Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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"Listen to me. I do not know where my son is, and quite frankly, after everything he's done to this family, I don't want to." Jon's mum purses her lips till her pink lipstick disappears into flesh. I nod vaguely, trying to keep my neutral expression in place. Just because it had been programmed into me to give adults glossy, fake smiles since I was six doesn't mean I enjoyed it. I'd even left the cables and straps of my device showing. If the death of her son's best friend wouldn't make this icicle of a woman melt, then maybe pitying the sick girl at her door would. I don't move and eventually, she exhales, glancing around the street. "Who are you again?"
"Calla... PIERCE," I emphasise my last name, and flutter my lashes innocently. Her eyebrows knot as realisation dawns. "I think you and my mum are in the same wild swimming club."
She huffs and shuts her eyes before opening them slowly.
"OK, I know you mean well, and that book... thing is a lovely gesture, but my son isn't here. And I don't know when he will be again."
Holding the book closer to my chest, I smile so hard my cheeks ache.
"That's OK, I'm sure I'll track him down." Her eyes widen, and I see the faintest touch of suspicion on her face. I turn away, practically skipping down the steps. When I hear the door click shut behind me, my body deflates and I slip the book of condolences back into my bag. It was a dumb idea, but it was worth a shot.
Jon's family lives on the other side of the Village. I have to pass through its collection of holistic stores selling overpriced candles, art galleries and bars selling locally brewed beer with ironic-sounding names to get home. People sit outside coffee shops, smiling vacantly as they sip on lattes with paper bags brimming with shopping at their feet. Owen hated this world. All he saw when he looked at this place were the cracks the gloss couldn't hide.
Halfway home, the tiredness hits me and I sink down on a bench surrounded by grass and lounging groups, staring out at the bridge and down towards the river. The walk has left me breathless and weak. What I want to do and what my body can do are very different things. I feel myself sinking. Each day is a little harder and I hate that. I understand why I'm doing this now. Why the need to help Owen is so strong, despite everything. It burns in me brighter than anything I've felt since we split up. It's because if my heart finally stops beating, before another heart can beat for it, he'll be alone. Really alone. Maybe we would have never found our way back to each other. But the chance would have always remained.
I don't want Owen to be alone.
The wintry day is clear, and it feels like the whole is Bristol is visible from here. The grey river, cuts through the valley. The hills were plotted with regency houses on one side, and bluish-green trees speckling the other. I take my phone out of my pocket, and hold up the screen to take a photo. But then my hand drops. For the last few days, I'd been taking photos and sending them to the same number Owen had sent the message from. He hadn't responded, but that hadn't stopped me. Maybe he didn't have the phone anymore, maybe he didn't want to hear from me, but if that was really true, he wouldn't have messaged me in the first place.
