Chapter 5 Even My Death Belongs to Him

Isadora

My father performs perfectly.

He stands beneath the white glare of the cameras with his suit pressed smooth, his hair combed back, and his face arranged into the kind of grief people believe because they want to. I watch him loosen his tie by a single inch, and then someone places a hand on his shoulder, comforting the poor, grieving father. I know he’s paid someone to tell him exactly where to stand so every camera can catch the shine in his eyes.

He looks devastated.

He looks beautiful.

He looks so fucking fake.

I sit on the edge of the motel bed, my wet hair still dripping onto the stained carpet, and watch the city fall for him.

“My daughter was a light in this city,” he says, his voice breaking in the exact place it needs to. “Isadora was kind. Gentle. Full of promise. She had her whole life ahead of her.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the mattress, my nails biting into the musty comforter.

He says my name as though he ever knew me.

As though he didn’t cut me into smaller pieces every year to make sure I fit beside him.

The reporter stands near the steps of City Hall with a black umbrella over her head, speaking softly about a father’s unimaginable loss. Behind her, people gather with flowers and candles in little jars. They’re already creating a shrine for a girl who is sitting alone in room twelve with blood still beneath her nails.

The screen cuts back to Father.

“If anyone saw anything,” he says, lifting his eyes to the cameras, “if anyone has any information about the truck involved in this horrific crime, I am begging you to come forward.”

Begging. I scoff.

He has never begged for anything in his life. He commands. He takes. He smiles until people hand him what he wants and thank him for the privilege.

“I will not rest,” he continues, “until the person responsible for taking my daughter from me is brought to justice. This city deserves safety. Our families deserve peace. I will make sure no one else suffers the way my family has suffered tonight.”

My family.

My daughter.

My city.

Me. Mine. I.

Even my death belongs to him.

The sadness inside me boils into anger.

He is already using me.

Hannah and Vinnie’s bodies haven’t even gone cold yet. My body is still bleeding, and screaming, and my father is standing in front of cameras, turning all of it into another step beneath his polished shoes.

The towel slips loose around my chest as I stand, and I let it fall to the floor. Pain pulses through my knee, and my head throbs where the cut has opened again. A fresh line of blood slides down near my temple.

On the television, Father lowers his head while cameras flash.

I turn away from him and cross the room, kneeling on the carpet. I pull open the zippers of Hannah’s bag with fingers that still shake. I find the clothes she packed for the airport. Jeans. A soft shirt. A hoodie. Socks. A cap folded flat near the bottom. Sunglasses tucked into a side pocket.

She was going to change before she boarded.

She was going to step onto a plane and leave this city, and these chains our families placed on us, behind.

I hold the hoodie to my chest and press my face into it.

It smells faintly of her, and I want to keep that smell forever, but I made a promise to Hannah.

So I let myself have one breath—only one more.

Then I tuck away my grief and get dressed.

The jeans pull against the bruises on my hips. The shirt sticks to my damp skin. The hoodie swallows my shoulders, and I push my wet hair beneath the cap before sliding the sunglasses over my eyes.

In the cracked mirror above the dresser, I barely recognise myself.

I wipe the blood from my temple with a corner of the towel, then press harder when it keeps coming. The blood on my leg has dried around the torn skin near my knee, and fresh red seeps through when I bend it.

I need bandages, food, and to stop looking like a girl who crawled out of a burning car.

I take the cash from Hannah’s wallet and tuck it into the hoodie pocket.

Before I leave, I turn back to the television, where Father is still speaking, still crying and still building his next campaign out of my ashes.

I shut him off and slip out into the night, pulling the door closed behind me.

The night air is cold against my wet hair. Cars move along the road beyond the car park, tyres hissing through puddles, making me flinch. The bottle shop next door glows red as I pass it quickly, and farther down, the convenience store I saw earlier sits beneath a flickering sign.

I keep my head down and walk, even though every step hurts. By the time I reach the store, my hoodie sleeves are damp with fresh blood I’ve had to keep wiping away.

A bell rings above the door when I push it open, and the clerk looks up from behind the counter.

He is older, thin, with a grey ponytail and a crossword open in front of him. His eyes pass over my cap, my sunglasses, the hoodie, the way I hold one arm tight against my side.

Then his gaze drops back to the crossword, and I take that as my cue to get what I need and get out before questions are asked or more people come in.

I get bandages, antiseptic, painkillers, scissors, a cheap sewing kit, a box of dark brown hair dye, and instant noodles.

At the counter, the clerk scans each item slowly, and my eyes catch on a packet of mints Hannah always carried. I put them up with the rest of the things.

I keep my face angled down the whole time, hoping and praying to whatever god is out there that he doesn’t recognise me. Even more than that, I hope he isn’t the heroic type and feels the need to help me.

“Twenty-eight seventy.”

I hand him thirty, and when he opens the till, my school photo appears on the little television hung on the wall behind him.

The clerk glances at it as the reporter repeats the breaking news, and my heart thunders.

Then he looks back at the register and hands me the change.

“Be careful out there. This isn’t a nice area,” he says.

I take the plastic bag and leave without answering.

Only when I get back to the motel do I realise how close I am to passing out.

I lock the door. Chain it. Push the chair beneath the handle. Then I carry the plastic bag into the bathroom and empty everything into the sink.

I brace my hands on the cracked porcelain and count my breaths.

Then I look at myself in the mirror again, and I pick up the scissors.