughter was a killer. She had to travel hours and hours to pimp her artistry to shops who didn’t know who her most-hated daughter was.
Her health wasn’t what it once was, though there was nothing wrong with her. Her spirit was just broken, and she was just a shell of the once quirky and always laughing woman she used to be. She was barely better off than Bailey at this point too. Her parents had cashed out her father’s life insurance policy in a last-ditch effort to extend his life via alternative means. Those alternative means didn’t extend anything except her father’s posthumous debt, and he’d been dead now for over a year and a half. Her mother now rented a little cottage about as small as Bailey’s, and her workshop now consisted of nothing more than a tiny, dingy shed on the property.
When the phone rang only minutes after she hung up with Michelle, she assumed it would be her mother. Michelle and her mom were literally the only people in the world who spoke to her, and her mother’s now incessant worrying meant they spoke often.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So? How was the parade? How’s Michelle?”
“Well, didn’t stay for much of the parade. Darren showed up and scared me away. Of course, then we ran into him again at Palmer’s Pub, so shame on me for being such a scaredy-cat.”
“I’d say you’re on a roll with that boy. Can’t be easy. You and Darren have got one heck of a history.”
“Well, he seems intent on reminding me of just how ugly that history is.”
“You pay that no mind. He’s hurtin’ is all.”
“His hurtin’ translates as out-an’-out hatred.”
“Darren could never hate you. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think he does. Hell, doesn’t mean he doesn’t wanna hate you.” There was silence then, and it lasted as Bailey stripped out of her T-shirt and jeans and headed toward the bathroom. “You know, Bailey, you didn’t have to come back here. Didn’t you ever think some other place, a new place, a new start might be a good
She didn’t even have a bathtub, and so she stood until the water started slowly cooling, eventually climbing from her small shower to stare at herself in the small, old mirror that hung above her bathroom sink counter. Her hair was long, and it would dry with a natural, beach-curl wave, which was fortunate, given she had no intention of doing it. She combed through the long layers and then flipped it over and scrunched it lightly to revive the natural curl before righting herself.
The second call that had eaten the better portion of thirty minutes had been her mom. Celia was the epitome of a country bumpkin, and Bailey’s father had humored her by returning to Celia’s roots in the Ozarks. Her father, Daniel, had been a fairly successful author. He was no New York Times bestseller, but he didn’t much care to be, either. He did what he loved, hiding away in his office for days on end at times, occasionally sneaking a cigarette from the window when he was particularly blocked on a scene he was writing. He’d come out smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, and Celia would glare with an understanding smirk playing on her lips. She’d clap a gentle hand on his shoulder and speak quietly while Bailey watched from the table. “Whatever gets you through your madness, dear.”
That was not the woman Celia was today. Celia had once been vibrant and just a bit loony in that absolutely perfect sorta way. She had the same naturally wavy, auburn hair that Bailey had, and she was slim and athletic. She was an artist and had spent years teaching pottery classes out of her workshop. After Bailey was arrested, her always waiting-list pool of students seemed to dry up, so now she turned to her own work, selling to small boutique shops around the region. The region grew significantly after word spread that Celia Trent’s own daughter was a killer. She had to travel hours and hours to pimp her artistry to shops who didn’t know who her most-hated daughter was.
Her health wasn’t what it once was, though there was nothing wrong with her. Her spirit was just broken, and she was just a shell of the once quirky and always laughing woman she used to be. She was barely better off than Bailey at this point too. Her parents had cashed out her father’s life insurance policy in a last-ditch effort to extend his life via alternative means. Those alternative means didn’t extend anything except her father’s posthumous debt, and he’d been dead now for over a year and a half. Her mother now rented a little cottage about as small as Bailey’s, and her workshop now consisted of nothing more than a tiny, dingy shed on the property.
When the phone rang only minutes after she hung up with Michelle, she assumed it would be her mother. Michelle and her mom were literally the only people in the world who spoke to her, and her mother’s now incessant worrying meant they spoke often.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So? How was the parade? How’s Michelle?”
“Well, didn’t stay for much of the parade. Darren showed up and scared me away. Of course, then we ran into him again at Palmer’s Pub, so shame on me for being such a scaredy-cat.”
“I’d say you’re on a roll with that boy. Can’t be easy. You and Darren have got one heck of a history.”
“Well, he seems intent on reminding me of just how ugly that history is.”
“You pay that no mind. He’s hurtin’ is all.”
“His hurtin’ translates as out-an’-out hatred.”
“Darren could never hate you. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think he does. Hell, doesn’t mean he doesn’t wanna hate you.” There was silence then, and it lasted as Bailey stripped out of her T-shirt and jeans and headed toward the bathroom. “You know, Bailey, you didn’t have to come back here. Didn’t you ever think some other place, a new place, a new start might be a good
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