Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1) (10 page)

Anger rolls off of me in waves, leaving my limbs shaking in its wake. My heart trembles with sore emotions. I leap on top of her, pinning her body to the ground, while my hands wrap around her neck, and my fingers squeeze. Blinded by the sight of the malice that continues to pass over her face, I screech.

Lost in the past and the evil that Camden endured by her hands, I never see the person who slams into my body and throws me off of Camden’s mom.

I quickly stand up, ready to pounce on her and her protector, until I see the man in blue standing before me.

A police officer. Not just any officer, but my dad’s oldest friend. Of course.

“Henry,” I huff in greeting.

Brushing dirt from my knees, I take my time before I meet his gaze. My dad will hear of this, and while he’ll understand why I came here, he’ll also reprimand me. Twenty-four years old or fourteen years old—it doesn’t matter—I’m still Daddy’s girl, and I hate upsetting him.

My white Converse are slightly torn, so I fixate on the tear rather than the pair of eyes watching me, questioning me.

Henry’s laughter breaks my concentration. Finally discovering the courage to look up at him, I find him holding Maureen by her shoulder. She squirms under the weight of his hands without any real will to fight him off.

When our eyes meet, he arches a brow in question. I explain myself and tell him about Camden and my confirmed suspicion that Camden’s mom was the one who set last night’s fire. She doesn’t deny it or reply when he questions her.

“Police are here for a reason.” Henry’s voice is stern, his eyes strict and lined with wrinkles on the sides.

Squinting back at him, I tip my chin upward. “You gonna arrest me, Henry?”

“Yep”—his brow straightens—“that’ll make for a fun Thanksgiving dinner.”

My lips twitch. Thanksgiving is only two weeks away and always the spectacle with Henry and my family getting more than our fill of food and drinks.

“My mom would poison your food.” I smile while Maureen tries to shrug out of Henry’s firm grasp.

“She’d give me the runs for days,” he agrees, “and probably hold back on her famous
cafecito
.”

“She’ll probably do that anyway because you knocked over her little girl.”

“Don’t tell your parents.” Henry coughs, narrowing his eyes at me. “I’ll never be invited to Thanksgiving dinner again.” His voice, etched with worry, makes me giggle.

“I’ll make sure to let my parents know you only want them for their turkey.”

“You’re the devil,” he says behind a smile. “What happened to the sweet girl I knew?”

What happened? Maureen did. Her husband did.

Even when Camden no longer lived with his parents, they always stood between us. Until they drove him away.

Maureen breaks up our banter with a hacking cough that I hope she chokes on.

“Maureen,” Henry addresses Camden’s mom with a tired sigh as he slips handcuffs over her wrists.

“I didn’t do anything, Henry,” she whines.

“I’m sure you heard Yanelys. Your son was involved in an accident last night. Our lead detective has been investigating the case, and all the evidence points toward foul play. You’re our prime suspect.”

When Henry looks over at me, I shrink away from his knowing glance. Of course they are investigating the fire. My dad wouldn’t be happy until they found the person responsible.

“I’m sorry for coming down here.” The tip of my right shoe pushes the gravel as shame washes over me. “I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“Oh, Yan.” Henry ruffles my hair, instantly making me feel better. “Follow me to the station and you can give your statement on what Maureen told you.”

“You locked my daughter up?” My dad’s voice booms over the noise in the jail and I can hear him clearly from my prison cell.

After I spoke with the Chief of Police, Camden’s mom confessed to starting the fire in the building where Camden was squatting. Only she didn’t stop there. Because she’s a ruthless bitch, she went one step further and told Henry and everyone who could hear her that she wanted to press charges against me.

I assaulted her. It’s true. I could’ve denied it, or better yet, I should’ve told them it was self-defense, but the truth is, I’d kill her without immediate cause. After speaking with the Chief, I was put me in a solitary prison cell while Henry called my dad.

Hence all the screaming.

Flushed, my dad charges into the room I’m being held in and growls when he sees me behind bars. My mom chuckles, shaking her head in bewilderment at my predicament.

“Hey, Dad.” I wave and smile at my mom, who winks at me.

“Henry,” my dad warns as he points at me.

Henry lifts his arms in a sign of retreat and sighs. “My hands are tied, Santiago. The only way Maureen will drop the charges against Yanelys is if we drop the arson charges.”

“No!” I shout. On weak knees, I run to the bars, bracing myself against them. “You can’t do that, Henry,” I plead with him. “She can’t get away with this.”

“And what should we tell your daughter, Yanelys?” My dad turns his angry eyes on me.

My heart pounds behind the thin fabric of my shirt and I cower.

I hadn’t thought of Olivia.

THIRTEEN

YANELYS

Muffled footsteps jolt me awake but disappear into the ensuing darkness. With my surroundings too quiet, I burrow myself deeper under my covers, bringing my knees closer to my chest. Movement from the corner of my cell catches my attention, but when my eyes scan in its direction, I find the space empty. The vision of ghosts rack my brain, so I shut my eyes and hide my face under the covers.

Thanks to Henry putting me in a solitary cell, I don’t have to worry about inmates, but fear still drapes over me, making me shudder. Unreasonable or not, I hate ghosts, and damn Henry to hell and back for sharing so many ghost stories with me throughout the years.

I’m not the first person to spend a night or two in jail. There have been millions before me. In this very prison, there have been hundreds of habitants. While I can’t see them, I take solace in believing that, just like me, they spent their first night just as scared.

The food Henry brought me for dinner was awful, and I’m pretty sure he took great delight in seeing me struggle through a few bites before I put it to the side. This is one big funny joke to him, which makes it seem at least a little funny to me. My parents, on the other hand, are furious. I’m pretty sure my mom is, at this very moment, planning the perfect punishment for me rather than drifting off to sleep.

But it’s worth it, knowing Maureen will pay for what she did to Camden. I’d spend a month in here if I had to. I hope I don’t though.

My daughter needs her mother, and I need her. She’s the source of everything that’s good in my life. She’s my laughter, my joy, the very heart that beats in my chest.

While she’s too young to understand, I want her to know, to take pride in knowing, that I’d do just about anything for what’s right. And me sleeping in this cold cell is right.

It’s the only way I know I can ensure life is, for once, giving Maureen the hand she deserves. Just once, I want her to pay for the pain she’s caused Camden.

Just once. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

But fate has never been on Camden’s side. His parents got away with years of abuse and neglect. Not once did they ever think about Camden. About the little boy they tormented. About the man she tried to
kill
.

Herb died, never knowing the backhand of Karma. Maureen has existed without ever showing the tiniest bit of remorse. I know because, in all the years I searched for Camden, I kept coming across Maureen. Her addiction has taken over every aspect of who she is that she’s barely recognizable anymore. The refined, bitter woman of my youth has been replaced with sunken, tired eyes and a worn body.

Today, I made a decision and went against my parents. I stood up for Camden, for the boy who had left me, and the man who couldn’t look away from me when I walked into his hospital room.

Familiar anger grounded me, but eventually, the pain bled through and made room for the love Camden and I have always shared. The bond we share is insane, incomprehensible. I should hate him. Hell, it’d be easier if I did.

Instead, now that he’s back, my emotions run rampant in all different directions, including hate, but mostly love and gratitude. I’ve missed him. I’ve worried about him. I’ve prayed for his return while wishing he’d never entered my life.

Sweat builds at the base of my neck, saliva thickening, as these controversial feelings continue to swim and swirl and torment me. Abruptly, I push the sheets away from me and stand up on weak knees that carry me to a nearby trash bin. Tears cloud my vision, bile rising inch by intolerable inch, and I empty the anxiety thrashing in my stomach into the trash. My limbs shake, and I crouch down onto the cold floor, my fingers grasping the sides of the bin. I wait for the nausea to subside, but instead, I dry-heave into the dense air. More unwelcome tears fall, and my knuckles turn white as my grip tightens.

And I know, I know,
I know
I can’t do this. I can’t see Camden when I get out of here, although he’ll want to see me. I can’t face him, knowing he abandoned me. Knowing he’ll look at my daughter and wonder. Knowing he’ll flee again and break me even further.

Because, even though I can’t do this again, I know I will, just on the off chance that he’ll stay.

Camden is my weakness. My kryptonite of sorts. And no matter how angry and hurt and scared of him I am, I can’t turn away. I just hope my parents buy me some time before they bring him to my house. Not that it’d matter because I’d never be ready to see him again, to let him back into my life.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand, I stand up and shuffle my tired feet to the hard bed where I lie down and send out a silent prayer for an impenetrable heart.

FOURTEEN

CAMDEN

Each day, I’ve put on my masks and played my role in the dramatic piece that is my life. I’ve smiled on cue, laughed and eaten when I was supposed to. The only time I’ve been true to myself has been when I helped Pastor Floyd with the church. I cleaned the floors and painted the exterior of the run-down trailers that house his church as well as the office that has been my home for years. I mowed the lawn and pulled out weeds. I made sure the volunteers ate and had plenty of coffee to fuel them. I felt useful during those times.

But night inevitably creeps in and morning follows. And those periods in between morning and night, my sins become more obvious. The masks melt away as unsealed wounds continue to tear open, hatred and anger heating through my veins.

In front of my bed, the clock hanging on the dull wall ticks loudly, each second hitting my wasted heart like a hammer. My fingers twitch by my sides, and when the pulsing in my head magnifies, I reach for the morphine and hit the button. Unsatisfied, I open the bottle I’ve hidden under my pillow and take two pills, needing my mind to rest. To not scream reminders of my pathetic life at me.

I manage a smile when a nurse opens my door.

“You’re awake,” she says, stating the obvious.

My fake smile grows, and I look back at the clock, realizing it isn’t even four in the morning yet. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Hospitals are noisy. Lucky for you, you’re going home today.”

My head bobs up and down a couple of times, not really caring. I extend my arm for her while she takes my blood pressure, but I pull away when she tries to remove the tape holding my IV in place.

“What are you doing?” I bark, my eyes narrowing into slits.

An amicable smile spreads across her face, making my jumbled nerves somersault toward hysteria.

“You were very fortunate, Mr. Riley.” She grips my arm, and with one quick tear, she strips the tape off my skin and removes the IV, quickly putting a Band-Aid in its place. “Your burns aren’t anywhere near as bad as they should’ve been, so the doctor ordered us to remove your morphine drip.”

“But I’m in pain.” Even to my own ears, I sound desperate.

She pats my shoulder, sympathy washing over her face. “I know, honey. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen after I clean your burns and put on new bandages.”

Meticulously, she cleans each burn and chatters softly in my ear. I bite the inside of my cheek, not listening to her. All I hear, all I understand, is that I’ll no longer be getting morphine.

Fuck
.

My brain buzzes with the new information, and bile rises to my throat, but I swallow it down. I close my eyes and count the seconds as they tick off the clock.

One.

Two.

Three…

“You have someone looking out for you,” the nurse says when she finishes dressing my burns. Once again, she pats my shoulder before she leaves.

The very idea that some holy being is out there, looking out for me, is laughable, but I don’t bother telling her. I’d rather let her live out her life in blissful denial than tell her the truth. I’m not lucky. If I were lucky, the fire would’ve consumed me and left me for dead.

When she returns and offers me ibuprofen and apple juice, I take the two pills and swallow them.