Fatal Contingencies (Book 2, the Fatal Trilogy Series)

Chapter 3.

The plane lands nearly three hours later in Savannah, Georgia.

I can't even begin to describe the feeling it gives me to really be back here. Not that I'd ever been to the airport, or even flown in a plane before, but just being back in Georgia itself, the place it all began, it washes me over with this sense of nostalgia and wholeness.

Georgia.

I was born here.

I was loved here.

I was destroyed here.

And now I'm back.

I've come full circle.

As much as I hated it while I lived here, I was also so desperate to come back when Ellison first ran me out of town. The first couple of years I was miserable with missing the heavy heat in the air, the southern slang of debutants, the smell of magnolias littering every single yard, and the taste of really true sweet iced tea.

It's stupid stuff like that that you remember when you're forced to stay far away from the town that made you.

It's crazy, like even the sun shining through the large bay windows lining the side of the airport looking out onto the blisteringly hot parking lot is different than it is in Kansas.

I've got no luggage, baggage for days, but no physical luggage.

I've only got a little money left after paying the kind trucker and for my ticket here, but I'm here, and now I've just got to figure out why.

I walk with the group of exiting people, being shuffled out into the heat of the day, the orange glow warming me all the way to my bones as I shrug out of Easton's jacket and sling it over my arm.

I heart Kansas proclaims my giant oversized t-shirt I'd purchased from the gift shop with a pair of hot pink flip flops, but today I'm not focusing on Kansas.

I'm not thinking about the man who is there. Or wondering what he's doing right now. Or debating if leaving was a bad idea. Not dreading every second that passes because I'm here and he's with her. I'm not even torturing myself with thoughts of whether or not she has kissed him again or if he's told her about me.

Nope, definitely not doing any of that shit.

Because that would be stupid.

"Buck up, buttercup," I whisper to myself as I flag a cab and climb in.

"Where to?" the woman asks, looking back over her shoulder to smile at me. It's fake, like so many southern smiles are, but it kind of helps.

"Down to Wakefield," I tell her and she pushes the button to start the meter before peeling out into traffic a little more dangerously than I'd like, but hey, she'll get me there quick.

"Any particular place in Wakefield?" she asks as we pass the old church on the corner.

"Here's fine," I tell her, passing her the cash and then stepping out onto the cracked sidewalk.

Nothing looks different at all.

Sun-damaged paint covers all the little buildings neatly lined up on one side of the main street, and the park and school sit on the other side; the same old apple tree out front still has exactly twelve apples all ripe and ready to be picked. Just like it always did.

I'm not really sure where to begin, but as I stare at the front of the school, I figure with her is as good a place as any.

I cross the street and walk slowly up the front steps to Wakefield Jr. High. The bench beside the door is empty, but I can still see her sitting there just as plain as day.