Wrecked (31 page)

As I
wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tightly, Hunter seemed to cool
off, vibrating rage pacifying. He turned to me and his gaze softened. “Okay,
Lorrie. Let’s get outta here . . .” His arm protectively around my shoulder, we
began to walk back into the kitchen.

Behind us,
Jimmy scoffed. “That’s right, get the fuck outta here. Neanderthal and his
stupid stone-faced bitch.” I heard Jimmy laugh and a few people around us
gasped.

My arms
around Hunter’s waist, I could feel every muscle in his core tighten. I tried
restraining him even as I felt him turn around to face Jimmy. “No, Hunter! Don’t!”

He broke
from my grasp, stomped over to Jimmy—who was now scared shitless—and lifted him
a foot into the air by his shirt collar. “Don’t you ever fuckin talk about
Lorrie like that!” Hunter tossed Jimmy backward like a ragdoll, making him
crash through a wooden fence. Broken splinters flew across the grass. A few
onlookers cried “Holy shit!” as Hunter approached Jimmy who was dazed and
trying to recover.

“Hunter!”
I cried desperately, panic taking hold.

Hunter
picked Jimmy up and socked him across the jaw. Jimmy crumbled to the ground,
out cold. Hunter was about to mount him but I ran over and grabbed Hunter and
screamed into his ear, “Stop! Stop! Hunter!” Tears streamed down my face.

He turned
to me, his expression changing from anger to a mixture of confusion and
concern. “Lorrie . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . . Let’s get outta here.” He put
his arm around my shoulder and guided me through the house. We asked Daniela to
leave with us but she suggested she would stay behind to assess the fallout.

Most of the
people in the Tau Beta Pi house were still bumping and grinding to the music,
sipping liberally on their drinks as if nothing had happened in the backyard.
But for Hunter and me, the party had ended.

After ten minutes of walking
with Hunter’s arm around my shoulder and us looking out for campus police, we
arrived at Hunter’s apartment.

“Lorrie,
it’s okay. We’re at my place, we’re safe now.” He pulled my coat from my
shoulders and hung it up on the rack along with his own.

“I’m sorry
I got you involved in this,” I said, hugging him tightly. “This is all my
fault.”

“No, you
have nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault,” he consoled me.

“Yes it
is. It’s because of my past, Hunter. . .” I began to cry into his chest,
emotions newly resurfaced since the party getting the best of me.

“What are
you talking about?” His voice was soft and filled with concern.

I took a
step back and looked into his eyes with uncertainty. “Haven’t you heard about
me by now? About Lorrie Burnham?”

He
furrowed his brows. “I haven’t heard anything other than what you’ve told me.”

“. . . I’m
messed up, Hunter.” I exhaled deeply as a tear rolled down my cheek. “I told
you my parents are divorced and dead but I didn’t tell you how it happened.”

He paused.
“. . . How did it happen?” he asked softly.

My throat
tightened and I had to swallow a few times before speaking. “My mom . . . she .
. . oh god—”

A tear
fell down my cheek as I recalled the details of her death and Hunter quietly
consoled me. “Shh, you don’t have to tell me, Lorrie. Nothing’s gonna change
the way I feel about you.” He kissed my forehead and rubbed my shoulders.

“You
deserve to know, Hunter,” I said, feeling strengthened by his words. “My mom .
. . after her and my dad got divorced she married this guy and he . . . he
murdered her a year and a half ago.” Another tear rolled down my face. “. . .
Then my dad took his own life a few months ago. The story was in the news. All
of it was . . .”

“Lorrie .
. .”

“I loved
my parents!” I sobbed. More tears rolled down my cheeks. “To think that asshole
would accuse me of not caring about them . . .”

Hunter
clenched his jaw. “That asshole got what he deserved.” He growled. “I made sure
of that. I’ll make sure of it for anyone who hurts you.” His muscles tightened
again the way they did when Jimmy had called me a bitch. “Lorrie, where’s the
murderer?”

Realizing
Hunter probably wanted to go after him to do what he did to Jimmy or worse, I
started crying. “You can’t do anything, Hunter! He’s in jail.”

“I’ll find
a way,” he grunted.

“No
Hunter! Please, I don’t want to talk about this anymore . . .” I pleaded. “Can
we just go to bed?”

His body
relaxed as he looked at me. He took a deep breath then hushed me softly by
sealing his mouth over mine. It was just what I needed. I parted my lips and
his tongue slipped inside placating my quivering tongue.

When we
broke the kiss, he tilted my chin and stared deep into my eyes. “I love you,
Lorrie.”

My heart
stopped for a moment. His words flowed over me washing away all the stress in
my life. Hunter was the most amazing person I ever met. “I love you, too,
Hunter.”

We fell
asleep in his bed, the one place where everything was right—where the world
couldn’t touch us. All through the night we kissed and touched each other like
we were the last two people alive.

THE LETTER

The weekend passed along
with the beginning of next week. There’d been no sign of campus police showing
up at Hunter’s apartment, which meant Jimmy probably had kept quiet about the
incident to protect his own pride. I was surprised by how supportive Hunter was
after hearing the details about my past. I’d been reluctant to tell him, afraid
of how he’d react, but now that I had it felt like a burden had been lifted
from my shoulders.

After
finishing another study session with Hunter at the library, I returned to Floyd
Hall and decided to check my student mailbox before dinner. Most of the mail I
got was from the college, but sometimes my aunt and uncle would send a care
package.

Although
there had been incidents of drama here and there—particularly with Hunter—I
couldn’t imagine the semester going much better than it was. My relationship
with Hunter was amazing; I felt more alive with him than I ever had since the
trial. The sex was even more amazing. I’d been worried he would destabilize me,
but instead he made me feel safe and secure. Hunter was my anchor.

Being so
happy with Hunter, I didn’t care that I was doing bad in a few of my classes.
In the three days since the party, I’d tried to study but always got distracted
thinking about Hunter. It was always a welcome distraction though. Spending so
much time with him at his place, I had time to work on art pieces for the
portfolio competition. The pieces I was doing on the kittens were coming
together nicely.

The
kittens had finally graduated from being bottle fed to eating hard kitten food,
which was a relief. That meant Hunter and I could just feed them once a day
rather than having to give them a meal every few hours.

Smiling
from musing on the positive developments in my life, I opened my mailbox,
grabbed the stack of mail, and took the stairs up to my floor. When I got to my
room, I began flipping through the envelopes. Most were from the college as
usual, but when I saw the last piece I nearly dropped everything.

It was
from the Cook County Penal System.

Possibilities
raced through my head. My heart began to pound and my skin started breaking out
in a cold sweat. What the hell was going on? Was
he
really trying to
contact me?

Sitting
down on my bed with my fingers shaking, I tore the envelope open and pulled out
the contents. The name on the cover sheet sent a fresh wave of queasiness to my
stomach. I had to look away to avoid throwing up.

Marco
Peralta
. The man who
murdered my mom and threw my dad into such a depression he took his own life.

My entire
body went numb. My brain felt frozen. I looked up and stared at the wall for a
while, unable to move a muscle. My breath was shallow, but it was still coming.
I was still breathing—I was still alive. Just me.

Finally, I
pulled out the letter Marco had written and began to read.

Dear Lorrie,

I am very sorry for the pain of you and
your family. Kelsey’s death is something I regret every moment. It hurts me to
think about you and how much your mother’s death has hurt you. I hope you are
recovering well.

I’m sure you are very angry with me, but I
hope that you can eventually find it in your heart to forgive me. If you could
write me a letter back, I would be very grateful, even if it is angry.

With much love,

Marco

Finishing reading the last
two lines—
With much love, Marco—
I looked up and found the room spinning.
Tilting precariously on the edge of my bed, I gripped the mattress to steady my
balance. The queasiness in my stomach suddenly became severe nausea. For a
second I thought the letter could’ve been written by someone else, but the
awkward English made me certain the words had come from Marco.
Maybe I’ll
wake up
, I thought. Maybe this hadn’t happened in real life; it felt like a
nightmare where every bit of my good mood was being devoured by a ravenous
monster who, unsatiated from killing my parents, was now coming after me.

I rolled
onto my side and curled my legs into my chest to protect myself, dropping the
letter to the floor.

Despite my
best efforts, the past came rushing to the present with disturbing clarity.
Marco had blindsided everyone. Growing up with Marco had been as normal as
living with a stepfather could be. He treated my mom well and they seemed to
love each other. Unlike my dad, Marco hadn’t even had much of a liking for
alcohol. He would be the hundredth person you would pick out of a hundred to
commit a grisly murder.

But that
was what had happened. The forensics experts said there were no signs of
resistance. It looked like Marco had come home one night, stabbed my mom to
death—maybe in her sleep—and left early for a business trip scheduled to start
the next morning. It took them days to find the body. When they found it and
notified Marco, he was still in Iowa for business and pleaded ignorance.

It was
summer after freshman year when it had happened and I’d been staying with my
dad in Chicago. My dad was never the same from the moment he got the call from
the police notifying him of his ex-wife’s death. He had never stopped loving
Mom, even after the divorce. Dad had always enjoyed having a beer or two after
work, but after he heard about my mom’s death, two became six or more. At
first, neither of us could believe the murder had actually happened. If it were
an accident, or Marco had been drunk, or even if he were trying to steal money,
anything at all, it would have been easier to accept. But there was no motive.

"Why?"
That was a question I—no, all of us—asked ourselves afterwards. We just
couldn't understand why. Was Marco mentally ill? That was the only thing that
could even somewhat make sense. He had shown no signs of violent tendencies
before, no drug abuse or alcohol abuse. He and my mother hardly ever argued. So
why?

But that
was a question that I stopped asking myself long ago. It was only a slow poison
that ate me up inside. Maybe it was even worse than the loss of my mom—not
understanding why something like this could happen.

The lack
of motive had not only made it difficult for the prosecution to proceed in the
trial, it also made the trial interesting for the media. I shuddered in my bed
as I thought about the frenzy of cameras that surrounded the court room. The
trial was so public and dragged on for so long that I had no choice but to take
time off from school. That was the first of three semesters away from
Arrowhart.

Finally,
the verdict came in. The forensic evidence was enough: Marco was found guilty
of first degree murder. Cameras flashed in my face as the words were
delivered—the journalists were probably expecting tears and smiles at justice
being delivered but they got none of that.

All they
got was the numb expression of a girl who had stopped feeling. From the
pictures, you might have thought I’d been the one convicted. Even after the
sentence of life in prison was delivered and everything was finally over, I
felt nothing. My life had been damaged by an act so senseless lawyers couldn’t
even come up with a bad reason for why the murderer did it. All I could do was
stare into space.

And sit.
After the verdict I did a lot of sitting and staring into space. When the
anguish became too much, I’d curl into a ball on my bed and lay there for hours
until I fell asleep from exhaustion.

Marco’s
letter was bringing it all back. Just when I was finally beginning to feel again,
my mother’s murderer had forced his way back into my life—for who knows what
reason—making me numb to the world again.

Laying on
my bed, I did my best to steady my breathing. The letter hadn’t mentioned my
father. Had news gotten back to Marco about Dad’s suicide? Was he aware of just
how much damage he’d done? That his pointless action had driven a good man to
kill himself?

I managed
enough strength to pick up the offending letter, ball it up, and throw it in
the trash. The words “
With much love, Marco”
echoed through my head
.
How
dare he write that he loved me? He had no right to pretend he had any
connection with anyone.

There was
no way I was writing him back. Although Dr. Schwartz had told me that I needed
to forgive him if I was ever going to completely move on, I couldn’t. Not yet.
He wouldn’t even take responsibility for what happened. He was sorry “for
the
pain of my family”—not the pain
he
had caused.

It wasn’t
that I wanted something bad to happen to Marco. I just wanted to erase him from
my life. I thought I’d managed to shut the closet door on my skeletons but one
had managed to escape. I propped myself up and got under the covers of my bed,
burying my face in my pillow. But even under the covers, I still felt cold.